Lisa had a room to herself on the second story of her mother’s house, a clean bright little room with a little white bed, with pots of flowers in the corners and before the windows, a small writing-table, a book-stand, and a crucifix on the wall. It was always called the nursery; Lisa had been born in it. When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed1 every blossom with her hand. All this she did without haste, noiselessly, with a kind of rapt and gentle solicitude2 on her face. She topped at last in the middle of the room, slowly looked around, and going up to the table above which the crucifix was hanging, she fell on her knees, dropped her head on to her clasped hands and remained motionless.
Marfa Timofyevna came in and found her in this position. Lisa did not observe her entrance. The old lady stepped out on tip-toe and coughed loudly several times outside the door. Lisa rose quickly and wiped her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears.
“Ah! I see, you have been setting your cell to rights again,” observed Marfa Timofyevna, and she bent3 low over a young rose-tree in a pot; “how nice it smells!”
Lisa looked thoughtfully at her aunt.
“How strange you should use that word!” she murmured.
“What word, eh?” the old lady returned quickly. “What do you mean? This is horrible,” she began, suddenly flinging off her cap and sitting down on Lisa’s little bed; “it is more than I can bear! this is the fourth day now that I have been boiling over inside; I can’t pretend not to notice any longer; I can’t see you getting pale, and fading away, and weeping, I can’t I can’t!”
“Why, what is the matter, auntie?” said Lisa, “it’s nothing.”
“Nothing!” cried Marfa Timofyevna; “you may tell that to others but not to me. Nothing, who was on her knees just to this minute? and whose eyelashes are still wet with tears? Nothing, indeed! why, look at yourself, what have you done with your face, what has become of your eyes?— Nothing! do you suppose I don’t know all?”
“It will pass off, auntie; give me time.”
“It will pass of, but when? Good God! Merciful Saviour4! can you have loved him like this? why, he’s an old man, Lisa, darling. There, I don’t dispute he’s a good fellow, no harm in him; but what of that? we are all good people, the world is not so small, there will be always plenty of that commodity.”
“I tell you, it will all pass away, it has all passed away already.”
“Listen, Lisa, darling, what I am going to say to you,” Marfa Timofyevna said suddenly, making Lisa sit beside her, and straightening her hair and her neckerchief. “It seems to you now in the mist of the worst of it that nothing can ever heal your sorrow. Ah, my darling, the only thing that can’t be cured is death. You only say to yourself now: “I won’t give in to it — so there!” and you will be surprised yourself how soon, how easily it will pass of. Only have patience.”
“Auntie,” returned Lisa, “it has passed off already, it is all over.”
“Passed! how has it passed? Why, your poor little nose has grown sharp already and you say it is over. A fine way of getting over it!”
“Yes, it is over, auntie, if you will only try to help me,” Lisa declared with sudden animation5, and she flung herself on Marfa Timofyevna’s neck. “Dar auntie, be a friend to me, help me, don’t be angry, understand me” . . .
“Why, what is it, what is it, my good girl? Don’t terrify me, please; I shall scream directly; don’t look at me like that; tell me quickly, what is it?”
“I— I want,” Lisa hid her face on Marfa Timofyevna’s bosom6, “I want to go into a convent,” she articulated faintly.
The old lady almost bounded off the bed.
“Cross yourself, my girl, Lisa, dear, think what you are saying; what are you thinking of? God have mercy on you!” she stammered7 at last. “Lie down, my darling, sleep a little, all this comes from sleeplessness8, my dearie.”
Lisa raised her head, her cheeks were glowing.
“No, auntie,” she said, “don’t speak like that; I have made up my mind, I prayed, I asked counsel of God; all is at an end, my life with you is at an end. Such a lesson was not for nothing; and it is not the first time that I have thought of it. Happiness was not for me; even when I had hopes of happiness, my heart was always heavy. I knew all my own sins and those of others, and how papa made our fortune; I know it all. For all that there must be expiation9. I am sorry for you, sorry for mamma, for Lenotchka; but there is no help; I feel that there is no living here for me; I have taken leave of all, I have greeted everything in the house for the last time; something calls to me; I am sick at heart, I want to hide myself away for ever. Do not hinder me, do not dissuade10 me, help me, or else I must go away alone.”
Marfa Timofyevna listened to her niece with horror.
“She is ill, she is raving11,” she thought: “we must send for a doctor; but for which one? Gedeonovsky was praising one the other day; he always tells lies — but perhaps this time he spoke12 the truth.” But when she was convinced that Lisa was not ill, and was not raving, when she constantly made the same answer to all her expostulations, Marfa Timofyevna was alarmed and distressed13 in earnest. “But you don’t know, my darling,” she began to reason with her, “what a life it is in those convents! Why, they would feed you, my own, on green hemp14 oil, and they would put you in the coarsest linen15, and make you go about in the cold; you will never be able to bear all that, Lisa, darling. All this is Agafya’s doing; she led you astray. But then you know she began by living and lived for her own pleasure; you must live, too. At least, let me die in peace, and then do as you like. And who has ever heard of such a thing, for the sake of such a — for the sake of a goat’s beard, God forgive us!— for the sake of a man — to go into a convent! Why, if you are so sick at heart, go on a pilgrimage, offer prayers to some saint, have a Te Deum sung, but don’t put the black hood16 on your head, my dear creature, my good girl.”
And Marfa Timofyevna wept bitterly.
Lisa comforted her, wiped away her tears and wept herself, but remained unshaken. In her despair Marfa Timofyevna had recourse to threats: to tell her mother all about it . . . but that too was of no avail. Only at the old lady’s most earnest entreaties17 Lisa agreed to put off carrying out her plan for six months. Marfa Timofyevna was obliged to promise in return that if, within six months, she did not change her mind, she would herself help her and would do all she could to gain Marya Dmitrievna’s consent.
In spite of her promise to bury herself in seclusion18, at the first approach of cold weather, Varvara Pavlovna, having provided herself with funds, removed to Petersburg, where she took a modest but charming set of apartments, found for her by Panshin; who had left the O—— district a little before. During the latter part of his residence in O——— he had completely lost Marya Dmitrievna’s good graces; he had suddenly given up visiting her and scarcely stirred from Lavriky. Varvara Pavolvna had enslaved him, literally19 enslaved him, no other word can describe her boundless20, irresistible21, unquestioned sway over him.
Lavretsky spent the winter in Moscow; and in the spring of the following year the news reached him that Lisa had taken the veil in the B—— convent, in one of the remote parts of Russia.
Epilogue
Eight years had passed by. Once more the spring had come . . . . But we will say a few words first of the fate of Mihalevitch, Panshin, and Madame Laverestky — and then take leave of them. Mihalevitch, after long wanderings, has at last fallen in with exactly the right work for him; he has received the position of senior superintendent22 of a government school. He is very well content with his lot; his pupils adore him, though they mimick him too. Panshin has gained great advancement23 in rank, and already has a directorship in view; he walks with a slight stoop, caused doubtless by the weight round his neck of the Vladimir cross which has been conferred on him. The official in him has finally gained the ascendency over the artist; his still youngish face has grown yellow, and his hair scanty24; he now neither sings nor sketches25, but applies himself in secret to literature; he has written a comedy, in the style of a “proverb,” and as nowadays all writers have to draw a portrait of some one or something, he has drawn26 in it the portrait of a coquette, and he reads it privately27 to two or three ladies who look kindly28 upon him. He has, however, not entered upon matrimony, though many excellent opportunities of doing so have presented themselves. For this Varvara Pavlovna was responsible. As for her, she lives constantly at Paris, as in former days. Fedor Ivanitch has given her a promissory note for a large sum, and has so secured immunity29 from the possibility of her making a second sudden descent upon him. She has grown older and stouter31, but is still charming and elegant. Every one has his ideal. Varvara Pavlovna found hers in the dramatic works of M. Dumas Fils. She diligently32 frequents the theatres, when consumptive and sentimental33 “dames aux camelias” are brought on the stage; to be Madame Doche seems to her the height of human bliss34; she once declared that she did not desire a better fate for her own daughter. It is to be hoped that fate will spare Mademoiselle Ada from such happiness; from a rosy-cheeked, chubby35 child she has turned into a weak-chested, pale girl; her nerves are already deranged36. The number of Varvara Pavlovna adorers has diminished, but she still has some; a few she will probably retain to the end of her days. The most ardent37 of them in these later days is a certain Zakurdalo-Skubrinikov, a retired38 guardsman, a full-bearded man of thirty-eight, of exceptionally vigorous physique. The French habitues of Madame Lavretsky’s salon39 call him “le gros taureau de l’Ukraine;” Varvara Pavlovna never invites him to her fashionable evening reunions, but he is in the fullest enjoyment40 of her favours.
And so — eight years have passed by. Once more the breezes of spring breathed brightness and rejoicing from the heavens; once more spring was smiling upon the earth and upon men; once more under her caresses41 everything was turning to blossom, to love, to song. The town of O—— had undergone little change in the course of these eight years; but Marya Dmitrievna’s house seemed to have grown younger; its freshly-painted walls gave a bright welcome, and the panes42 of its open windows were crimson43, shining in the setting sun; from these windows the light merry sound of ringing young voices and continual laughter floated into the street; the whole house seemed astir with life and brimming over with gaiety. The lady of the house herself had long been in her tomb; Marya Dmitrievna had died two years after Lisa took the veil, and Mafa Timofyevna had not long survived her niece; they lay side by side in the cemetery44 of the town. Nastasya Karpovna too was no more; for several years! the faithful old woman had gone every week to say a prayer over her friend’s ashes. . . . . Her time had come, and now her bones too lay in the damp earth. But Marya Dmitreivna’s house had not passed into stranger’s hands, it had not gone out of her family, the home had not been broken upon. Lenotchka, transformed into a slim, beautiful young girl, and her betrothed45 lover — a fair-haired officer of hussars; Marya Dmitrievna’s son, who had just been married in Petersburg and had come with his young wife for the spring to O——-; his wife’s sister, a school-girl of sixteen, with glowing cheeks and bright eyes; Shurotchka, grown up and also pretty, made up the youthful household, whose laughter and talk set the walls of the Kalitins’ house resounding46. Everything in the house was changed, everything was in keeping with its new inhabitants. Beardless servant lads, grinning and full of fun, had replaced the sober old servants of former days. Two setter dogs dashed wildly about and gambolled47 over the sofas, where the fat Roska had at one time waddled48 in solemn dignity. The stables were filled with slender racers, spirited carriage horses, fiery49 out-riders with plaited manes, and riding horses from the Don. The breakfast, dinner, and supper-hours were all in confusion and disorder50; in the words of the neighbours, “unheard-of arrangements” were made.
On the evening of which we are speaking, the inhabitants of the Kalitins’ house (the eldest51 of them, Lenotchka’s betrothed, was only twenty-four) were engaged in a game, which, though not of a very complicated nature, was, to judge from their merry laughter, exceedingly entertaining to them; they were running about the rooms, chasing one another; the dogs, too, were running and barking, and the canaries, hanging in cages above the windows, were straining their throats in rivalry52 and adding to the general uproar53 by the shrill54 trilling of their piercing notes. At the very height of this deafening55 merry-making a mud-bespattered carriage stopped at the gate, and a man of five-and forty, in a travelling dress, stepped out of it and stood still in amazement56. He stood a little time without stirring, watching the house with attentive57 eyes; then went through the little gate in the courtyard, and slowly mounted the steps. In the hall he met no one; but the door of a room was suddenly! flung open, and out of it rushed Shurotchka, flushed and hot, and instantly, with a ringing shout, all the young party in pursuit of her. They stopped short at once and were quiet at the sight of a stranger; but their clear eyes fixed58 on him wore the same friendly expression, and their fresh faces were still smiling as Marya Dmitreivna’s son went up to the visitor and asked him cordially what he could do for him.
“I am Lavretsky,” replied the visitor.
He was answered by a shout in chorus — and not because these young people were greatly delighted at the arrival of a distant, almost forgotten relation, but simply because they were ready to be delighted and make noise at every opportunity. They surrounded Lavretsky at once; Lenotchka, as an old acquaintance, was the first to mention her own name, and assured him that in a little while she would have certainly recognised him. She presented him to the rest of the party, calling each, even her betrothed, by their pet names. They all trooped through the dining-room into the drawing-room. The walls of both rooms had been repapered; but the furniture remained the same. Lavretsky recognised the piano; even the embroidery59-frame in the window was just the same, and in the same position, and it seemed with the same unfinished embroidery on it, as eight years ago. They made him sit down in a comfortable arm-chair; all sat down politely in a circle round him. Questions, exclamations60, and anecdotes61 followed.
“It’s a long time since we have seen you, observed Lenotchka simply, “and Varvara Pavlovna we have seen nothing of either.”
“Well, no wonder!” her brother hastened to interpose. “I carried you off to Petersburg, and Fedor Ivanitch has been living all the time in the country.”
“Yes, and mamma died soon after then.”
“And Marfa Timofyevna,” observed Shurotchka.
“And Nastasya Karpovna,” added Lenotchka, “and Monsier Lemm.”
“What? is Lemm dead?” inquired Lavretsky.
“Yes,” replied young Kalitin, “he left here for Odessa; they say some one enticed62 him there; and there he died.”
“You don’t happen to know, . . . did he leave any music?”
“I don’t know; not very likely.”
All were silent and looked about them. A slight cloud of melancholy63 flitted over all the young faces.
“But Matross is alive,” said Lenotchka suddenly.
“And Gedeonovsky,” added her brother.
At Gedeonovsky’s name a merry laugh broke out at once.
“Yes, he is alive, and as great a liar64 as ever,” Marya Dmitrievna’s son continued; “and only fancy, yesterday this madcap”— pointing to the school-girl, his wife’s sister —“put some pepper in his snuff-box.”
“How he did sneeze!” cried Lenotchka, and again there was a burst of unrestrained laughter.
“We have had news of Lisa lately,” observed young Kalitin, and again a hush65 fell upon all; “there was good news of her; she is recovering her health a little now.”
“She is still in the same convent?” Lavretsky asked, not without some effort.
“Yes, still in the same.”
“Does she write to you?”
“No, never; but we get news through other people.”
A sudden and profound silence followed. “A good angel is passing over,” all were thinking.
“Wouldn’t you like to go into the garden?” said Kalitin, turning to Lavretsky; “it is very nice now, though we have let it run wild a little.”
Lavretsky went out into the garden, and the first thing that met his eyes was the very garden seat on which he had once spent with Lisa those few blissful moments, never repeated; it had grown black and warped66; but he recognised it, and his soul was filled with that emotion, unequalled for sweetness and for bitterness — the emotion of keen sorrow for vanished youth, for the happiness which has once been possessed67.
He walked along the avenues with the young people; the lime-trees looked hardly older or taller in the eight years, but their shade was thicker; on the other hand, all the bushes had sprung up, the raspberry bushes had grown strong, the hazels were tangled68 thicket69, and from all sides rose the fresh scent30 of the trees and grass and lilac.
“This would be a nice place for Puss-in-the-Corner,” cried Lenotchka suddenly, as they came upon a small green lawn, surrounded by lime-trees, “and we are just five, too.”
“Have you forgotten Fedor Ivanitch?” replied her brother, . . . “or didn’t you count yourself?”
Lenotchka blushed slightly.
“But would Fedor Ivanitch, at his age ——-” she began.
“Please, play your games,” Lavretsky hastened to interpose; “don’t pay attention to me. I shall be happier myself, when I am sure I am not in your way. And there’s no need for you to entertain me; we old fellows have an occupation which you know nothing of yet, and which no amusement can replace — our memories.”
The young people listened to Lavretsky with polite but rather ironical70 respect — as though a teacher were giving them a lesson — and suddenly they all dispersed71, and ran to the lawn; four stood near trees, one in the middle, and the game began.
And Lavretsky went back into the house, went into the dining-room, drew near the piano and touched one of the keys; it gave out a faint but clear sound; on that note had begun the inspired melody with which long ago on that same happy night Lemm, the dead Lemm, had thrown him into such transports. Then Lavretsky went into the drawing-room, and for a long time he did not leave it; in that room where he had so often seen Lisa, her image rose most vividly72 before him; he seemed to feel the traces of her presence round him; but his grief for her was crushing, not easy to bear; it had none of the peace which comes with death. Lisa still lived somewhere, hidden and afar; he thought of her as of the living, but he did not recognize the girl he had once loved in that dim pale shadow, cloaked in a nun73’s dress and encircled in misty74 clouds of incense75. Lavretsky would not have recognized himself, could he have looked at himself, as mentally he looked at Lisa. In the course of these eight years he had passed that turning-point in life, which many never pass, but without which no one can be a good man to the end; he had really ceased to think of his own happiness, of his personal aims. He had grown calm, and — why hide the truth?— he had grown old not only in face and in body, he had grown old in heart; to keep a young heart up to old age, as some say, is not only difficult, but almost ridiculous; he may well be content who has not lost his belief in goodness, his steadfast76 will, and his zeal77 for work. Lavretsky had good reason to be content; he had become actually an excellent farmer, he had really learnt to cultivate the land, and his labours were not only for himself; he had, to the best of his powers, secured on a firm basis the welfare of his peasants.
Lavretsky went out of the house into the garden, and sat down on the familiar garden seat. And on this loved spot, facing the house where for the last time he had vainly stretched out his hand for the enchanted78 cup which frothed and sparkled with the golden wine of delight, he, a solitary79 homeless wanderer, looked back upon his life, while the joyous80 shouts of the younger generation who were already filling his place floated across the garden to him. His heart was sad, but not weighed down, nor bitter; much there was to regret, nothing to be ashamed of.
“Play away, be gay, grow strong, vigorous youth!” he thought, and there was no bitterness in his meditations81; “your life is before you, and for you life will be easier; you have not, as we had, to find out a path for yourselves, to struggle, to fall, and to rise again in the dark; we had enough to do to last out — and how many of us did not last out?— but you need only do your duty, work away, and the blessing82 of an old man be with you. For me, after to-day, after these emotions, there remains83 to take my leave at last,— and though sadly, without envy, without any dark feelings, to say, in sight of the end, in sight of God who awaits me: ‘Welcome, lonely old age! burn out, useless life!’”
Lavretsky quietly rose and quietly went away; no one noticed him, no one detained him; the joyous cries sounded more loudly in the garden behind the thick green wall of high lime-trees. He took his seat in the carriage and bade the coachman drive home and not hurry the horses.
“And the end?” perhaps the dissatisfied reader will inquire. “What became of Lavretsky afterwards, and of Lisa?” But what is there to tell of people who, though still alive, have withdrawn84 from the battlefield of life? They say, Lavretsky visited that remote convent where Lisa had hidden herself — that he saw her. Crossing over from choir85 to choir, she walked close past him, moving with the even, hurried, but meek86 walk of a nun; and she did not glance at him; only the eyelashes on the side towards him quivered a little, only she bent her emaciated87 face lower, and the fingers of her clasped hands, entwined with her rosary, were pressed still closer to one another. What were they both thinking, what were they feeling? Who can know? who can say? There are such moments in life, there are such feelings . . . One can but point to them — and pass them by.
The End
收听单词发音 |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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animation
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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stammered
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sleeplessness
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expiation
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dissuade
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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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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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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hemp
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| n.大麻；纤维 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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advancement
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scanty
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sketches
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drawn
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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immunity
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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deranged
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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gambolled
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice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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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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enchanted
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| 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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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81
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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84
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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85
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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