THOMSON
Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing3 alone with Mons. Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were concise4, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence5 for even the small income that remained for her. ‘But, however,’ added he, ‘when this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present disagreeable state of dependence6 will cease. As a relation to you I rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may add, so unexpected by your friends.’ For some moments Emily was chilled into silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him, concerning the purport7 of the note she had inclosed in Montoni’s letter, he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion, and, for a considerable time, persevered8 in accusing her of capricious conduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked Morano and had positively9 rejected his suit, his resentment10 was extravagant11, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed12 and inhuman13; for, secretly flattered by the prospect14 of a connection with a nobleman, whose title he had affected15 to forget, he was incapable16 of feeling pity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his ambition.
Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce17 Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude18 now trembled at an encounter with the violent passions of her uncle.
She opposed his turbulence19 and indignation only by the mild dignity of a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to exasperate20 still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she persisted in her folly21, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to the contempt of the world.
The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone, and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then remembered. ‘Alas!’ said she, ‘I do indeed perceive how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility, and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will not indulge in unavailing lamentation22, but will try to endure, with firmness, the oppression I cannot elude23.’
Somewhat soothed24 by the consciousness of performing a part of St. Aubert’s last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity25 of countenance26.
In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO27 along the bank of the Brenta in Madame Quesnel’s carriage. The state of Emily’s mind was in melancholy28 contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades that overhung this enchanting29 stream. Some were dancing under the trees, and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape. Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending30 in the distance, thought of Montoni’s castle, and suffered some terror, lest he should convey her thither31, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience32; but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much in his power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.
It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa33, where supper was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted34 Emily’s fancy, on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico35, till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity36 of the hour. Presently, a barge37 stopped at the steps that led into the gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished38 the voices of Montoni and Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His compliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first to discompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner, though the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived disgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him otherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals.
When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing39 with the Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment40 and throwing herself upon his generosity41 for a release. When, however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the adoption42 of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion43, that she impatiently rejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon it for a moment. The rejection44 of his suit she repeated in the most decisive terms she could select, mingling45 with it a severe censure46 of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified47 by this, he persevered in the most ardent48 professions of admiration49, till he was interrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.
During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered miserable50 by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed now more resolutely51 determined52 upon this marriage than they had even appeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate53 conclusion to it, at length relinquished54 his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni and to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice with hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the persecution56 of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same house with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would not permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her own misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she pleaded with courageous57 tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight and general terms, that she should not be forgotten.
Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials58 were concluded.
It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory one she had known in their presence.
Morano returned in Montoni’s barge, and Emily, as she watched her gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person, who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered to retire to her own apartment.
On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous59 to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated60 without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.
Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance61, had now recourse to supplication62, for distress63 prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a man of Montoni’s disposition64, supplication would be equally useless. She afterwards enquired65 by what right he exerted this unlimited66 authority over her? a question, which her better judgment67 would have with-held her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over her defenceless condition.
‘By what right!’ cried Montoni, with a malicious68 smile, ‘by the right of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do so. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a foreign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend; you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy — I will venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation. You may know I am not to be trifled with.’
Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery69 was all that remained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened70 by the expression of despair, that fixed71 her countenance, spoke72 in a manner more kind than she had ever yet done. Emily’s heart was touched; she shed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient composure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of her aunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, and her present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily’s efforts, therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she withdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she remember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian had mentioned Montoni’s character with less reserve! When her mind, however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await Montoni’s threatened vengeance73 rather than give herself for life to a man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she never even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved to brave.
An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off Montoni’s attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice. There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more reserved and austere74 in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, that something extraordinary was working in his mind.
One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great agitation75 of spirits, and dispatched his confidential76 servant to Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a part of which he was already acquainted.
A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred77 of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had taken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended78, who had confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on the measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this time, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and Montoni consented to secrete79 him for a few days till the vigilance of justice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knew the danger he himself incurred80 by permitting Orsino to remain in his house, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he did not think it prudent81 to refuse him an asylum82.
Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character.
While Orsino remained concealed83 in his house, Montoni was unwilling84 to attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be celebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that it should not take place, he replied only by a malignant85 smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early in the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by opposition86 to his will and to her own interest. ‘I am now going out for the evening,’ said he, ‘remember, that I shall give your hand to Count Morano in the morning.’ Emily, having, ever since his late threats, expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was less shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been, and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage could not be valid87, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat any part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her long-harassed88 spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his vengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly89 certain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and she trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed unlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple90 to transgress91 any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.
While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of distraction92, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she repented94 that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting95 to her former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and entreaty96 would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain97 had failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message, prepared to go down to the Count.
The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the kind of pensive98 resignation, that softened her countenance, were circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish55 her, serving, as they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated99 his judgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating100 art he so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she had nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and impressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him with an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained against every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing101 it. A just pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed from the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her late father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish102 on the idea of Valancourt.
She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment, sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others, endeavouring to fortify103 her mind against them, and to prepare herself to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, when all the stratagem104 of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be united against her.
The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber105 with some bridal ornaments106, which the Count had sent to Emily. She had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of Emily’s distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother’s orphan107 child, whose happiness had been entrusted108 to her care by a dying father.
Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse109, successfully concealed it, and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a marriage, which ought only to make her happy. ‘I am sure,’ said she, ‘if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been flattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude110 and humility111 towards the Count, for his condescension112. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly113 he deports114 himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty115 airs you give yourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, I should often be ready to reprehend116 you, and make you know yourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often tell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!’
‘Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions, than my own,’ said Emily.
‘O! that is all mere117 affectation,’ rejoined her aunt. ‘I know that his flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may have the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the Count: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you to repent93 at your leisure, long ago.’
‘O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!’ said Emily, with a heavy sigh.
‘It is happy for you, that he does not,’ rejoined Madame Montoni; ‘and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to necessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is from pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if you are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?’
‘I have no ambition whatever, madam,’ replied Emily, ‘my only wish is to remain in my present station.’
‘O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,’ said her aunt, ‘I see you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be something like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to the purpose — for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you know, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no longer.’
Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it would be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the Count’s presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then, desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night. ‘Good-night, madam,’ said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections. For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious where she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed118 her. She fixed her eyes on the door, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for some sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it was past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for Montoni, had retired119 to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now yielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity of her spacious120 chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind, which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her aunt’s woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to cross the apartment.
These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse121, and she retired to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits sufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.
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1
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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15
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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17
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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exasperate
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| v.激怒，使（疾病）加剧，使恶化 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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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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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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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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29
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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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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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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41
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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42
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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43
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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45
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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47
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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48
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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49
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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50
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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51
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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54
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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55
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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56
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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57
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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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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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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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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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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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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deports
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的第三人称单数 )；举止 | |
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115
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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reprehend
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| v.谴责，责难 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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