The old physician at Vigano, who had come to Marie-Anne’s aid, was an honorable man. His intellect was of a superior order, and his heart was equal to his intelligence. He knew life; he had loved and suffered, and he possessed1 two sublime2 virtues3 — forbearance and charity.
It was easy for such a man to read Marie-Anne’s character; and while he was at the Borderie he endeavored in every possible way to reassure4 her, and to restore the self-respect of the unfortunate girl who had confided5 in him.
Had he succeeded? He certainly hoped so.
But when he departed and Marie-Anne was again left in solitude7, she could not overcome the feeling of despondency that stole over her.
Many, in her situation, would have regained8 their serenity9 of mind, and even rejoiced. Had she not succeeded in concealing10 her fault? Who suspected it, except, perhaps, the abbe.
Hence, Marie-Anne had nothing to fear, and everything to hope.
But this conviction did not appease11 her sorrow. Hers was one of those pure and proud natures that are more sensitive to the whisperings of conscience than to the clamors of the world.
She had been accused of having three lovers — Chanlouineau, Martial12, and Maurice. The calumny13 had not moved her. What tortured her was what these people did not know — the truth.
Nor was this all. The sublime instinct of maternity14 had been awakened15 within her. When she saw the physician depart, bearing her child, she felt as if soul and body were being rent asunder16. When could she hope to see again this little son who was doubly dear to her by reason of the very sorrow and anguish17 he had cost her? The tears gushed18 to her eyes when she thought that his first smile would not be for her.
Ah! had it not been for her promise to Maurice, she would unhesitatingly have braved public opinion, and kept her precious child.
Her brave and honest nature could have endured any humiliation19 far better than the continual lie she was forced to live.
But she had promised; Maurice was her husband, and reason told her that for his sake she must preserve not her honor, alas20! but the semblance21 of honor.
And when she thought of her brother, her blood froze in her veins22.
Having learned that Jean was roving about the country, she sent for him; but it was not without much persuasion23 that he consented to come to the Borderie.
It was easy to explain Chupin’s terror when one saw Jean Lacheneur. His clothing was literally24 in tatters, his face wore an expression of ferocious25 despair, and a fierce unextinguishable hatred26 burned in his eyes.
When he entered the cottage, Marie-Anne recoiled27 in horror. She did not recognize him until he spoke28.
“It is I, sister,” he said, gloomily.
“You — my poor Jean! you!”
He surveyed himself from head to foot, and said, with a sneering29 laugh:
“Really, I should not like to meet myself at dusk in the forest.”
Marie-Anne shuddered30. She fancied that a threat lurked31 beneath these ironical32 words, beneath this mockery of himself.
“What a life yours must be, my poor brother! Why did you not come sooner? Now, I have you here, I shall not let you go. You will not desert me. I need protection and love so much. You will remain with me?”
“It is impossible, Marie-Anne.”
“And why?”
A fleeting33 crimson34 suffused35 Jean Lacheneur’s cheek; he hesitated for a moment, then:
“Because I have a right to dispose of my own life, but not of yours,” he replied. “We can no longer be anything to each other. I deny you to-day, that you may be able to deny me to-morrow. Yes, I renounce36 you, who are my all — the only person on earth whom I love. Your most cruel enemies have not calumniated37 you more foully38 than I——”
He paused an instant, then he added:
“I have said openly, before numerous witnesses, that I would never set foot in a house that had been given you by Chanlouineau.”
“Jean! you, my brother! said that?”
“I said it. It must be supposed that there is a deadly feud39 between us. This must be, in order that neither you nor Maurice d’Escorval can be accused of complicity in any deed of mine.”
Marie-Anne stood as if petrified40.
“He is mad!” she murmured.
“Do I really have that appearance?”
She shook off the stupor41 that paralyzed her, and seizing her brother’s hands:
“What do you intend to do?” she exclaimed. “What do you intend to do? Tell me; I will know.”
“Nothing! let me alone.”
“Jean!”
“Let me alone,” he said, roughly, disengaging himself.
A horrible presentiment42 crossed Marie-Anne’s mind.
She stepped back, and solemnly, entreatingly43, she said:
“Take care, take care, my brother. It is not well to tamper45 with these matters. Leave to God’s justice the task of punishing those who have wronged us.”
But nothing could move Jean Lacheneur, or divert him from his purpose. He uttered a hoarse46, discordant47 laugh, then striking his gun heavily with his hand, he exclaimed:
“Here is justice!”
Appalled48 and distressed49 beyond measure, Marie-Anne sank into a chair. She discerned in her brother’s mind the same fixed50, fatal idea which had lured51 her father on to destruction — the idea for which he had sacrificed all — family, friends, fortune, the present and the future — even his daughter’s honor — the idea which had caused so much blood to flow, which had cost the life of so many innocent men, and which had finally conducted him to the scaffold.
“Jean,” she murmured, “remember our father.”
The young man’s face became livid; his hands clinched52 involuntarily, but he controlled his anger.
Advancing toward his sister, in a cold, quiet tone that added a frightful53 violence to his threats, he said:
“It is because I remember my father that justice shall be done. Ah! these miserable54 nobles would not display such audacity55 if all sons had my resolution. A scoundrel would hesitate before attacking a good man if he was obliged to say to himself: ‘I cannot strike this honest man, for though he die, his children will surely call me to account. Their fury will fall on me and mine; they will pursue us sleeping and waking, pursue us without ceasing, everywhere, and pitilessly. Their hatred always on the alert, will accompany us and surround us. It will be an implacable, merciless warfare56. I shall never venture forth57 without fearing a bullet; I shall never lift food to my lips without dread58 of poison. And until we have succumbed59, they will prowl about our house, trying to slip in through tiniest opening, death, dishonor, ruin, infamy60, and misery61!’”
He paused with a nervous laugh, and then, still more slowly, he added:
“That is what the Sairmeuse and Courtornieu have to expect from me.”
It was impossible to mistake the meaning of Jean Lacheneur’s words. His threats were not the wild ravings of anger. His quiet manner, his icy tones, his automatic gestures betrayed one of those cold rages which endure so long as the man lives.
He took good care to make himself understood, for between his teeth he added:
“Undoubtedly62, these people are very high, and I am very low; but when a tiny worm fastens itself to the roots of a giant oak, that tree is doomed63.”
Marie-Anne knew all too well the uselessness of prayers and entreaties64.
And yet she could not, she must not allow her brother to depart in this mood.
She fell upon her knees, and with clasped hands and supplicating65 voice:
“Jean,” said she, “I implore66 you to renounce these projects. In the name of our mother, return to your better self. These are crimes which you are meditating67!”
With a glance of scorn and a shrug68 of the shoulders, he replied:
“Have done with this. I was wrong to confide6 my hopes to you. Do not make me regret that I came here.”
Then the sister tried another plan. She rose, forced her lips to smile, and as if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, she begged Jean to remain with her that evening, at least, and share her frugal69 supper.
“Remain,” she entreated70; “that is not much to do — and it will make me so happy. And since it will be the last time we shall see each other for years, grant me a few hours. It is so long since we have met. I have suffered so much. I have so many things to tell you! Jean, my dear brother, can it be that you love me no longer?”
One must have been bronze to remain insensible to such prayers. Jean Lacheneur’s heart swelled71 almost to bursting; his stern features relaxed, and a tear trembled in his eye.
Marie-Anne saw that tear. She thought she had conquered, and clapping her hands in delight, she exclaimed:
“Ah! you will remain! you will remain!”
No. Jean had already mastered his momentary72 weakness, though not without a terrible effort; and in a harsh voice:
“Impossible! impossible!” he repeated.
Then, as his sister clung to him imploringly73, he took her in his arms and pressed her to his heart.
“Poor sister — poor Marie-Anne — you will never know what it costs me to refuse you, to separate myself from you. But this must be. In even coming here I have been guilty of an imprudent act. You do not understand to what perils74 you will be exposed if people suspect any bond between us. I trust you and Maurice may lead a calm and happy life. It would be a crime for me to mix you up with my wild schemes. Think of me sometimes, but do not try to see me, or even to learn what has become of me. A man like me struggles, triumphs, or perishes alone.”
He kissed Marie-Anne passionately75, then lifted her, placed her in a chair, and freed himself from her detaining hands.
“Adieu!” he cried; “when you see me again, our father will be avenged76!”
She sprang up to rush after him and to call him back. Too late!
He had fled.
“It is over,” murmured the wretched girl; “my brother is lost. Nothing will restrain him now.”
A vague, inexplicable78, but horrible fear, contracted her heart. She felt that she was being slowly but surely drawn79 into a whirlpool of passion, rancor80, vengeance81, and crime, and a voice whispered that she would be crushed.
But other thoughts soon replaced these gloomy presentiments82.
One evening, while she was preparing her little table, she heard a rustling83 sound at the door. She turned and looked; someone had slipped a letter under the door.
Courageously84, and without an instant’s hesitation85, she sprang to the door and opened it. No one was there!
The night was dark, and she could distinguish nothing in the gloom without. She listened; not a sound broke the stillness.
Agitated86 and trembling she picked up the letter, approached the light, and looked at the address.
“The Marquis de Sairmeuse!” she exclaimed, in amazement87.
She recognized Martial’s handwriting. So he had written to her! He had dared to write to her!
Her first impulse was to burn the letter; she held it to the flame, then the thought of her friends concealed88 at Father Poignot’s farm made her withdraw it. “For their sake,” she thought, “I must read it.” She broke the seal with the arms of the De Sairmeuse family inscribed89 upon it, and read:
“My dear Marie-Anne — Perhaps you have suspected who it is that has
given an entirely90 new, and certainly surprising, direction to
events.
“Perhaps you have also understood the motives91 that guided him. In
that case I am amply repaid for my efforts, for you cannot refuse
me your friendship and your esteem92.
“But my work of reparation is not yet accomplished93. I have prepared
everything for a revision of the judgment94 that condemned95 Baron96
d’Escorval to death, or for procuring97 a pardon.
“You must know where the baron is concealed. Acquaint him with my
plans and ascertain98 whether he prefers a revision of judgment, or
a simple pardon.
“If he desires a new trial, I will give him a letter of license99
from the King.
“I await your reply before acting100.
“Martial de Sairmeuse.”
Marie-Anne’s head whirled.
This was the second time that Martial had astonished her by the grandeur101 of his passion.
How noble the two men who had loved her and whom she had rejected, had proved themselves to be.
One, Chanlouineau, after dying for her sake, protected her still.
Martial de Sairmeuse had sacrificed the convictions of his life and the prejudice of his race for her sake; and, with a noble recklessness, hazarded for her the political fortunes of his house.
And yet the man whom she had chosen, the father of her child, Maurice d’Escorval, had not given a sign of life since he quitted her, five months before.
But suddenly, and without reason, Marie-Anne passed from the most profound admiration102 to the deepest distrust.
“What if Martial’s offer is only a trap?” This was the suspicion that darted103 through her mind.
“Ah!” she thought, “the Marquis de Sairmeuse would be a hero if he were sincere!”
And she did not wish him to be a hero.
The result of these suspicions was that she hesitated five days before repairing to the rendezvous104 where Father Poignot usually awaited her.
When she did go, she found, not the worthy105 farmer, but Abbe Midon, who had been greatly alarmed by her long absence.
It was night, but Marie-Anne, fortunately, knew Martial’s letter by heart.
The abbe made her repeat it twice, the second time very slowly, and when she had concluded:
“This young man,” said the priest, “has the voice and the prejudices of his rank and of his education; but his heart is noble and generous.”
And when Marie-Anne disclosed her suspicions:
“You are wrong, my child,” said he; “the Marquis is certainly sincere. It would be wrong not to take advantage of his generosity106. Such, at least, is my opinion. Intrust this letter to me. I will consult the baron, and to-morrow I will tell you our decision.”
The abbe was awaiting her with feverish107 impatience108 on the same spot, when she rejoined him twenty-four hours later.
“Monsieur d’Escorval agrees with me that we must trust ourselves to the Marquis de Sairmeuse. Only the baron, being innocent, cannot, will not, accept a pardon. He demands a revision of the iniquitous109 judgment which condemned him.”
Although she must have foreseen this determination, Marie-Anne seemed stupefied.
“What!” said she. “Monsieur d’Escorval will give himself up to his enemies? Does not the Marquis de Sairmeuse promise him a letter of license, a safe-conduct from the King?”
“Yes.”
She could find no objection, so in a submissive tone, she said:
“In this case, Monsieur, I must ask you for a rough draft of the letter I am to write to the marquis.”
The priest did not reply for a moment. It was evident that he felt some misgivings110. At last, summoning all his courage, he said:
“It would be better not to write.”
“But ——”
“It is not that I distrust the marquis, not by any means, but a letter is dangerous; it does not always reach the person to whom it is addressed. You must see Monsieur de Sairmeuse.”
Marie-Anne recoiled in horror.
“Never! never!” she exclaimed.
The abbe did not seem surprised.
“I understand your repugnance111, my child,” he said, gently; “your reputation has suffered greatly through the attentions of the marquis.”
“But one should not hesitate, my child, when duty speaks. You owe this sacrifice to an innocent man who has been ruined through your father.”
He explained to her all that she must say, and did not leave her until she had promised to see the marquis in person. But the cause of her repugnance was not what the abbe supposed. Her reputation! Alas! she knew that was lost forever. No, it was not that.
A fortnight before she would not have been disquieted112 by the prospect113 of this interview. Then, though she no longer hated Martial, he was perfectly114 indifferent to her, while now ——
Perhaps in choosing the Croix d’Arcy for the place of meeting, she hoped that this spot, haunted by so many cruel memories, would restore her former aversion.
On pursuing the path leading to the place of rendezvous, she said to herself that Martial would undoubtedly wound her by the tone of careless gallantry which was habitual115 to him.
But in this she was mistaken. Martial was greatly agitated, but he did not utter a word that was not connected with the baron.
It was only when the conference was ended, and he had consented to all the conditions, that he said, sadly:
“We are friends, are we not?”
In an almost inaudible voice she answered:
“Yes.”
And that was all. He remounted his horse which had been held by a servant, and departed in the direction of Montaignac.
Breathless, with cheeks on fire, Marie-Anne watched him as he disappeared; and then her inmost heart was revealed as by a lightning flash.
“Mon Dieu! wretch77 that I am!” she exclaimed. “Do I not love? is it possible that I could ever love any other than Maurice, my husband, the father of my child?”
Her voice was still trembling with emotion when she recounted the details of the interview to the abbe. But he did not perceive it. He was thinking only of the baron.
“I was sure that Martial would agree to everything; I was so certain of it that I have made all the arrangements for the baron to leave the farm. He will await, at your house, a safe-conduct from His Majesty116.
“The close air and the heat of the loft117 are retarding118 the baron’s recovery,” the abbe pursued, “so be prepared for his coming to-morrow evening. One of the Poignot boys will bring over all our baggage. About eleven o’clock we will put Monsieur d’Escorval in a carriage; and we will all sup together at the Borderie.”
“Heaven comes to my aid!” thought Marie-Anne as she walked homeward.
She thought that she would no longer be alone, that Mme. d’Escorval would be with her to talk to her of Maurice, and that all the friends who would surround her would aid her in driving away the thoughts of Martial, which haunted her.
So the next day she was more cheerful than she had been for months, and once, while putting her little house in order, she was surprised to find herself singing at her work.
Eight o’clock was sounding when she heard a peculiar119 whistle.
It was the signal of the younger Poignot, who came bringing an arm-chair for the sick man, the abbe’s box of medicine, and a bag of books.
These articles Marie-Anne deposited in the room which Chanlouineau had adorned120 for her, and which she intended for the baron. After arranging them to her satisfaction she went out to meet young Poignot, who had told her that he would soon return with other articles.
The night was very dark, and Marie-Anne, as she hastened on, did not notice two motionless figures in the shadow of a clump121 of lilacs in her little garden.
1 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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2 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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3 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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4 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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5 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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6 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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7 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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8 regained | |
复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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9 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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10 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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11 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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12 martial | |
adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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13 calumny | |
n.诽谤,污蔑,中伤 | |
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14 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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15 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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16 asunder | |
adj.分离的,化为碎片 | |
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17 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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18 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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19 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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20 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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21 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
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22 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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23 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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24 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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25 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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26 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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27 recoiled | |
v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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28 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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29 sneering | |
嘲笑的,轻蔑的 | |
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30 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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31 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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32 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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33 fleeting | |
adj.短暂的,飞逝的 | |
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34 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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35 suffused | |
v.(指颜色、水气等)弥漫于,布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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37 calumniated | |
v.诽谤,中伤( calumniate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 foully | |
ad.卑鄙地 | |
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39 feud | |
n.长期不和;世仇;v.长期争斗;世代结仇 | |
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40 petrified | |
adj.惊呆的;目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆,使惊呆;变僵硬;使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41 stupor | |
v.昏迷;不省人事 | |
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42 presentiment | |
n.预感,预觉 | |
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43 entreatingly | |
哀求地,乞求地 | |
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44 entreat | |
v.恳求,恳请 | |
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45 tamper | |
v.干预,玩弄,贿赂,窜改,削弱,损害 | |
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46 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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47 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
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48 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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49 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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50 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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51 lured | |
吸引,引诱(lure的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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52 clinched | |
v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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53 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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54 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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55 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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56 warfare | |
n.战争(状态);斗争;冲突 | |
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57 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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58 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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59 succumbed | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的过去式和过去分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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60 infamy | |
n.声名狼藉,出丑,恶行 | |
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61 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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62 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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63 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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64 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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65 supplicating | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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66 implore | |
vt.乞求,恳求,哀求 | |
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67 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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68 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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69 frugal | |
adj.节俭的,节约的,少量的,微量的 | |
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70 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71 swelled | |
增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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72 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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73 imploringly | |
adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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74 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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75 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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76 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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77 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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78 inexplicable | |
adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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79 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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80 rancor | |
n.深仇,积怨 | |
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81 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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82 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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83 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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84 courageously | |
ad.勇敢地,无畏地 | |
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85 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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86 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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87 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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88 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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89 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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90 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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91 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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92 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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93 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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94 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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95 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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96 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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97 procuring | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的现在分词 );拉皮条 | |
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98 ascertain | |
vt.发现,确定,查明,弄清 | |
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99 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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100 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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101 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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102 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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103 darted | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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104 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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105 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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106 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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107 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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108 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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109 iniquitous | |
adj.不公正的;邪恶的;高得出奇的 | |
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110 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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111 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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112 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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114 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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115 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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116 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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117 loft | |
n.阁楼,顶楼 | |
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118 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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119 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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120 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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121 clump | |
n.树丛,草丛;vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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