Which on the Whole Is Found Very Consoling.
THE separation of lovers, even with an immediate1 prospect2 of union, involves a sentiment of deep melancholy3. The reaction of our solitary4 emotions, after a social impulse of such peculiar5 excitement, very much disheartens and depresses us. Mutual6 passion is complete sympathy. Under such an influence there is no feeling so strong, no fancy so delicate, that it is not instantly responded to. Our heart has no secrets, though our life may. Under such an influence, each unconsciously labours to enchant7 the other; each struggles to maintain the reality of that ideal which has been reached in a moment of happy inspiration. Then is the season when the voice is ever soft, the eye ever bright, and every movement of the frame airy and picturesque8; each accent is full of tenderness; each glance, of affection; each gesture, of grace. We live in a heaven of our own creation. All happens that can contribute to our perfect satisfaction, and can ensure our complete self-complacency. We give and we receive felicity. We adore and we are adored. Love is the May-day of the heart.
But a cloud nevertheless will dim the genial9 lustre10 of that soft and brilliant sky when we are alone; when the soft voice no longer sighs, and the bright eye no longer beams, and the form we worship no longer moves before our enraptured11 vision. Our happiness becomes too much the result of reflection. Our faith is not less devout12, but it is not so fervent13. We believe in the miracle, but we no longer witness it.
And as the light was extinguished in the chamber14 of Henrietta Temple, Ferdinand Armine felt for a moment as if his sun had set for ever. There seemed to be now no evidence of her existence. Would tomorrow ever come? And if it came, would the rosy15 hours indeed bring her in their radiant car? What if this night she died? He shuddered16 at this wild imagination. Yet it might be; such dire17 calamities18 had been. And now he felt his life was involved in hers, and that under such circumstances his instant death must complete the catastrophe19. There was then much at stake. Had it been yet his glorious privilege that her fair cheek should have found a pillow on his heart; could he have been permitted to have rested without her door but as her guard; even if the same roof at any distance had screened both their heads; such dark conceptions would not perhaps have risen up to torture him; but as it was, they haunted him like evil spirits as he took his lonely way over the common to gain his new abode20.
Ah! the morning came, and such a morn! Bright as his love! Ferdinand had passed a dreamy night, and when he woke he could not at first recognise the locality. It was not Armine. Could it be Ducie? As he stretched his limbs and rubbed his eyes, he might be excused for a moment fancying that all the happiness of yesterday was indeed a vision. He was, in truth, sorely perplexed21 as he looked around the neat but humble22 chamber, and caught the first beam of the sun struggling through a casement23 shadowed by the jessamine. But on his heart there rested a curl of dark and flowing hair, and held together by that very turquoise24 of which he fancied he had been dreaming. Happy, happy Ferdinand! Why shouldst thou have cares? And may not the course even of thy true love run smooth?
He recks not of the future. What is the future to one so blessed? The sun is up, the lark25 is singing, the sky is bluer than the love-jewel at his heart. She will be here soon. No gloomy images disturb him now. Cheerfulness is the dowry of the dawn.
Will she indeed be here? Will Henrietta Temple indeed come to visit him? Will that consummate26 being before whom, but a few days back, he stood entranced; to whose mind the very idea of his existence had not then even occurred; will she be here anon to visit him? to visit her beloved! What has he done to be so happy? What fairy has touched him and his dark fortunes with her wand? What talisman27 does he grasp to call up such bright adventures of existence? He does not err28. He is an enchanted29 being; a spell indeed pervades30 his frame; he moves in truth in a world of marvels31 and miracles. For what fairy has a wand like love, what talisman can achieve the deeds of passion?
He quitted the rustic32 porch, and strolled up the lane that led to Ducie. He started at a sound: it was but the spring of a wandering bird. Then the murmur33 of a distant wheel turned him pale; and he stopped and leant on a neighbouring gate with a panting heart. Was she at hand? There is not a moment when the heart palpitates with such delicate suspense34 as when a lover awaits his mistress in the spring days of his passion. Man watching the sun rise from a mountain awaits not an incident to him more beautiful, more genial, and more impressive. With her presence it would seem that both light and heat fall at the same time upon his heart: his emotions are warm and sunny, that a moment ago seemed dim and frigid35; a thrilling sense of joy pervades his frame; the air is sweeter, and his ears seem to echo with the music of a thousand birds.
The sound of the approaching wheel became more audible; it drew near, nearer; but lost the delicacy36 that distance lent it. Alas37! it did not propel the car of a fairy, or the chariot of a heroine, but a cart, whose taxed springs bowed beneath the portly form of an honest yeoman who gave Captain Armine a cheerful good-morrow as he jogged by, and flanked his jolly whip with unmerciful dexterity38. The loudness of the unexpected salute39, the crack of the echoing thong40, shook the fine nerves of a fanciful lover, and Ferdinand looked so confused, that if the honest yeoman had only stopped to observe him, the passenger might have really been excused for mistaking him for a poacher, at the least, by his guilty countenance41.
This little worldly interruption broke the wings of Ferdinand’s soaring fancy. He fell to earth. Doubt came over him whether Henrietta would indeed come. He was disappointed, and so he became distrustful. He strolled on, however, in the direction of Ducie, yet slowly, as there was more than one road, and to miss each other would have been mortifying42.
His quick eye was in every quarter; his watchful43 ear listened in every direction: still she was not seen, and not a sound was heard except the hum of day. He became nervous, agitated44, and began to conjure45 up a crowd of unfortunate incidents. Perhaps she was ill; that was very bad. Perhaps her father had suddenly returned. Was that worse? Perhaps something strange had happened. Perhaps———
Why! why does his face turn so pale, and why is his step so suddenly arrested? Ah! Ferdinand Armine, is not thy conscience clear? That pang46 was sharp. No, no, it is impossible; clearly, absolutely impossible; this is weak indeed. See! he smiles! He smiles at his weakness. He waves his arm as if in contempt. He casts away, with defiance47, his idle apprehensions48. His step is more assured, and the colour returns to his cheek. And yet her father must return. Was he prepared for that occurrence? This was a searching question. It induced a long, dark train of harassing49 recollections. He stopped to ponder. In what a web of circumstances was he now involved! Howsoever he might act, self-extrication appeared impossible. Perfect candour to Miss Temple might be the destruction of her love; even modified to her father, would certainly produce his banishment50 from Ducie. As the betrothed51 of Miss Grandison, Miss Temple would abjure52 him; as the lover of Miss Temple, under any circumstances, Mr. Temple would reject him. In what light would he appear to Henrietta were he to dare to reveal the truth? Would she not look upon him as the unresisting libertine53 of the hour, engaging in levity54 her heart as he had already trifled with another’s? For that absorbing and overwhelming passion, pure, primitive55, and profound, to which she now responded with an enthusiasm as fresh, as ardent56, and as immaculate, she would only recognise the fleeting57 fancy of a vain and worldly spirit, eager to add another triumph to a long list of conquests, and proud of another evidence of his irresistible58 influence. What security was there for her that she too should not in turn be forgotten for another? that another eye should not shine brighter than hers, and another voice sound to his ear with a sweeter tone?
Oh, no! he dared not disturb and sully the bright flow of his present existence; he shrank from the fatal word that would dissolve the spell that enchanted them, and introduce all the calculating cares of a harsh world into the thoughtless Eden in which they now wandered. And, for her father, even if the sad engagement with Miss Grandison did not exist, with what front could Ferdinand solicit59 the hand of his daughter? What prospect could he hold out of worldly prosperity to the anxious consideration of a parent? Was he himself independent? Was he not worse than a beggar? Could he refer Mr. Temple to Sir Ratcliffe? Alas! it would be an insult to both! In the meantime, every hour Mr. Temple might return, or something reach the ear of Henrietta fatal to all his aspirations60. Armine with all its cares, Bath with all its hopes; his melancholy father, his fond and sanguine61 mother, the tender-hearted Katherine, the devoted62 Glastonbury, all rose up before him, and crowded on his tortured imagination. In the agony of his mind he wished himself alone in the world: he sighed for some earthquake to swallow up Armine and all its fatal fortunes; and as for those parents, so affectionate and virtuous63, and to whom he had hitherto been so dutiful and devoted, he turned from their idea with a sensation of weariness, almost of dislike.
He sat down on the trunk of a tree and buried his face in his hands. His reverie had lasted some time, when a gentle sound disturbed him. He looked up; it was Henrietta. She had driven over the common in her pony-chair and unattended. She was but a few steps from him; and as he looked up, he caught her fond smile. He sprang from his seat; he was at her side in an instant; his heart beat so tumultuously that he could not speak; all dark thoughts were forgotten; he seized with a trembling touch her extended hand, and gazed upon her with a glance of ecstasy64. For, indeed, she looked so beautiful that it seemed to him he had never before done justice to her surpassing loveliness. There was a bloom upon her cheek, as upon some choice and delicate fruit; her violet eyes sparkled like gems65; while the dimples played and quivered on her cheeks, as you may sometimes watch the sunbeam on the pure surface of fair water. Her countenance, indeed, was wreathed with smiles. She seemed the happiest thing on earth; the very personification of a poetic66 spring; lively, and fresh, and innocent; sparkling, and sweet, and soft. When he beheld67 her, Ferdinand was reminded of some gay bird, or airy antelope68; she looked so bright and joyous69!
‘He is to get in,’ said Henrietta with a smile, and drive her to their cottage. Have I not managed well to come alone? We shall have such a charming drive today.’
‘You are so beautiful!’ murmured Ferdinand.
‘I am content if you but think so. You did not hear me approach? What were you doing? Plunged70 in meditation71? Now tell me truly, were you thinking of her?’
‘Indeed, I have no other thought. Oh, my Henrietta! you are so beautiful today. I cannot talk of anything but your beauty.’
‘And how did you sleep? Are you comfortable? I have brought you some flowers to make your room look pretty.’
They soon reached the farm-house. The good-wife seemed a little surprised when she observed her guest driving Miss Temple, but far more pleased. Henrietta ran into the house to see the children, spoke72 some kind words to the little maiden73, and asked if their guest had breakfasted. Then, turning to Ferdinand, she said, ‘Have you forgotten that you are to give me a breakfast? It shall be in the porch. Is it not sweet and pretty? See, here are your flowers, and I have brought you some fruit.’
The breakfast was arranged. ‘But you do not play your part, sweet Henrietta,’ he said; ‘I cannot breakfast alone.’
She affected74 to share his repast, that he might partake of it; but, in truth, she only busied herself in arranging the flowers. Yet she conducted herself with so much dexterity, that Ferdinand had an opportunity of gratifying his appetite, without being placed in a position, awkward at all times, insufferable for a lover, that of eating in the presence of others who do not join you in the occupation.
‘Now,’ she suddenly said, sitting by his side, and placing a rose in his dress, ‘I have a little plan today, which I think will be quite delightful75. You shall drive me to Armine.’
Ferdinand started. He thought of Glastonbury.
His miserable76 situation recurred77 to him. This was the bitter drop in the cup; yes! in the very plenitude of his rare felicity he expressed a pang. His confusion was not unobserved by Miss Temple; for she was very quick in her perception; but she could not comprehend it. It did not rest on her mind, particularly when Ferdinand assented78 to her proposition, but added, ‘I forgot that Armine is more interesting to you than to me. All my associations with Armine are painful. Ducie is my delight.’
‘Ah! my romance is at Armine; yours at Ducie. What we live among, we do not always value. And yet I love my home,’ she added, in a somewhat subdued79, even serious tone; ‘all my associations with Ducie are sweet and pleasant. Will they always be so?’
She hit upon a key to which the passing thoughts of Ferdinand too completely responded, but he restrained the mood of his mind. As she grew grave, he affected cheerfulness. ‘My Henrietta must always be happy,’ he said, ‘at least, if her Ferdinand’s love can make her so.’
She did not reply, but she pressed his hand. Then, after a moment’s silence, she said, ‘My Ferdinand must not be low-spirited about dear Armine. I have confidence in our destiny; I see a happy, a very happy future.’
Who could resist so fair a prophet? Not the sanguine mind of the enamoured Ferdinand Armine. He drank inspiration from her smiles, and dwelt with delight on the tender accents of her animating80 sympathy. ‘I never shall be low-spirited with you,’ he replied; ‘you are my good genius. O Henrietta! what heaven it is to be together!’
‘I bless you for these words. We will not go to Armine today. Let us walk. And to speak the truth, for I am not ashamed of saying anything to you, it would be hardly discreet81, perhaps, to be driving about the country in this guise82. And yet,’ she added, after a moment’s hesitation83, ‘what care I for what people say? O Ferdinand! I think only of you!’
That was a delicious ramble84 which these young and enamoured creatures took that sunny morn! The air was sweet, the earth was beautiful, and yet they were insensible to everything but their mutual love. Inexhaustible is the converse85 of fond hearts! A simple story, too, and yet there are so many ways of telling it!
‘How strange that we should have ever met!’ said Henrietta Temple.
‘Indeed, I think it most natural,’ said Ferdinand; ‘I will believe it the fulfilment of a happy destiny. For all that I have sighed for now I meet, and more, much more than my imagination could ever hope for.’
‘Only think of that morning drive,’ resumed Henrietta, ‘such a little time ago, and yet it seems an age! Let us believe in destiny, dear Ferdinand, or you must think of me, I fear, that which I would not wish.’
‘My own Henrietta, I can think of you only as the noblest and the sweetest of beings. My love is ever equalled by my gratitude86!’
‘My Ferdinand, I had read of such feelings, but did not believe in them. I did not believe, at least, that they were reserved for me. And yet I have met many persons, and seen something more, much more than falls to the lot of women of my age. Believe me, indeed, my eye has hitherto been undazzled, and my heart untouched.’ He pressed her hand.
‘And then,’ she resumed, ‘in a moment; but it seemed not like common life. That beautiful wilderness87, that ruinous castle! As I gazed around, I felt not as is my custom. I felt as if some fate were impending88, as if my life and lot were bound up, as it were, with that strange and silent scene. And then he came forward, and I beheld him, so unlike all other men, so beautiful, so pensive89! O Ferdinand! pardon me for loving you!’ and she gently turned her head, and hid her face on his breast.
‘Darling Henrietta,’ lowly breathed the enraptured lover, ‘best, and sweetest, and loveliest of women, your Ferdinand, at that moment, was not less moved than you were. Speechless and pale I had watched my Henrietta, and I felt that I beheld the being to whom I must dedicate my existence.’
‘I shall never forget the moment when I stood before the portrait of Sir Ferdinand. Do you know my heart was prophetic; I wanted not that confirmation90 of a strange conjecture91. I felt that you must be an Armine. I had heard so much of your grandfather, so much of your family. I loved them for their glory, and for their lordly sorrows.’
‘Ah! my Henrietta, ’tis that alone which galls92 me. It is bitter to introduce my bride to our house of cares.’
‘You shall never think it so,’ she replied with animation93. ‘I will prove a true Armine. Happier in the honour of that name, than in the most rich possessions! You do not know me yet. Your wife shall not disgrace you or your lineage. I have a spirit worthy94 of you, Ferdinand; at least, I dare to hope so. I can break, but I will not bend. We will wrestle95 together with all our cares; and my Ferdinand, animated96 by his Henrietta, shall restore the house.’
‘Alas! my noble-minded girl, I fear a severe trial awaits us. I can offer you only love.’
‘Is there anything else in this world?’
‘But, to bear you from a roof of luxury, where you have been cherished from your cradle, with all that ministers to the delicate delights of woman, to—oh! my Henrietta, you know not the disheartening and depressing burthen of domestic cares.’ His voice faltered98 as he recalled his melancholy father; and the disappointment, perhaps the destruction, that his passion was preparing for his roof.
‘There shall be no cares; I will endure everything; I will animate97 all. I have energy; indeed I have, my Ferdinand. I have, young as I may be, I have often inspirited, often urged on my father. Sometimes, he says, that had it not been for me, he would not have been what he is. He is my father, the best and kindest parent that ever loved his child; yet, what are fathers to you, my Ferdinand? and, if I could assist him, what may I not do for———’
‘Alas! my Henrietta, we have no theatre for action. You forget our creed99.’
‘It was the great Sir Ferdinand’s. He made a theatre.’
‘My Henrietta is ambitious,’ said Ferdinand, smiling.
‘Dearest, I would be content, nay100! that is a weak phrase, I would, if the choice were in my power now to select a life most grateful to my views and feelings, choose some delightful solitude101, even as Armine, and pass existence with no other aim but to delight you. But we were speaking of other circumstances. Such happiness, it is said, is not for us. And I wished to show you that I have a spirit that can struggle with adversity, and a soul prescient of overwhelming it.’
‘You have a spirit I reverence102, and a soul I worship, nor is there a happier being in the world this moment than Ferdinand Armine. With such a woman as you every fate must be a triumph. You have touched upon a chord of my heart that has sounded before, though in solitude. It was but the wind that played on it before; but now that tone rings with a purpose. This is glorious sympathy. Let us leave Armine to its fate. I have a sword, and it shall go hard if I do not carve out a destiny worthy even of Henrietta Temple.’
1 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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2 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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3 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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4 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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5 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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6 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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7 enchant | |
vt.使陶醉,使入迷;使着魔,用妖术迷惑 | |
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8 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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9 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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10 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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11 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12 devout | |
adj.虔诚的,虔敬的,衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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13 fervent | |
adj.热的,热烈的,热情的 | |
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14 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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15 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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16 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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17 dire | |
adj.可怕的,悲惨的,阴惨的,极端的 | |
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18 calamities | |
n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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19 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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20 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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21 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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22 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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23 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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24 turquoise | |
n.绿宝石;adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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25 lark | |
n.云雀,百灵鸟;n.嬉戏,玩笑;vi.嬉戏 | |
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26 consummate | |
adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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27 talisman | |
n.避邪物,护身符 | |
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28 err | |
vi.犯错误,出差错 | |
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29 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30 pervades | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31 marvels | |
n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 );令人惊奇的事物(或事例);不平凡的成果;成就v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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33 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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34 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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35 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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36 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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37 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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38 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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39 salute | |
vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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40 thong | |
n.皮带;皮鞭;v.装皮带 | |
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41 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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42 mortifying | |
adj.抑制的,苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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43 watchful | |
adj.注意的,警惕的 | |
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44 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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45 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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46 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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47 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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48 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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49 harassing | |
v.侵扰,骚扰( harass的现在分词 );不断攻击(敌人) | |
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50 banishment | |
n.放逐,驱逐 | |
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51 betrothed | |
n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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52 abjure | |
v.发誓放弃 | |
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53 libertine | |
n.淫荡者;adj.放荡的,自由思想的 | |
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54 levity | |
n.轻率,轻浮,不稳定,多变 | |
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55 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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56 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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57 fleeting | |
adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
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58 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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59 solicit | |
vi.勾引;乞求;vt.请求,乞求;招揽(生意) | |
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60 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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61 sanguine | |
adj.充满希望的,乐观的,血红色的 | |
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62 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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63 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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64 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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65 gems | |
growth; economy; management; and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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66 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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67 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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68 antelope | |
n.羚羊;羚羊皮 | |
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69 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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70 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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71 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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72 spoke | |
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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73 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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74 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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75 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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76 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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77 recurred | |
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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78 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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80 animating | |
v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 );驱动;使栩栩如生地动作;赋予…以生命 | |
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81 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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82 guise | |
n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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83 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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84 ramble | |
v.漫步,漫谈,漫游;n.漫步,闲谈,蔓延 | |
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85 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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86 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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87 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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88 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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89 pensive | |
a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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90 confirmation | |
n.证实,确认,批准 | |
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91 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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92 galls | |
v.使…擦痛( gall的第三人称单数 );擦伤;烦扰;侮辱 | |
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93 animation | |
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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94 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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95 wrestle | |
vi.摔跤,角力;搏斗;全力对付 | |
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96 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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97 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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98 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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99 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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100 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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101 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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102 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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