The deep solitude5 of the place subdued6 her apprehension7, and one evening she ventured with Madame de Menon to lengthen8 her walk. They returned to the abbey without having seen a human being, except a friar of the monastery9, who had been to a neighbouring town to order provision. On the following evening they repeated their walk; and, engaged in conversation, rambled10 to a considerable distance from the abbey. The distant bell of the monastery sounding for vespers, reminded them of the hour, and looking round, they perceived the extremity11 of the wood. They were returning towards the abbey, when struck by the appearance of some majestic12 columns which were distinguishable between the trees, they paused. Curiosity tempted13 them to examine to what edifice14 pillars of such magnificent architecture could belong, in a scene so rude, and they went on.
There appeared on a point of rock impending15 over the valley the reliques of a palace, whose beauty time had impaired16 only to heighten its sublimity17. An arch of singular magnificence remained almost entire, beyond which appeared wild cliffs retiring in grand perspective. The sun, which was now setting, threw a trembling lustre18 upon the ruins, and gave a finishing effect to the scene. They gazed in mute wonder upon the view; but the fast fading light, and the dewy chillness of the air, warned them to return. As Julia gave a last look to the scene, she perceived two men leaning upon a part of the ruin at some distance, in earnest conversation. As they spoke19, their looks were so attentively20 bent21 on her, that she could have no doubt she was the subject of their discourse22. Alarmed at this circumstance, madame and Julia immediately retreated towards the abbey. They walked swiftly through the woods, whose shades, deepened by the gloom of evening, prevented their distinguishing whether they were pursued. They were surprized to observe the distance to which they had strayed from the monastery, whose dark towers were now obscurely seen rising among the trees that closed the perspective. They had almost reached the gates, when on looking back, they perceived the same men slowly advancing, without any appearance of pursuit, but clearly as if observing the place of their retreat.
This incident occasioned Julia much alarm. She could not but believe that the men whom she had seen were spies of the marquis;—if so, her asylum24 was discovered, and she had every thing to apprehend25. Madame now judged it necessary to the safety of Julia, that the Abate26 should be informed of her story, and of the sanctuary27 she had sought in his monastery, and also that he should be solicited28 to protect her from parental30 tyranny. This was a hazardous31, but a necessary step, to provide against the certain danger which must ensue, should the marquis, if he demanded his daughter of the Abate, be the first to acquaint him with her story. If she acted otherwise, she feared that the Abate, in whose generosity32 she had not confided33, and whose pity she had not solicited, would, in the pride of his resentment34, deliver her up, and thus would she become a certain victim to the Duke de Luovo.
Julia approved of this communication, though she trembled for the event; and requested madame to plead her cause with the Abate. On the following morning, therefore, madame solicited a private audience of the Abate; she obtained permission to see him, and Julia, in trembling anxiety, watched her to the door of his apartment. This conference was long, and every moment seemed an hour to Julia, who, in fearful expectation, awaited with Cornelia the sentence which would decide her destiny. She was now the constant companion of Cornelia, whose declining health interested her pity, and strengthened her attachment35.
Meanwhile madame developed to the Abate the distressful37 story of Julia. She praised her virtues38, commended her accomplishments40, and deplored41 her situation. She described the characters of the marquis and the duke, and concluded with pathetically representing, that Julia had sought in this monastery, a last asylum from injustice42 and misery43, and with entreating44 that the Abate would grant her his pity and protection.
The Abate during this discourse preserved a sullen45 silence; his eyes were bent to the ground, and his aspect was thoughful and solemn. When madame ceased to speak, a pause of profound silence ensued, and she sat in anxious expectation. She endeavoured to anticipate in his countenance46 the answer preparing, but she derived47 no comfort from thence. At length raising his head, and awakening48 from his deep reverie, he told her that her request required deliberation, and that the protection she solicited for Julia, might involve him in serious consequences, since, from a character so determined49 as the marquis's, much violence might reasonably be expected. 'Should his daughter be refused him,' concluded the Abate, 'he may even dare to violate the sanctuary.'
Madame, shocked by the stern indifference50 of this reply, was a moment silent. The Abate went on. 'Whatever I shall determine upon, the young lady has reason to rejoice that she is admitted into this holy house; for I will even now venture to assure her, that if the marquis fails to demand her, she shall be permitted to remain in this sanctuary unmolested. You, Madam, will be sensible of this indulgence, and of the value of the sacrifice I make in granting it; for, in thus concealing51 a child from her parent, I encourage her in disobedience, and consequently sacrifice my sense of duty, to what may be justly called a weak humanity.'
Madame listened to pompous52 declamation53 in silent sorrow and indignation. She made another effort to interest the Abate in favor of Julia, but he preserved his stern inflexibility54, and repeating that he would deliberate upon the matter, and acquaint her with the result, he arose with great solemnity, and quitted the room.
She now half repented55 of the confidence she had reposed56 in him, and of the pity she had solicited, since he discovered a mind incapable57 of understanding the first, and a temper inaccessible58 to the influence of the latter. With an heavy heart she returned to Julia, who read in her countenance, at the moment she entered the room, news of no happy import. When madame related the particulars of the conference, Julia presaged59 from it only misery, and giving herself up for lost—she burst into tears. She severely60 deplored the confidence she had been induced to yield; for she now saw herself in the power of a man, stern and unfeeling in his nature: and from whom, if he thought it fit to betray her, she had no means of escaping. But she concealed61 the anguish62 of her heart; and to console madame, affected63 to hope where she could only despair.
Several days elapsed, and no answer was returned from the Abate. Julia too well understood this silence.
One morning Cornelia entering her room with a disturbed and impatient air, informed her that some emissaries from the marquis were then in the monastery, having enquired64 at the gate for the Abate, with whom, they said, they had business of importance to transact65. The Abate had granted them immediate23 audience, and they were now in close conference.
At this intelligence the spirits of Julia forsook66 her; she trembled, grew pale, and stood fixed67 in mute despair. Madame, though scarcely less distressed68, retained a presence of mind. She understood too justly the character of the Superior to doubt that he would hesitate in delivering Julia to the hands of the marquis. On this moment, therefore, turned the crisis of her fate!—this moment she might escape—the next she was a prisoner. She therefore advised Julia to seize the instant, and fly from the monastery before the conference was concluded, when the gates would most probably be closed upon her, assuring her, at the same time, she would accompany her in flight.
The generous conduct of madame called tears of gratitude69 into the eyes of Julia, who now awoke from the state of stupefaction which distress36 had caused. But before she could thank her faithful friend, a nun70 entered the room with a summons for madame to attend the Abate immediately. The distress which this message occasioned can not easily be conceived. Madame advised Julia to escape while she detained the Abate in conversation, as it was not probable that he had yet issued orders for her detention71. Leaving her to this attempt, with an assurance of following her from the abbey as soon as possible, madame obeyed the summons. The coolness of her fortitude72 forsook her as she approached the Abate's apartment, and she became less certain as to the occasion of this summons.
The Abate was alone. His countenance was pale with anger, and he was pacing the room with slow but agitated73 steps. The stern authority of his look startled her. 'Read this letter,' said he, stretching forth74 his hand which held a letter, 'and tell me what that mortal deserves, who dares insult our holy order, and set our sacred prerogative75 at defiance76.' Madame distinguished77 the handwriting of the marquis, and the words of the Superior threw her into the utmost astonishment78. She took the letter. It was dictated79 by that spirit of proud vindictive80 rage, which so strongly marked the character of the marquis. Having discovered the retreat of Julia, and believing the monastery afforded her a willing sanctuary from his pursuit, he accused the Abate of encouraging his child in open rebellion to his will. He loaded him and his sacred order with opprobrium81, and threatened, if she was not immediately resigned to the emissaries in waiting, he would in person lead on a force which should compel the church to yield to the superior authority of the father.
The spirit of the Abate was roused by this menace; and Julia obtained from his pride, that protection which neither his principle or his humanity would have granted. 'The man shall tremble,' cried he, 'who dares defy our power, or question our sacred authority. The lady Julia is safe. I will protect her from this proud invader82 of our rights, and teach him at least to venerate83 the power he cannot conquer. I have dispatched his emissaries with my answer.'
These words struck sudden joy upon the heart of Madame de Menon, but she instantly recollected84, that ere this time Julia had quitted the abbey, and thus the very precaution which was meant to ensure her safety, had probably precipitated85 her into the hand of her enemy. This thought changed her joy to anguish; and she was hurrying from the apartment in a sort of wild hope, that Julia might not yet be gone, when the stern voice of the Abate arrested her. 'Is it thus,' cried he, 'that you receive the knowledge of our generous resolution to protect your friend? Does such condescending86 kindness merit no thanks—demand no gratitude?' Madame returned in an agony of fear, lest one moment of delay might prove fatal to Julia, if haply she had not yet quitted the monastery. She was conscious of her deficiency in apparent gratitude, and of the strange appearance of her abrupt87 departure from the Abate, for which it was impossible to apologize, without betraying the secret, which would kindle88 all his resentment. Yet some atonement his present anger demanded, and these circumstances caused her a very painful embarrassment89. She formed a hasty excuse; and expressing her sense of his goodness, again attempted to retire, when the Abate frowning in deep resentment, his features inflamed90 with pride, arose from his seat. 'Stay,' said he; 'whence this impatience91 to fly from the presence of a benefactor92?—If my generosity fails to excite gratitude, my resentment shall not fail to inspire awe93.—Since the lady Julia is insensible of my condescension94, she is unworthy of my protection, and I will resign her to the tyrant95 who demands her.'
To this speech, in which the offended pride of the Abate overcoming all sense of justice, accused and threatened to punish Julia for the fault of her friend, madame listened in dreadful impatience. Every word that detained her struck torture to her heart, but the concluding sentence occasioned new terror, and she started at its purpose. She fell at the feet of the Abate in an agony of grief. 'Holy father,' said she, 'punish not Julia for the offence which I only have committed; her heart will bless her generous protector, and for myself, suffer me to assure you that I am fully97 sensible of your goodness.'
'If this is true,' said the Abate, 'arise, and bid the lady Julia attend me.' This command increased the confusion of madame, who had no doubt that her detention had proved fatal to Julia. At length she was suffered to depart, and to her infinite joy found Julia in her own room. Her intention of escaping had yielded, immediately after the departure of madame, to the fear of being discovered by the marquis's people. This fear had been confirmed by the report of Cornelia, who informed her, that at that time several horsemen were waiting at the gates for the return of their companions. This was a dreadful circumstance to Julia, who perceived it was utterly98 impossible to quit the monastery, without rushing upon certain destruction. She was lamenting99 her destiny, when madame recited the particulars of the late interview, and delivered the summons of the Abate.
They had now to dread96 the effect of that tender anxiety, which had excited his resentment; and Julia, suddenly elated to joy by his first determination, was as suddenly sunk to despair by his last. She trembled with apprehension of the coming interview, though each moment of delay which her fear solicited, would, by heightening the resentment of the Abate, only increase the danger she dreaded100.
At length, by a strong effort, she reanimated her spirits, and went to the Abate's closet to receive her sentence. He was seated in his chair, and his frowning aspect chilled her heart. 'Daughter,' said he, 'you have been guilty of heinous103 crimes. You have dared to dispute—nay openly to rebel, against the lawful104 authority of your father. You have disobeyed the will of him whose prerogative yields only to ours. You have questioned his right upon a point of all others the most decided—the right of a father to dispose of his child in marriage. You have even fled from his protection—and you have dared—insidiously, and meanly have dared, to screen your disobedience beneath this sacred roof. You have prophaned our sanctuary with your crime. You have brought insult upon our sacred order, and have caused bold and impious defiance of our high prerogative. What punishment is adequate to guilt102 like this?'
The father paused—his eyes sternly fixed on Julia, who, pale and trembling, could scarcely support herself, and who had no power to reply. 'I will be merciful, and not just,' resumed he,—'I will soften105 the punishment you deserve, and will only deliver you to your father.' At these dreadful words, Julia bursting into tears, sunk at the feet of the Abate, to whom she raised her eyes in supplicating106 expression, but was unable to speak. He suffered her to remain in this posture107. 'Your duplicity,' he resumed, 'is not the least of your offences.—Had you relied upon our generosity for forgiveness and protection, an indulgence might have been granted;—but under the disguise of virtue39 you concealed your crimes, and your necessities were hid beneath the mask of devotion.'
These false aspersions roused in Julia the spirit of indignant virtue; she arose from her knees with an air of dignity, that struck even the Abate. 'Holy father,' said she, 'my heart abhors108 the crime you mention, and disclaims109 all union with it. Whatever are my offences, from the sin of hypocrisy110 I am at least free; and you will pardon me if I remind you, that my confidence has already been such, as fully justifies111 my claim to the protection I solicit29. When I sheltered myself within these walls, it was to be presumed that they would protect me from injustice; and with what other term than injustice would you, Sir, distinguish the conduct of the marquis, if the fear of his power did not overcome the dictates112 of truth?'
The Abate felt the full force of this reproof113; but disdaining114 to appear sensible to it, restrained his resentment. His wounded pride thus exasperated115, and all the malignant116 passions of his nature thus called into action, he was prompted to that cruel surrender which he had never before seriously intended. The offence which Madame de Menon had unintentionally given his haughty117 spirit urged him to retaliate118 in punishment. He had, therefore, pleased himself with exciting a terror which he never meant to confirm, and he resolved to be further solicited for that protection which he had already determined to grant. But this reproof of Julia touched him where he was most conscious of defect; and the temporary triumph which he imagined it afforded her, kindled119 his resentment into flame. He mused120 in his chair, in a fixed attitude.—She saw in his countenance the deep workings of his mind—she revolved121 the fate preparing for her, and stood in trembling anxiety to receive her sentence. The Abate considered each aggravating122 circumstance of the marquis's menace, and each sentence of Julia's speech; and his mind experienced that vice123 is not only inconsistent with virtue, but with itself—for to gratify his malignity124, he now discovered that it would be necessary to sacrifice his pride—since it would be impossible to punish the object of the first without denying himself the gratification of the latter. This reflection suspended his mind in a state of torture, and he sat wrapt in gloomy silence.
The spirit which lately animated101 Julia had vanished with her words—each moment of silence increased her apprehension; the deep brooding of his thoughts confirmed her in the apprehension of evil, and with all the artless eloquence125 of sorrow she endeavoured to soften him to pity. He listened to her pleadings in sullen stillness. But each instant now cooled the fervour of his resentment to her, and increased his desire of opposing the marquis. At length the predominant feature of his character resumed its original influence, and overcame the workings of subordinate passion. Proud of his religious authority, he determined never to yield the prerogative of the church to that of the father, and resolved to oppose the violence of the marquis with equal force.
He therefore condescended126 to relieve Julia from her terrors, by assuring her of his protection; but he did this in a manner so ungracious, as almost to destroy the gratitude which the promise demanded. She hastened with the joyful127 intelligence to Madame de Menon, who wept over her tears of thankfulness.
点击收听单词发音
1 tints | |
色彩( tint的名词复数 ); 带白的颜色; (淡色)染发剂; 痕迹 | |
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2 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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3 tranquil | |
adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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4 soothed | |
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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5 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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6 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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7 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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8 lengthen | |
vt.使伸长,延长 | |
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9 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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10 rambled | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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11 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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12 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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13 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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14 edifice | |
n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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15 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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16 impaired | |
adj.受损的;出毛病的;有(身体或智力)缺陷的v.损害,削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 sublimity | |
崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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18 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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19 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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20 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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21 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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22 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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23 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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24 asylum | |
n.避难所,庇护所,避难 | |
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25 apprehend | |
vt.理解,领悟,逮捕,拘捕,忧虑 | |
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26 abate | |
vi.(风势,疼痛等)减弱,减轻,减退 | |
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27 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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28 solicited | |
v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 );(指娼妇)拉客;索求;征求 | |
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29 solicit | |
vi.勾引;乞求;vt.请求,乞求;招揽(生意) | |
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30 parental | |
adj.父母的;父的;母的 | |
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31 hazardous | |
adj.(有)危险的,冒险的;碰运气的 | |
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32 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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33 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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34 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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35 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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36 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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37 distressful | |
adj.苦难重重的,不幸的,使苦恼的 | |
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38 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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39 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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40 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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41 deplored | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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43 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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44 entreating | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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45 sullen | |
adj.愠怒的,闷闷不乐的,(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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46 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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47 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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48 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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49 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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50 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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51 concealing | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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52 pompous | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的;夸大的;豪华的 | |
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53 declamation | |
n. 雄辩,高调 | |
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54 inflexibility | |
n.不屈性,顽固,不变性;不可弯曲;非挠性;刚性 | |
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55 repented | |
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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56 reposed | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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58 inaccessible | |
adj.达不到的,难接近的 | |
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59 presaged | |
v.预示,预兆( presage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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61 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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62 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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63 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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64 enquired | |
打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 ); 询问; 问问题; 查问 | |
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65 transact | |
v.处理;做交易;谈判 | |
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66 forsook | |
forsake的过去式 | |
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67 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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68 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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69 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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70 nun | |
n.修女,尼姑 | |
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71 detention | |
n.滞留,停留;拘留,扣留;(教育)留下 | |
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72 fortitude | |
n.坚忍不拔;刚毅 | |
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73 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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74 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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75 prerogative | |
n.特权 | |
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76 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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77 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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78 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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79 dictated | |
v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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80 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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81 opprobrium | |
n.耻辱,责难 | |
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82 invader | |
n.侵略者,侵犯者,入侵者 | |
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83 venerate | |
v.尊敬,崇敬,崇拜 | |
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84 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85 precipitated | |
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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86 condescending | |
adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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87 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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88 kindle | |
v.点燃,着火 | |
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89 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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90 inflamed | |
adj.发炎的,红肿的v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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92 benefactor | |
n. 恩人,行善的人,捐助人 | |
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93 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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94 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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95 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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96 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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97 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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98 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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99 lamenting | |
adj.悲伤的,悲哀的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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100 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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101 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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102 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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103 heinous | |
adj.可憎的,十恶不赦的 | |
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104 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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105 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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106 supplicating | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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107 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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108 abhors | |
v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 );(厌恶地)回避;拒绝;淘汰 | |
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109 disclaims | |
v.否认( disclaim的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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111 justifies | |
证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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112 dictates | |
n.命令,规定,要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 );口授;支配;摆布 | |
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113 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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114 disdaining | |
鄙视( disdain的现在分词 ); 不屑于做,不愿意做 | |
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115 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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116 malignant | |
adj.恶性的,致命的;恶意的,恶毒的 | |
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117 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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118 retaliate | |
v.报复,反击 | |
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119 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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120 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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121 revolved | |
v.(使)旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 );细想 | |
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122 aggravating | |
adj.恼人的,讨厌的 | |
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123 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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124 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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125 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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126 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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127 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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