Our readers have already heard Sir Francis Clavering’s candid1 opinion of the lady who had given him her fortune and restored him to his native country and home, and it must be owned that the Baronet was not far wrong in his estimate of his wife, and that Lady Clavering was not the wisest or the best educated of women. She had had a couple of years’ education in Europe, in a suburb of London, which she persisted in calling Ackney to her dying day, whence she had been summoned to join her father at Calcutta at the age of fifteen. And it was on her voyage thither2, on board the Ramchunder East Indiaman, Captain Bragg, in which ship she had two years previously3 made her journey to Europe, that she formed the acquaintance of her first husband, Mr. Amory, who was third mate of the vessel4 in question.
We are not going to enter into the early part of Lady Clavering’s history, but Captain Bragg, under whose charge Miss Snell went out to her father, who was one of the Captain’s consignees, and part owner of the Ramchunder and many other vessels5, found reason to put the rebellious6 rascal7 of a mate in irons, until they reached the Cape8, where the Captain left his officer behind; and finally delivered his ward9 to her father at Calcutta, after a stormy and perilous10 voyage in which the Ramchunder and the cargo11 and passengers incurred12 no small danger and damage.
Some months afterwards Amory made his appearance at Calcutta, having worked his way out before the mast from the Cape — married the rich Attorney’s daughter in spite of that old speculator — set up as indigo-planter and failed — set up as agent and failed again — set up as editor of the Sunderbund Pilot and failed again — quarrelling ceaselessly with his father-inlaw and his wife during the progress of all these mercantile transactions and disasters, and ending his career finally with a crash which compelled him to leave Calcutta and go to New South Wales. It was in the course of these luckless proceedings13, that Mr. Amory probably made the acquaintance of Sir Jasper Rogers, the respected Judge of the Supreme14 Court of Calcutta, who has been mentioned before: and, as the truth must out, it was by making an improper15 use of his father-inlaw’s name, who could write perfectly16 well, and had no need of an amanuensis, that fortune finally forsook17 Mr. Amory and caused him to abandon all further struggles with her.
Not being in the habit of reading the Calcutta law-reports very assiduously, the European public did not know of these facts as well as people did in Bengal, and Mrs. Amory and her father finding her residence in India not a comfortable one, it was agreed that the lady should return to Europe, whither she came with her little daughter Betsy or Blanche, then four years old. They were accompanied by Betsy’s nurse, who has been presented to the reader in the last chapter as the confidential18 maid of Lady Clavering, Mrs. Bonner: and Captain Bragg took a house for them in the near neighbourhood of his residence in Pocklington Street.
It was a very hard bitter summer, and the rain it rained every day for some time after Mrs. Amory’s arrival. Bragg was very pompous19 and disagreeable, perhaps ashamed, perhaps anxious, to get rid of the Indian lady. She believed that all the world in London was talking about her husband’s disaster, and that the King and Queen and the Court of Directors were aware of her unlucky history. She had a good allowance from her father; she had no call to live in England; and she determined20 to go abroad. Away she went, then, glad to escape the gloomy surveillance of the odious21 bully22, Captain Bragg. People had no objection to receive her at the continental23 towns where she stopped, and at the various boarding-houses, where she royally paid her way. She called Hackney Ackney, to be sure (though otherwise she spoke24 English with a little foreign twang, very curious and not unpleasant); she dressed amazingly; she was conspicuous25 for her love of eating and drinking, and prepared curries26 and pillaws at every boarding-house which she frequented; but her singularities of language and behaviour only gave a zest27 to her society, and Mrs. Amory was deservedly popular. She was the most good-natured, jovial28, and generous of women. She was up to any party of pleasure by whomsoever proposed. She brought three times more champagne29 and fowl30 and ham to the picnics than anyone else. She took endless boxes for the play, and tickets for the masked balls, and gave them away to everybody. She paid the boarding-house people months beforehand; she helped poor shabby mustachiod bucks31 and dowagers whose remittances32 had not arrived, with constant supplies from her purse; and in this way she tramped through Europe, and appeared at Brussels, at Paris, at Milan, at Naples, at Rome, as her fancy led her. News of Amory’s death reached her at the latter place, where Captain Clavering was then staying, unable to pay his hotel bill, as, indeed, was his friend, the Chevalier Strong; and the good-natured widow married the descendant of the ancient house of Clavering — professing33, indeed, no particular grief for the scapegrace of a husband whom she had lost. We have brought her thus up to the present time when she was mistress of Clavering Park, in the midst of which Mr. Pinckney, the celebrated34 painter, pourtrayed her with her little boy by her side.
Missy followed her mamma in most of her peregrinations, and so learned a deal of life. She had a governess for some time; and after her mother’s second marriage, the benefit of Madame de Caramel’s select pension in the Champs Elysees. When the Claverings came to England, she of course came with them. It was only within a few years, after the death of her grandfather, and the birth of her little brother, that she began to understand that her position in life was altered, and that Miss Amory, nobody’s daughter, was a very small personage in a house compared with Master Francis Clavering, heir to an ancient baronetcy and a noble estate. But for little Frank, she would have been an heiress, in spite of her father: and though she knew, and cared not much about money, of which she never had any stint35, and though she was a romantic little Muse36, as we have seen, yet she could not reasonably be grateful to the persons who had so contributed to change her condition: nor, indeed, did she understand what the latter really was, until she had made some further progress, and acquired more accurate knowledge in the world.
But this was clear, that her stepfather was dull and weak: that mamma dropped her H’s, and was not refined in manners or appearance; and that little Frank was a spoiled quarrelsome urchin37, always having his way, always treading upon her feet, always upsetting his dinner on her dresses, and keeping her out of her inheritance. None of these, as she felt, could comprehend her: and her solitary38 heart naturally pined for other attachments39, and she sought around her where to bestow40 the precious boon41 of her unoccupied affection.
This dear girl, then, from want of sympathy, or other cause, made herself so disagreeable at home, and frightened her mother and bored her stepfather so much, that they were quite as anxious as she could be that she should settle for herself in life; and hence Sir Francis Clavering’s desire expressed to his friend, in the last chapter, that Mrs. Strong should die, and that he would take Blanche to himself as a second Mrs. Strong.
But as this could not be, any other person was welcome to win her: and a smart young fellow, well-looking and well educated like our friend Arthur Pendennis, was quite free to propose for her if he had a mind, and would have been received with open arms by Lady Clavering as a son-inlaw, had he had the courage to come forward as a competitor for Miss Amory’s hand.
Mr. Pen, however, besides other drawbacks, chose to entertain an extreme diffidence about himself. He was ashamed of his late failures, of his idle and nameless condition, of the poverty which he had brought on his mother by his folly42, and there was as much of vanity as remorse43 in his present state of doubt and distrust. How could he ever hope for such a prize as this brilliant Blanche Amory, who lived in a fine park and mansion44, and was waited on by a score of grand domestics, whilst a maid-servant brought in their meagre meal at Fairoaks, and his mother was obliged to pinch and manage to make both ends meet? Obstacles seemed for him insurmountable, which would have vanished had he marched manfully upon them: and he preferred despairing, or dallying45 with his wishes,— or perhaps he had not positively46 shaped them as yet,— to attempting to win gallantly47 the object of his desire. Many a young man fails by that species of vanity called shyness, who might, for the asking have his will.
But we do not pretend to say that Pen had, as yet, ascertained48 his: or that he was doing much more than thinking about falling in love. Miss Amory was charming and lively. She fascinated and cajoled him by a thousand arts or natural graces or flatteries. But there were lurking49 reasons and doubts, besides shyness and vanity, withholding50 him. In spite of her cleverness, and her protestations, and her fascinations51, Pen’s mother had divined the girl, and did not trust her. Mrs. Pendennis saw Blanche light-minded and frivolous52, detected many wants in her which offended the pure and pious53-minded lady; a want of reverence54 for her parents, and for things more sacred, Helen thought: worldliness and selfishness couched under pretty words and tender expressions. Laura and Pen battled these points strongly at first with the widow — Laura being as yet enthusiastic about her new friend, and Pen not far-gone enough in love to attempt any concealment55 of his feelings. He would laugh at these objections of Helen’s, and say, “Psha, mother! you are jealous about Laura — all women are jealous.”
But when, in the course of a month or two, and by watching the pair with that anxiety with which brooding women watch over their sons’ affections — and in acknowledging which, I have no doubt there is a sexual jealousy56 on the mother’s part, and a secret pang57 — when Helen saw that the intimacy58 appeared to make progress, that the two young people were perpetually finding pretexts59 to meet, and that Miss Blanche was at Fairoaks or Mr. Pen at the Park every day, the poor widow’s heart began to fail her — her darling project seemed to vanish before her; and, giving way to her weakness, she fairly told Pen one day what her views and longings60 were; that she felt herself breaking, and not long for this world, and that she hoped and prayed before she went, that she might see her two children one. The late events, Pen’s life and career and former passion for the actress, had broken the spirit of this tender lady. She felt that he had escaped her, and was in the maternal61 nest no more; and she clung with a sickening fondness to Laura, Laura who had been left to her by Francis in Heaven.
Pen kissed and soothed62 her in his grand patronising way. He had seen something of this, he had long thought his mother wanted to make this marriage — did Laura know anything of it? (Not she,— Mrs. Pendennis said — not for worlds would she have breathed a word of it to Laura)—“Well, well, there was time enough, his mother wouldn’t die,” Pen said, laughingly: “he wouldn’t hear of any such thing, and as for the Muse, she is too grand a lady to think about poor little me — and as for Laura, who knows that she would have me? She would do anything you told her, to be sure. But am I worthy63 of her?”
“O, Pen, you might be,” was the widow’s reply; not that Mr. Pen ever doubted that he was; and a feeling of indefinable pleasure and self-complacency came over him as he thought over this proposal, and imaged Laura to himself, as his memory remembered her for years past, always fair and open, kindly64 and pious, cheerful, tender and true. He looked at her with brightening eyes as she came in from the garden at the end of this talk, her cheeks rather flushed, her looks frank and smiling — a basket of roses in her hand.
She took the finest of them and brought it to Mrs. Pendennis, who was refreshed by the odour and colour of these flowers; and hung over her fondly and gave it to her.
“And I might have this prize for the asking!” Pen thought with a thrill of triumph, as he looked at the kindly girl. “Why, she is as beautiful and as generous as her roses.” The image of the two women remained for ever after in his mind, and he never recalled it but the tears came into his eyes.
Before very many weeks’ intimacy with her new acquaintance, however, Miss Laura was obliged to give in to Helen’s opinion, and own that the Muse was selfish, unkind, and inconstant. Of course Blanche confided65 to her bosom66 friend all the little griefs and domestic annoyances67; how the family could not comprehend her and she moved among them an isolated68 being; how her poor mamma’s education had been neglected, and she was forced to blush for her blunders; how Sir Francis was a weak person deplorably unintellectual, and only happy when smoking his odious cigars; how, since the birth of her little brother, she had seen her mother’s precious affection, which she valued more than anything in life, estranged69 from her once darling daughter; how she was alone, alone, alone in the world.
But these griefs, real and heart-rending though they might be to a young lady of exquisite70 sensibility, did not convince Laura of the propriety71 of Blanche’s conduct in many small incidents of Little Frank, for instance, life might be very provoking, and might have deprived Blanche of her mamma’s affection, but this was no reason why Blanche should box the child’s ears because he upset a glass of water over her drawing, and why she should call him many opprobrious72 names in the English and French language; and the preference accorded to little Frank was certainly no reason why Blanche should give herself imperial airs of command towards the boy’s governess, and send that young lady upon messages through the house to bring her book or to fetch her pocket-handkerchief. When a domestic performed an errand for honest Laura, she was always thankful and pleased; whereas she could not but perceive that the little Muse had not the slightest scruple73 in giving her commands to all the world round about her, and in disturbing anybody’s ease or comfort, in order to administer to her own. It was Laura’s first experience in friendship; and it pained the kind creature’s heart to be obliged to give up as delusions75, one by one, those charms and brilliant qualities in which her fancy had dressed her new friend, and to find that the fascinating little fairy was but a mortal, and not a very amiable76 mortal after all. What generous person is there that has not been so deceived in his time?— what person, perhaps, that has not so disappointed others in his turn?
After the scene with little Frank, in which that refractory77 son and heir of the house of Clavering had received the compliments in French and English, and the accompanying box on the ear from his sister, Miss Laura who had plenty of humour, could not help calling to mind some very touching78 and tender verses which the Muse had read to her out of Mes Larmes, and which began, “My pretty baby brother, may angels guard thy rest,” in which the Muse, after complimenting the baby upon the station in life which it was about to occupy, and contrasting it with her own lonely condition, vowed79 nevertheless that the angel boy would never enjoy such affection as hers was, or find in the false world before him anything so constant and tender as a sister’s heart. “It may be,” the forlorn one said, “it may be, you will slight it, my pretty baby sweet, You will spurn80 me from your bosom, I’ll cling around your feet! O let me, let me, love you! the world will prove to you As false as ’tis to others, but I am ever true.” And behold81 the Muse was boxing the darling brother’s ears instead of kneeling at his feet, and giving Miss Laura her first lesson in the Cynical82 philosophy — not quite her first, however,— something like this selfishness and waywardness, something like this contrast between practice and poetry, between grand versified aspirations83 and everyday life, she had witnessed at home in the person of our young friend Mr. Pen.
But then Pen was different. Pen was a man. It seemed natural somehow that he should be self-willed and should have his own way. And under his waywardness and selfishness, indeed there was a kind and generous heart. O it was hard that such a diamond should be changed away against such a false stone as this. In a word, Laura began to be tired of her admired Blanche. She had assayed her and found her not true; and her former admiration84 and delight, which she had expressed with her accustomed generous artlessness, gave way to a feeling, which we shall not call contempt, but which was very near it; and which caused Laura to adopt towards Miss Amory a grave and tranquil85 tone of superiority, which was at first by no means to the Muse’s liking86. Nobody likes to be found out, or, having held a high place, to submit to step down.
The consciousness that this event was impending87 did not serve to increase Miss Blanche’s good-humour, and as it made her peevish88 and dissatisfied with herself, it probably rendered her even less agreeable to the persons round about her. So there arose, one fatal day, a battle-royal between dearest Blanche and dearest Laura, in which the friendship between them was all but slain89 outright90. Dearest Blanche had been unusually capricious and wicked on this day. She had been insolent91 to her mother; savage92 with little Frank; odiously93 impertinent in her behaviour to the boy’s governess; and intolerably cruel to Pincott, her attendant. Not venturing to attack her friend (for the little tyrant94 was of a timid feline95 nature, and only used her claws upon those who were weaker than herself), she maltreated all these, and especially poor Pincott, who was menial, confidante, companion (slave always), according to the caprice of her young mistress.
This girl, who had been sitting in the room with the young ladies, being driven thence in tears, occasioned by the cruelty of her mistress, and raked with a parting sarcasm96 as she went sobbing97 from the door, Laura fairly broke out into a loud and indignant invective98 — wondered how one so young could forget the deference99 owing to her elders as well as to her inferiors in station; and professing so much sensibility of her own, could torture the feelings of others so wantonly. Laura told her friend that her conduct was absolutely wicked, and that she ought to ask pardon of Heaven on her knees for it. And having delivered herself of a hot and voluble speech whereof the delivery astonished the speaker as much almost as her auditor100, she ran to her bonnet101 and shawl, and went home across the park in a great flurry and perturbation, and to the surprise of Mrs. Pendennis, who had not expected her until night.
Alone with Helen, Laura gave an account of the scene, and gave up her friend henceforth. “O Mamma,” she said, “you were right; Blanche, who seems so soft and so kind, is, as you have said, selfish and cruel. She who is always speaking of her affections can have no heart. No honest girl would afflict102 a mother so, or torture a dependant103; and — and, I give her up from this day, and I will have no other friend but you.”
On this the two ladies went through the osculatory ceremony which they were in the habit of performing, and Mrs. Pendennis got a great secret comfort from the little quarrel — for Laura’s confession104 seemed to say, “That girl can never be a wife for Pen, for she is light-minded and heartless, and quite unworthy of our noble hero. He will be sure to find out her unworthiness for his own part, and then he will be saved from this flighty creature, and awake out of his delusion74.”
But Miss Laura did not tell Mrs. Pendennis, perhaps did not acknowledge to herself, what had been the real cause of the day’s quarrel. Being in a very wicked mood, and bent105 upon mischief106 everywhere, the little wicked Muse of a Blanche had very soon begun her tricks. Her darling Laura had come to pass a long day; and as they were sitting in her own room together, had chosen to bring the conversation round to the subject of Mr. Pen.
“I am afraid he is sadly fickle,” Miss Blanche observed; “Mrs. Pybus, and many more Clavering people, have told us all about the actress.”
“I was quite a child when it happened, and I don’t know anything about it,” Laura answered, blushing very much.
“He used her very ill,” Blanche said, wagging her little head. “He was false to her.”
“I am sure he was not,” Laura cried out; “he acted most generously by her; he wanted to give up everything to marry her. It was she that was false to him. He nearly broke his heart about it: he ——”
“I thought you didn’t know anything about the story, dearest,” interposed Miss Blanche.
“Mamma has said so,” said Laura.
“Well, he is very clever,” continued the other little dear, “What a sweet poet he is! Have you ever read his poems?”
“Only the ‘Fisherman and the Diver,’ which he translated for us, and his Prize Poem, which didn’t get the prize; and, indeed, I thought it very pompous and prosy,” Laura said, laughing.
“Has he never written you any poems, then, love?” asked Miss Amory.
“No, my dear,” said Miss Bell.
Blanche ran up to her friend, kissed her fondly, called her my dearest Laura at least three times, looked her archly in the face, nodded her head, and said, “Promise to tell no-o-body, and I will show you something.”
And tripping across the room daintily to a little mother-of-pearl inlaid desk, she opened it with a silver key, and took out two or three papers crumpled107 and rather stained with green, which she submitted to her friend. Laura took them and read them. They were love-verses sure enough — something about Undine — about a Naiad — about a river. She looked at them for a long time; but in truth the lines were not very distinct before her eyes.
“And you have answered them, Blanche?” she asked, putting them back.
“O no! not for worlds, dearest,” the other said: and when her dearest Laura had quite done with the verses, she tripped back and popped them again into the pretty desk.
Then she went to her piano, and sang two or three songs of Rossini, whose flourishes of music her flexible little voice could execute to perfection, and Laura sate108 by, vaguely109 listening as she performed these pieces. What was Miss Bell thinking about the while? She hardly knew; but sate there silent as the songs rolled by. After this concert the young ladies were summoned to the room where luncheon110 was served; and whither they of course went with their arms round each other’s waists.
And it could not have been jealousy or anger on Laura’s part which had made her silent; for, after they had tripped along the corridor and descended111 the steps, and were about to open the door which leads into the hall, Laura paused, and looking her friend kindly and frankly112 in the face, kissed her with a sisterly warmth.
Something occurred after this — Master Frank’s manner of eating, probably, or mamma’s blunders, or Sir Francis smelling of cigars — which vexed113 Miss Blanche, and she gave way to that series of naughtinesses whereof we have spoken, and which ended in the above little quarrel.
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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odious
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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continental
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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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conspicuous
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curries
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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remittances
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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celebrated
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stint
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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urchin
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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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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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41
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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42
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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43
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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44
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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45
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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46
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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47
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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48
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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50
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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51
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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52
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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53
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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reverence
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| 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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55
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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57
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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58
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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59
pretexts
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| n.借口，托辞( pretext的名词复数 ) | |
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60
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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61
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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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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confided
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| 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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66
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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73
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spurn
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| v.拒绝，摈弃；n.轻视的拒绝；踢开 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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82
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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87
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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88
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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89
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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92
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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odiously
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| Odiously | |
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94
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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97
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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98
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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99
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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100
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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101
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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102
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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103
dependant
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| n.依靠的，依赖的，依赖他人生活者 | |
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104
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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105
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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106
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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107
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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108
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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109
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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110
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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111
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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112
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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113
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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