It was intolerably unchanged, the dim, dark-toned room. In an agony of recognition my glance ran from one to another of the comfortable, familiar things that my earthly life had been passed among. Incredibly distant from it all as I essentially1 was. I noted2 sharply that the very gaps that I myself had left in my bookshelves still stood unfilled; that the delicate fingers of the ferns that I had tended were still stretched futilely3 toward the light; that the soft agreeable chuckle4 of my own little clock, like some elderly woman with whom conversation has become automatic, was undiminished.
Unchanged—or so it seemed at first. But there were certain trivial differences that shortly smote5 me. The windows were closed too tightly; for I had always kept the house very cool, although I had known that Theresa preferred warm rooms. And my work-basket was in disorder6; it was preposterous7 that so small a thing should hurt me so. Then, for this was my first experience of the shadow-folded transition, the odd alteration8 of my emotions bewildered me. For at one moment the place seemed so humanly familiar, so distinctly my own proper envelope, that for love of it I could have laid my cheek against the wall; while in the next I was miserably9 conscious of strange new shrillnesses. How could they be endured—and had I ever endured them?—those harsh influences that I now perceived at the window; light and color so blinding that they obscured the form of the wind, tumult10 so discordant11 that one could scarcely hear the roses open in the garden below?
But Theresa did not seem to mind any of these things. Disorder, it is true, the dear child had never minded. She was sitting all this time at my desk—at my desk—occupied, I could only too easily surmise12 how. In the light of my own habits of precision it was plain that that sombre correspondence should have been attended to before; but I believe that I did not really reproach Theresa, for I knew that her notes, when she did write them, were perhaps less perfunctory than mine. She finished the last one as I watched her, and added it to the heap of black-bordered envelopes that lay on the desk. Poor girl! I saw now that they had cost her tears. Yet, living beside her day after day, year after year, I had never discovered what deep tenderness my sister possessed13. Toward each other it had been our habit to display only a temperate14 affection, and I remember having always thought it distinctly fortunate for Theresa, since she was denied my happiness, that she could live so easily and pleasantly without emotions of the devastating15 sort.... And now, for the first time, I was really to behold16 her.... Could it be Theresa, after all, this tangle17 of subdued18 turbulences? Let no one suppose that it is an easy thing to bear, the relentlessly19 lucid20 understanding that I then first exercised; or that, in its first enfranchisement22, the timid vision does not yearn23 for its old screens and mists.
Suddenly, as Theresa sat there, her head, filled with its tender thoughts of me, held in her gentle hands, I felt Allan's step on the carpeted stair outside. Theresa felt it, too,—but how? for it was not audible. She gave a start, swept the black envelopes out of sight, and pretended to be writing in a little book. Then I forgot to watch her any longer in my absorption in Allan's coming. It was he, of course, that I was awaiting. It was for him that I had made this first lonely, frightened effort to return, to recover.... It was not that I had supposed he would allow himself to recognize my presence, for I had long been sufficiently24 familiar with his hard and fast denials of the invisible. He was so reasonable always, so sane—so blindfolded25. But I had hoped that because of his very rejection26 of the ether that now contained me I could perhaps all the more safely, the more secretly, watch him, linger near him. He was near now, very near,—but why did Theresa, sitting there in the room that had never belonged to her, appropriate for herself his coming? It was so manifestly I who had drawn27 him, I whom he had come to seek.
The door was ajar. He knocked softly at it "Are you there, Theresa?" he called. He expected to find her, then, there in my room? I shrank back, fearing, almost, to stay.
"I shall have finished in a moment," Theresa told him, and he sat down to wait for her.
No spirit still unreleased can understand the pang28 that I felt with Allan sitting almost within my touch. Almost irresistibly29 the wish beset30 me to let him for an instant feel my nearness. Then I checked myself, remembering—oh, absurd, piteous human fears!—that my too unguarded closeness might alarm him. It was not so remote a time that I myself had known them, those blind, uncouth31 timidities. I came, therefore, somewhat nearer—but I did not touch him. I merely leaned toward him and with incredible softness whispered his name. That much I could not have forborne; the spell of life was still too strong in me.
But it gave him no comfort, no delight. "Theresa!" he called, in a voice dreadful with alarm—and in that instant the last veil fell, and desperately32, scarce believingly, I beheld33 how it stood between them, those two.
She turned to him that gentle look of hers.
"Forgive me," came from him hoarsely34. "But I had suddenly the most—unaccountable sensation. Can there be too many windows open? There is such a—chill—about."
"There are no windows open," Theresa assured him. "I took care to shut out the chill. You are not well, Allan!"
"Perhaps not." He embraced the suggestion. "And yet I feel no illness apart from this abominable35 sensation that persists—persists.... Theresa, you must tell me: do I fancy it, or do you, too, feel—something—strange here?"
"Good heavens, child, I didn't mean that!" He rose and stood looking about him. "I know, of course, that you have your beliefs, and I respect them, but you know equally well that I have nothing of the sort! So—don't let us conjure37 up anything inexplicable38."
I stayed impalpably, imponderably near him. Wretched and bereft39 though I was, I could not have left him while he stood denying me.
"What I mean," he went on, in his low, distinct voice, "is a special, an almost ominous40 sense of cold. Upon my soul, Theresa,"—he paused—"if I were superstitious41, if I were a woman, I should probably imagine it to seem—a presence!"
"Don't say that, Allan!" she cried out. "Don't think it, I beg of you! I've tried so hard myself not to think it—and you must help me. You know it is only perturbed43, uneasy spirits that wander. With her it is quite different. She has always been so happy—she must still be."
I listened, stunned44, to Theresa's sweet dogmatism. From what blind distances came her confident misapprehensions, how dense45, both for her and for Allan, was the separating vapor46!
Allan frowned. "Don't take me literally47, Theresa," he explained; and I, who a moment before had almost touched him, now held myself aloof48 and heard him with a strange untried pity, new born in me. "I'm not speaking of what you call—spirits. It's something much more terrible." He allowed his head to sink heavily on his chest. "If I did not positively49 know that I had never done her any harm, I should suppose myself to be suffering from guilt50, from remorse51.... Theresa, you know better than I, perhaps. Was she content, always? Did she believe in me?"
"Believe in you?—when she knew you to be so good!—when you adored her!"
"She thought that? She said it? Then what in Heaven's name ails52 me?—unless it is all as you believe, Theresa, and she knows now what she didn't know then, poor dear, and minds——"
"Minds what? What do you mean, Allan?"
I, who with my perhaps illegitimate advantage saw so clear, knew that he had not meant to tell her: I did him that justice, even in my first jealousy53. If I had not tortured him so by clinging near him, he would not have told her. But the moment came, and overflowed54, and he did tell her—passionate, tumultuous story that it was. During all our life together, Allan's and mine, he had spared me, had kept me wrapped in the white cloak of an unblemished loyalty55. But it would have been kinder, I now bitterly thought, if, like many husbands, he had years ago found for the story he now poured forth56 some clandestine57 listener; I should not have known. But he was faithful and good, and so he waited till I, mute and chained, was there to hear him. So well did I know him, as I thought, so thoroughly58 had he once been mine, that I saw it in his eyes, heard it in his voice, before the words came. And yet, when it came, it lashed59 me with the whips of an unbearable60 humiliation61. For I, his wife, had not known how greatly he could love.
And that Theresa, soft little traitor62, should, in her still way, have cared too! Where was the iron in her, I moaned within my stricken spirit, where the steadfastness63? From the moment he bade her, she turned her soft little petals64 up to him—and my last delusion65 was spent. It was intolerable; and none the less so that in another moment she had, prompted by some belated thought of me, renounced66 him. Allan was hers, yet she put him from her; and it was my part to watch them both.
Then in the anguish67 of it all I remembered, awkward, untutored spirit that I was, that I now had the Great Recourse. Whatever human things were unbearable, I had no need to bear. I ceased, therefore, to make the effort that kept me with them. The pitiless poignancy68 was dulled, the sounds and the light ceased, the lovers faded from me, and again I was mercifully drawn into the dim, infinite spaces.
There followed a period whose length I cannot measure and during which I was able to make no progress in the difficult, dizzying experience of release. "Earth-bound" my jealousy relentlessly kept me. Though my two dear ones had forsworn each other, I could not trust them, for theirs seemed to me an affectation of a more than mortal magnanimity. Without a ghostly sentinel to prick69 them with sharp fears and recollections, who could believe that they would keep to it? Of the efficacy of my own vigilance, so long as I might choose to exercise it, I could have no doubt, for I had by this time come to have a dreadful exultation70 in the new power that lived in me. Repeated delicate experiment had taught me how a touch or a breath, a wish or a whisper, could control Allan's acts, could keep him from Theresa. I could manifest myself as palely, as transiently, as a thought. I could produce the merest necessary flicker72, like the shadow of a just-opened leaf, on his trembling, tortured consciousness. And these unrealized perceptions of me he interpreted, as I had known that he would, as his soul's inevitable73 penance74. He had come to believe that he had done evil in silently loving Theresa all these years, and it was my vengeance75 to allow him to believe this, to prod71 him ever to believe it afresh.
I am conscious that this frame of mind was not continuous in me. For I remember, too, that when Allan and Theresa were safely apart and sufficiently miserable76 I loved them as dearly as I ever had, more dearly perhaps. For it was impossible that I should not perceive, in my new emancipation77, that they were, each of them, something more and greater than the two beings I had once ignorantly pictured them. For years they had practiced a selflessness of which I could once scarcely have conceived, and which even now I could only admire without entering into its mystery. While I had lived solely78 for myself, these two divine creatures had lived exquisitely79 for me. They had granted me everything, themselves nothing. For my undeserving sake their lives had been a constant torment80 of renunciation—a torment they had not sought to alleviate81 by the exchange of a single glance of understanding. There were even marvelous moments when, from the depths of my newly informed heart, I pitied them—poor creatures, who, withheld83 from the infinite solaces84 that I had come to know, were still utterly85 within that
Shell of sense
Within it, yes; yet exercising qualities that so sublimely88 transcended89 it. Yet the shy, hesitating compassion90 that thus had birth in me was far from being able to defeat the earlier, earthlier emotion. The two, I recognized, were in a sort of conflict; and I, regarding it, assumed that the conflict would never end; that for years, as Allan and Theresa reckoned time, I should be obliged to withhold91 myself from the great spaces and linger suffering, grudging92, shamed, where they lingered.
It can never have been explained, I suppose, what, to devitalized perception such as mine, the contact of mortal beings with each other appears to be. Once to have exercised this sense-freed perception is to realize that the gift of prophecy, although the subject of such frequent marvel82, is no longer mysterious. The merest glance of our sensitive and uncloyed vision can detect the strength of the relation between two beings, and therefore instantly calculate its duration. If you see a heavy weight suspended from a slender string, you can know, without any wizardry, that in a few moments the string will snap; well, such, if you admit the analogy, is prophecy, is foreknowledge. And it was thus that I saw it with Theresa and Allan. For it was perfectly93 visible to me that they would very little longer have the strength to preserve, near each other, the denuded94 impersonal95 relation that they, and that I, behind them, insisted on; and that they would have to separate. It was my sister, perhaps the more sensitive, who first realized this. It had now become possible for me to observe them almost constantly, the effort necessary to visit them had so greatly diminished; so that I watched her, poor, anguished96 girl, prepare to leave him. I saw each reluctant movement that she made. I saw her eyes, worn from self-searching; I heard her step grown timid from inexplicable fears; I entered her very heart and heard its pitiful, wild beating. And still I did not interfere97.
For at this time I had a wonderful, almost demoniacal sense of disposing of matters to suit my own selfish will. At any moment I could have checked their miseries98, could have restored happiness and peace. Yet it gave me, and I could weep to admit it, a monstrous99 joy to know that Theresa thought she was leaving Allan of her own free intention, when it was I who was contriving100, arranging, insisting.... And yet she wretchedly felt my presence near her; I am certain of that.
A few days before the time of her intended departure my sister told Allan that she must speak with him after dinner. Our beautiful old house branched out from a circular hall with great arched doors at either end; and it was through the rear doorway101 that always in summer, after dinner, we passed out into the garden adjoining. As usual, therefore, when the hour came, Theresa led the way. That dreadful daytime brilliance102 that in my present state I found so hard to endure was now becoming softer. A delicate, capricious twilight103 breeze danced inconsequently through languidly whispering leaves. Lovely pale flowers blossomed like little moons in the dusk, and over them the breath of mignonette hung heavily. It was a perfect place—and it had so long been ours, Allan's and mine. It made me restless and a little wicked that those two should be there together now.
For a little they walked about together, speaking of common, daily things. Then suddenly Theresa burst out:
"I am going away, Allan. I have stayed to do everything that needed to be done. Now your mother will be here to care for you, and it is time for me to go."
He stared at her and stood still. Theresa had been there so long, she so definitely, to his mind, belonged there. And she was, as I also had jealously known, so lovely there, the small, dark, dainty creature, in the old hall, on the wide staircases, in the garden.... Life there without Theresa, even the intentionally104 remote, the perpetually renounced Theresa—he had not dreamed of it, he could not, so suddenly, conceive of it.
"Sit here," he said, and drew her down beside him on a bench, "and tell me what it means, why you are going. Is it because of something that I have been—have done?"
She hesitated. I wondered if she would dare tell him. She looked out and away from him, and he waited long for her to speak.
The pale stars were sliding into their places. The whispering of the leaves was almost hushed. All about them it was still and shadowy and sweet. It was that wonderful moment when, for lack of a visible horizon, the not yet darkened world seems infinitely105 greater—a moment when anything can happen, anything be believed in. To me, watching, listening, hovering106, there came a dreadful purpose and a dreadful courage. Suppose for one moment, Theresa should not only feel, but see me—would she dare to tell him then?
There came a brief space of terrible effort, all my fluttering, uncertain forces strained to the utmost. The instant of my struggle was endlessly long and the transition seemed to take place outside me—as one sitting in a train, motionless, sees the leagues of earth float by. And then, in a bright, terrible flash I knew I had achieved it—I had attained107 visibility. Shuddering108, insubstantial, but luminously109 apparent, I stood there before them. And for the instant that I maintained the visible state I looked straight into Theresa's soul.
She gave a cry. And then, thing of silly, cruel impulses that I was, I saw what I had done. The very thing that I wished to avert110 I had precipitated111. For Allan, in his sudden terror and pity, had bent112 and caught her in his arms. For the first time they were together; and it was I who had brought them.
Then, to his whispered urging to tell the reason of her cry, Theresa said:
"Frances was here. You did not see her, standing21 there, under the lilacs, with no smile on her face?"
"My dear, my dear!" was all that Allan said. I had so long now lived invisibly with them, he knew that she was right.
"I suppose you know what it means?" she asked him, calmly.
"Dear Theresa," Allan said, slowly, "if you and I should go away somewhere, could we not evade113 all this ghostliness? And will you come with me?"
"Distance would not banish114 her," my sister confidently asserted. And then she said, softly: "Have you thought what a lonely, awesome115 thing it must be to be so newly dead? Pity her, Allan. We who are warm and alive should pity her. She loves you still,—that is the meaning of it all, you know—and she wants us to understand that for that reason we must keep apart. Oh, it was so plain in her white face as she stood there. And you did not see her?"
"It was your face that I saw," Allan solemnly told her—oh, how different he had grown from the Allan that I had known!—"and yours is the only face that I shall ever see." And again he drew her to him.
She sprang from him. "You are defying her, Allan!" she cried. "And you must not. It is her right to keep us apart, if she wishes. It must be as she insists. I shall go, as I told you. And, Allan, I beg of you, leave me the courage to do as she demands!"
They stood facing each other in the deep dusk, and the wounds that I had dealt them gaped116 red and accusing. "We must pity her," Theresa had said. And as I remembered that extraordinary speech, and saw the agony in her face, and the greater agony in Allan's, there came the great irreparable cleavage between mortality and me. In a swift, merciful flame the last of my mortal emotions—gross and tenacious117 they must have been—was consumed. My cold grasp of Allan loosened and a new unearthly love of him bloomed in my heart.
I was now, however, in a difficulty with which my experience in the newer state was scarcely sufficient to deal. How could I make it plain to Allan and Theresa that I wished to bring them together, to heal the wounds that I had made?
Pityingly, remorsefully118, I lingered near them all that night and the next day. And by that time had brought myself to the point of a great determination. In the little time that was left, before Theresa should be gone and Allan bereft and desolate119, I saw the one way that lay open to me to convince them of my acquiescence120 in their destiny.
In the deepest darkness and silence of the next night I made a greater effort than it will ever be necessary for me to make again. When they think of me, Allan and Theresa, I pray now that they will recall what I did that night, and that my thousand frustrations121 and selfishnesses may shrivel and be blown from their indulgent memories.
Yet the following morning, as she had planned, Theresa appeared at breakfast dressed for her journey. Above in her room there were the sounds of departure. They spoke little during the brief meal, but when it was ended Allan said:
"Theresa, there is half an hour before you go. Will you come upstairs with me? I had a dream that I must tell you of."
"Allan!" She looked at him, frightened, but went with him. "It was of Frances you dreamed," she said, quietly, as they entered the library together.
"Did I say it was a dream? But I was awake—thoroughly awake. I had not been sleeping well, and I heard, twice, the striking of the clock. And as I lay there, looking out at the stars, and thinking—thinking of you, Theresa,—she came to me, stood there before me, in my room. It was no sheeted specter, you understand; it was Frances, literally she. In some inexplicable fashion I seemed to be aware that she wanted to make me know something, and I waited, watching her face. After a few moments it came. She did not speak, precisely122. That is, I am sure I heard no sound. Yet the words that came from her were definite enough. She said: 'Don't let Theresa leave you. Take her and keep her.' Then she went away. Was that a dream?"
"I had not meant to tell you," Theresa eagerly answered, "but now I must. It is too wonderful. What time did your clock strike, Allan?"
"One, the last time."
"Yes; it was then that I awoke. And she had been with me. I had not seen her, but her arm had been about me and her kiss was on my cheek. Oh. I knew; it was unmistakable. And the sound of her voice was with me."
"Then she bade you, too——"
"Yes, to stay with you. I am glad we told each other." She smiled tearfully and began to fasten her wrap.
"But you are not going—now!" Allan cried. "You know that you cannot, now that she has asked you to stay."
"Then you believe, as I do, that it was she?" Theresa demanded.
"I can never understand, but I know," he answered her. "And now you will not go?"
I am freed. There will be no further semblance123 of me in my old home, no sound of my voice, no dimmest echo of my earthly self. They have no further need of me, the two that I have brought together. Theirs is the fullest joy that the dwellers124 in the shell of sense can know. Mine is the transcendent joy of the unseen spaces.
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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miserably
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tumult
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discordant
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surmise
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possessed
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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devastating
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behold
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tangle
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subdued
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relentlessly
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lucid
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standing
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enfranchisement
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yearn
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sufficiently
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blindfolded
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rejection
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drawn
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pang
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irresistibly
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beset
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uncouth
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desperately
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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hoarsely
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abominable
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sobbed
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conjure
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inexplicable
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bereft
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ominous
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superstitious
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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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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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46
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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47
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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48
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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49
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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50
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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51
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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52
ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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53
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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54
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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55
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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56
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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57
clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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60
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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61
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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62
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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63
steadfastness
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| n.坚定，稳当 | |
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64
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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65
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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66
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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67
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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68
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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69
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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70
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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71
prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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72
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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73
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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74
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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75
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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76
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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77
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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78
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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79
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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80
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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81
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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82
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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83
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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84
solaces
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| n.安慰，安慰物( solace的名词复数 ) | |
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85
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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86
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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87
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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88
sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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89
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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90
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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91
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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92
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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93
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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94
denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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95
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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96
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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97
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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98
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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99
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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100
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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101
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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102
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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104
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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105
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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106
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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107
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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108
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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109
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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110
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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111
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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112
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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113
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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114
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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115
awesome
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| adj.令人惊叹的，难得吓人的，很好的 | |
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116
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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117
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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118
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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119
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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120
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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121
frustrations
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| 挫折( frustration的名词复数 )； 失败； 挫败； 失意 | |
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122
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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123
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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124
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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