The feud1 between Miss Stanbury and Mr Gibson raged violently in Exeter, and produced many complications which were very difficult indeed of management. Each belligerent2 party felt that a special injury had been inflicted3 upon it. Mr Gibson was quite sure that he had been grossly misused4 by Miss Stanbury the elder, and strongly suspected that Miss Stanbury the younger had had a hand in this misconduct. It had been positively5 asserted to him, at least so he thought, but in this was probably in error, that the lady would accept him if he proposed to her. All Exeter had been made aware of the intended compact. He, indeed, had denied its existence to Miss French, comforting himself, as best he might, with the reflection that all is fair in love and war; but when he counted over his injuries he did not think of this denial. All Exeter, so to say, had known of it. And yet, when he had come with his proposal, he had been refused without a moment’s consideration, first by the aunt, and then by the niece and, after that, had been violently abused, and at last turned out of the house! Surely, no gentleman had ever before been subjected to ill-usage so violent! But Miss Stanbury the elder was quite as assured that the injury had been done to her. As to the matter of the compact itself, she knew very well that she had been as true as steel. She had done everything in her power to bring about the marriage. She had been generous in her offers of money. She had used all her powers of persuasion6 on Dorothy, and she had given every opportunity to Mr Gibson. It was not her fault if he had not been able to avail himself of the good things which she had put in his way. He had first been, as she thought, ignorant and arrogant7, fancying that the good things ought to be made his own without any trouble on his part, and then awkward, not knowing how to take the trouble when trouble was necessary. And as to that matter of abusive language and turning out of the house, Miss Stanbury was quite convinced that she was sinned against, and not herself the sinner. She declared to Martha, more than once, that Mr Gibson had used such language to her that, coming out of a clergyman’s mouth, it had quite dismayed her. Martha, who knew her mistress, probably felt that Mr Gibson had at least received as good as he gave; but she had made no attempt to set her mistress right on that point.
But the cause of Miss Stanbury’s sharpest anger was not to be found in Mr Gibson’s conduct either before Dorothy’s refusal of his offer, or on the occasion of his being turned out of the house. A base rumour8 was spread about the city that Dorothy Stanbury had been offered to Mr Gibson, that Mr Gibson had civilly declined the offer, and that hence had arisen the wrath9 of the Juno of the Close. Now this was not to be endured by Miss Stanbury. She had felt even in the moment of her original anger against Mr Gibson that she was bound in honour not to tell the story against him. She had brought him into the little difficulty, and she at least would hold her tongue. She was quite sure that Dorothy would never boast of her triumph. And Martha had been strictly10 cautioned as indeed, also, had Brooke Burgess. The man had behaved like an idiot, Miss Stanbury said; but he had been brought into a little dilemma11, and nothing should be said about it from the house in the Close. But when the other rumour reached Miss Stanbury’s ears, when Mrs Crumbie condoled12 with her on her niece’s misfortune, when Mrs MacHugh asked whether Mr Gibson had not behaved rather badly to the young lady, then our Juno’s celestial13 mind was filled with a divine anger. But even then she did not declare the truth. She asked a question of Mrs Crumbie, and was enabled, as she thought, to trace the falsehood to the Frenches. She did not think that Mr Gibson could on a sudden have become so base a liar14. ‘Mr Gibson fast and loose with my niece?’ she said to Mrs MacHugh. ‘You have not got the story quite right, my dear friend. Pray, believe me there has been nothing of that sort.’ ‘I dare say not,’ said Mrs MacHugh, ‘and I’m sure I don’t care. Mr Gibson has been going to marry one of the French girls for the last ten years, and I think he ought to make up his mind and do it at last.’
‘I can assure you he is quite welcome as far as Dorothy is concerned,’ said Miss Stanbury.
Without a doubt the opinion did prevail throughout Exeter that Mr Gibson, who had been regarded time out of mind as the property of the Miss Frenches, had been angled for by the ladies in the Close, that he had nearly been caught, but that he had slipped the hook out of his mouth, and was now about to subside15 quietly into the net which had been originally prepared for him. Arabella French had not spoken loudly on the subject, but Camilla had declared in more than one house that she had most direct authority for stating that the gentleman had never dreamed of offering to the young lady. ‘Why he should not do so if he pleases, I don’t know,’ said Camilla. ‘Only the fact is that he has not pleased. The rumour of course has reached him, and, as we happen to be very old friends we have authority for denying it altogether.’ All this came round to Miss Stanbury, and she was divine in her wrath.
‘If they drive me to it,’ she said to Dorothy, ‘I’ll have the whole truth told by the bellman through the city, or I’ll publish it in the County Gazette.’
‘Pray don’t say a word about it, Aunt Stanbury.’
‘It is those odious17 girls. He’s there now every day.’
‘Why shouldn’t he go there, Aunt Stanbury?’
‘If he’s fool enough, let him go. I don’t care where he goes. But I do care about these lies. They wouldn’t dare to say it only they think my mouth is closed. They’ve no honour themselves, but they screen themselves behind mine.’
‘I’m sure they won’t find themselves mistaken in what they trust to,’ said Dorothy, with a spirit that her aunt had not expected from her. Miss Stanbury at this time had told nobody that the offer to her niece had been made and repeated and finally rejected, but she found it very difficult to hold her tongue.
In the meantime Mr Gibson spent a good deal of his time at Heavitree. It should not perhaps be asserted broadly that he had made up his mind that marriage would be good for him; but he had made up his mind, at least, to this, that it was no longer to be postponed18 without a balance of disadvantage. The Charybdis in the Close drove him helpless into the whirlpool of the Heavitree Scylla. He had no longer an escape from the perils20 of the latter shore. He had been so mauled by the opposite waves, that he had neither spirit nor skill left to him to keep in the middle track. He was almost daily at Heavitree, and did not attempt to conceal21 from himself the approach of his doom22.
But still there were two of them. He knew that he must become a prey23, but was there any choice left to him as to which siren should have him? He had been quite aware in his more gallant24 days, before he had been knocked about on that Charybdis rock, that he might sip25, and taste, and choose between the sweets. He had come to think lately that the younger young lady was the sweeter. Eight years ago indeed the passages between him and the elder had been tender; but Camilla had then been simply a romping26 girl, hardly more than a year or two beyond her teens. Now, with her matured charms, Camilla was certainly the more engaging, as far as outward form went. Arabella’s cheeks were thin and long, and her front teeth had come to show themselves. Her eyes were no doubt still bright, and what she had of hair was soft and dark. But it was very thin in front, and what there was of supplemental mass behind the bandbox by which Miss Stanbury was so much aggrieved27 was worn with an indifference28 to the lines of beauty, which Mr Gibson himself found to be very depressing. A man with a fair burden on his back is not a grievous sight; but when we see a small human being attached to a bale of goods which he can hardly manage to move, we feel that the poor fellow has been cruelly over-weighted. Mr Gibson certainly had that sensation about Arabella’s chignon. And as he regarded it in a nearer and a dearer light as a chignon that might possibly become his own, as a burden which in one sense he might himself be called upon to bear, as a domestic utensil29 of which he himself might be called upon to inspect, and, perhaps, to aid the shifting on and the shifting off, he did begin to think that that side of the Scylla gulf30 ought to be avoided if possible. And probably this propensity31 on his part, this feeling that he would like to reconsider the matter dispassionately before he gave himself up for good to his old love, may have been increased by Camilla’s apparent withdrawal32 of her claims. He felt mildly grateful to the Heavitree household in general for accepting him in this time of his affliction, but he could not admit to himself that they had a right to decide upon him in private conclave33, and allot34 him either to the one or to the other nuptials35 without consultation36 with himself. To be swallowed up by Scylla he now recognised as his doom; but he thought he ought to be asked on which side of the gulf he would prefer to go down. The way in which Camilla spoke16 of him as a thing that wasn’t hers, but another’s; and the way in which Arabella looked at him, as though he were hers and could never be another’s, wounded his manly37 pride. He had always understood that he might have his choice, and he could not understand that the little mishap38 which had befallen him in the Close was to rob him of that privilege.
He used to drink tea at Heavitree in those days. On one evening on going in he found himself alone with Arabella. ‘Oh, Mr Gibson,’ she said, ‘we weren’t sure whether you’d come. And mamma and Camilla have gone out to Mrs Camadge’s.’ Mr Gibson muttered some word to the effect that he hoped he had kept nobody at home; and, as he did so, he remembered that he had distinctly said that he would come on this evening. ‘I don’t know that I should have gone,’ sad Arabella, ‘because I am not quite not quite myself at present. No, not ill; not at all. Don’t you know what it is, Mr Gibson, to be to be to be not quite yourself?’ Mr Gibson said that he had very often felt like that. ‘And one can’t get over it can one?’ continued Arabella. ‘There comes a presentiment39 that something is going to happen, and a kind of belief that something has happened, though you don’t know what; and the heart refuses to be light, and the spirit becomes abashed40, and the mind, though it creates new thoughts, will not settle itself to its accustomed work. I suppose it’s what the novels have called Melancholy41.’
‘I suppose it is,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘But there’s generally some cause for it. Debt for instance.’
‘It’s nothing of that kind with me. Its no debt, at least, that can be written down in the figures of ordinary arithmetic. Sit down, Mr Gibson, and we will have some tea.’ Then, as she stretched forward to ring the bell, he thought that he never in his life had seen anything so unshapely as that huge wen at the back of her head. ‘Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens!’ He could not help quoting the words to himself. She was dressed with some attempt at being smart, but her ribbons were soiled, and her lace was tawdry, and the fabric42 of her dress was old and dowdy43. He was quite sure that he would feel no pride in calling her Mrs Gibson, no pleasure in having her all to himself at his own hearth44. ‘I hope we shall escape the bitterness of Miss Stanbury’s tongue if we drink tea tete-a-tete,’ she said, with her sweetest smile.
‘I don’t suppose she’ll know anything about it.’
‘She knows about everything, Mr Gibson. It’s astonishing what she knows. She has eyes and ears everywhere. I shouldn’t care, if she didn’t see and hear so very incorrectly. I’m told now that she declares — but it doesn’t signify.’
‘Declares what?’ asked Mr Gibson.
‘Never mind. But wasn’t it odd how all Exeter believed that you were going to be married in that house, and to live there all the rest of your life, and be one of Miss Stanbury’s slaves. I never believed it, Mr Gibson.’ This she said with a sad smile, that ought to have brought him on his knees, in spite of the chignon.
‘One can’t help these things,’ said Mr Gibson.
‘I never could have believed it, not even if you had not given me an assurance so solemn, and so sweet, that there was nothing in it.’ The poor man had given the assurance, and could not deny the solemnity and the sweetness. ‘That was a happy moment for us, Mr Gibson; because, though we never believed it, when it was dinned45 into our ears so frequently, when it was made such a triumph in the Close, it was impossible not to fear that there might be something in it.’ He felt that he ought to make some reply, but he did not know what to say. He was thoroughly46 ashamed of the lie he had told, but he could not untell it. ‘Camilla reproached me afterwards for asking you,’ whispered Arabella, in her softest, tenderest voice.‘she said that it was unmaidenly. I hope you did not think it unmaidenly, Mr Gibson?’
‘Oh dear, no, not at all,’ said he.
Arabella French was painfully alive to the fact that she must do something. She had her fish on the hook; but of what use is a fish on your hook, if you cannot land him? When could she have a better opportunity than this of landing the scaly47 darling out of the fresh and free waters of his bachelor stream, and sousing him into the pool of domestic life, to be ready there for her own household purposes? ‘I had known you so long, Mr Gibson,’ she said, ‘and had valued your friendship so so deeply.’ As he looked at her, he could see nothing but the shapeless excrescence to which his eyes had been so painfully called by Miss Stanbury’s satire48. It is true that he had formerly49 been very tender with her, but she had not then carried about with her that distorted monster. He did not believe himself to be at all bound by anything which had passed between them in circumstances so very different. But yet he ought to say something. He ought to have said something; but he said nothing. She was patient, however, very patient; and she went on playing him with her hook. ‘I am so glad that I did not go out to-night with mamma. It has been such a pleasure to me to have this conversation with you. Camilla, perhaps, would say that I am unmaidenly.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That is all that I care for, Mr Gibson. If you acquit50 me, I do not mind who accuses. I should not like to suppose that you thought me unmaidenly. Anything would be better than that; but I can throw all such considerations to the wind when true true friendship is concerned. Don’t you think that one ought, Mr Gibson?’
If it had not been for the thing at the back of her head, he would have done it now. Nothing but that gave him courage to abstain51. It grew bigger and bigger, more shapeless, monstrous52, absurd, and abominable53, as he looked at it. Nothing should force upon him the necessity of assisting to carry such an abortion54 through the world. ‘One ought to sacrifice everything to friendship,’ said Mr Gibson, ‘except self-respect.’
He meant nothing personal. Something special, in the way of an opinion, was expected of him; and, therefore, he had striven to say something special. But she was in tears in a moment. ‘Oh, Mr Gibson,’ she exclaimed; ‘oh, Mr Gibson!’
‘What is the matter, Miss French?’
‘Have I lost your respect? Is it that that you mean?’
‘Certainly not, Miss French.’
‘Do not call me Miss French, or I shall be sure that you condemn55 me. Miss French sounds so very cold. You used to call me Bella.’ That was quite true; but it was long ago, thought Mr Gibson, before the monster had been attached. ‘Will you not call me Bella now?’
He thought that he had rather not; and yet, how was he to avoid it? On a sudden he became very crafty56. Had it not been for the sharpness of his mother-wit, he would certainly have been landed at that moment. ‘As you truly observed just now,’ he said, ‘the tongues of people are so malignant57. There are little birds that hear everything.’
‘I don’t care what the little birds hear,’ said Miss French, through her tears. ‘I am a very unhappy girl — I know that; and I don’t care what anybody says. It is nothing to me what anybody says. I know what I feel.’ At this moment there was some dash of truth about her. The fish was so very heavy on hand that, do what she would, she could not land him. Her hopes before this had been very low, hopes that had once been high; but they had been depressed58 gradually; and, in the slow, dull routine of her daily life, she had learned to bear disappointment by degrees, without sign of outward suffering, without consciousness of acute pain. The task of her life had been weary, and the wished-for goal was ever becoming more and more distant; but there had been still a chance, and she had fallen away into a lethargy of lessening59 expectation, from which joy, indeed, had been banished60, but in which there had been nothing of agony. Then had come upon the whole house at Heavitree the great Stanbury peril19, and, arising out of that, had sprung new hopes to Arabella, which made her again capable of all the miseries61 of a foiled ambition. She could again be patient, if patience might be of any service; but in such a condition an eternity62 of patience is simply suicidal. She was willing to work hard, but how could she work harder than she had worked. Poor young woman perishing beneath an incubus63 which a false idea of fashion had imposed on her!
‘I hope I have said nothing that makes you unhappy,’ pleaded Mr Gibson. ‘I’m sure I haven’t meant it.’
‘But you have,’ she said. ‘You make me very unhappy. You condemn me. I see you do. And if I have done wrong it had been all because — Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!’
‘But who says you have done wrong?’
‘You won’t call me Bella because you say the little birds will hear it. If I don’t care for the little birds, why should you?’
There is no question more difficult than this for a gentleman to answer. Circumstances do not often admit of its being asked by a lady with that courageous64 simplicity65 which had come upon Miss French in this moment of her agonising struggle; but nevertheless it is one which, in a more complicated form, is often put, and to which some reply, more or less complicated, is expected. ‘If I, a woman, can dare, for your sake, to encounter the public tongue, will you, a man, be afraid?’ The true answer, if it could be given, would probably be this; ‘I am afraid, though a man, because I have much to lose and little to get. You are not afraid, though a woman, because you have much to get and little to lose.’ But such an answer would be uncivil, and is not often given. Therefore men shuffle66 and lie, and tell themselves that in love — love here being taken to mean all antenuptial contests between man and woman — everything is fair. Mr Gibson had the above answer in his mind, though he did not frame it into words. He was neither sufficiently67 brave nor sufficiently cruel to speak to her in such language. There was nothing for him, therefore, but that he must shuffle and lie.
‘I only meant,’ said he, ‘that I would not for worlds do anything to make you uneasy.’
She did not see how she could again revert68 to the subject of her own Christian69 name. She had made her little tender, loving request, and it had been refused. Of course she knew that it had been refused as a matter of caution. She was not angry with him because of his caution, as she had expected him to be cautious. The barriers over which she had to climb were no more than she had expected to find in her way, but they were so very high and so very difficult! Of course she was aware that he would escape if he could. She was not angry with him on that account. Anger could not have helped her. Indeed, she did not price herself highly enough to make her feel that she would be justified70 in being angry. It was natural enough that he shouldn’t want her. She knew herself to be a poor, thin, vapid71, tawdry creature, with nothing to recommend her to any man except a sort of second-rate, provincial-town fashion which, infatuated as she was, she attributed in a great degree to the thing she carried on her head. She knew nothing. She could do nothing. She possessed72 nothing. She was not angry with him because he so evidently wished to avoid her. But she thought that if she could only be successful she would be good and loving and obedient and that it was fair for her at any rate to try. Each created animal must live and get its food by the gifts which the Creator has given to it, let those gifts be as poor as they may, let them be even as distasteful as they may to other members of the great created family. The rat, the toad73, the slug, the flea74, must each live according to its appointed mode of existence. Animals which are parasites75 by nature can only live by attaching themselves to life that is strong. To Arabella, Mr Gibson would be strong enough, and it seemed to her that it she could fix herself permanently76 upon his strength, that would be her proper mode of living. She was not angry with him because he resisted the attempt, but she had nothing of conscience to tell her that she should spare him as long as there remained to her a chance of success. And should not her plea of excuse, her justification77 be admitted? There are tormentors as to which no man argues that they are iniquitous78, though they be very troublesome. He either rids himself of them, or suffers as quiescently79 as he may.
‘We used to be such great friends, she said, still crying, ‘and I am afraid you don’t like me a bit now.’
‘Indeed, I do I have always liked you. But —’
‘But what? Do tell me what the but means. I will do anything that you bid me.’
Then it occurred to him that if, after such a promise, he were to confide80 to her his feeling that the chignon which she wore was ugly and unbecoming, she would probably be induced to change her mode of head-dress. It was a foolish idea, because, had he followed it out, he would have seen that compliance81 on her part in such a matter could only be given with the distinct understanding that a certain reward should be the consequence. When an unmarried gentleman calls upon an unmarried lady to change the fashion of her personal adornments, the unmarried lady has a right to expect that the unmarried gentleman means to make her his wife. But Mr Gibson had no such meaning; and was led into error by the necessity for sudden action. When she offered to do anything that he might bid her do, he could not take up his hat and go away he looked up into his face, expecting that he would give her some order and he fell into the temptation that was spread for him.
‘If I might say a word,’ he began.
‘You may say anything,’ she exclaimed.
‘If I were you I don’t think —’
‘You don’t think what, Mr Gibson?’
He found it to be a matter very difficult of approach. ‘Do you know, I don’t think the fashion that has come up about wearing your hair quite suits you — not so well as the way you used to do it.’ She became on a sudden very red in the face, and he thought that she was angry. Vexed82 she was, but still, accompanying her vexation, there was a remembrance that she was achieving victory even by her own humiliation83. She loved her chignon; but she was ready to abandon even that for him. Nevertheless she could not speak for a moment or two, and he was forced to continue his criticism. ‘I have no doubt those things are very becoming and all that, and I dare say they are comfortable.’
‘Oh, very,’ she said.
‘But there was a simplicity that I liked about the other.’
Could it be then that for the last five years he had stood aloof84 from her because she had arrayed herself in fashionable attire85? She was still very red in the face, still suffering from wounded vanity, still conscious of that soreness which affects us all when we are made to understand that we are considered to have failed there, where we have most thought that we excelled. But her womanly art enabled her quickly to conceal the pain. ‘I have made a promise,’ she said, ‘and you will find that I will keep it.’
‘What promise?’ asked Mr Gibson.
‘I said that I would do as you bade me, and so I will. I would have done it sooner if I had known that you wished it. I would never have worn it at all if I had thought that you disliked it.’
‘I think that a little of them is very nice,’ said Mr Gibson. Mr Gibson was certainly an awkward man. But there are men so awkward that it seems to be their especial province to say always the very worst thing at the very worst moment.
She became redder than ever as she was thus told of the hugeness of her favourite ornament86. She was almost angry now. But she restrained herself, thinking perhaps of how she might teach him taste in days to come as he was teaching her now. ‘I will change it tomorrow,’ she said with a smile. ‘You come and see tomorrow.’
Upon this he got up and took his hat and made his escape, assuring her that he would come and see her on the morrow. She let him go now without any attempt at further tenderness. Certainly she had gained much during the interview. He had as good as told her in what had been her offence, and of course, when she had remedied that offence, he could hardly refuse to return to her. She got up as soon as she was alone, and looked at her head in the glass, and told herself that the pity would be great. It was not that the chignon was in itself a thing of beauty, but that it imparted so unmistakable an air of fashion! It divested87 her of that dowdiness88 which she feared above all things, and enabled her to hold her own among other young women, without feeling that she was absolutely destitute89 of attraction. There had been a certain homage90 paid to it, which she had recognised and enjoyed. But it was her ambition to hold her own, not among young women, but among clergymen’s wives, and she would certainly obey his orders. She could not make the attempt now because of the complications; but she certainly would make it before she laid her head on the pillow — and would explain to Camilla that it was a little joke between herself and Mr Gibson.
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feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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condoled
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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utensil
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| n.器皿，用具 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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allot
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| v.分配；拨给；n.部分；小块菜地 | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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dinned
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| vt.喧闹（din的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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abortion
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| n.流产，堕胎 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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quiescently
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| adj.不活动的，静态的；休眠的 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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83
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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84
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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88
dowdiness
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89
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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90
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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