But in the eyes of the lady Petronilla, Leander was an ideal churchman. No one treated her judgment15 with so much respect; no one confided16 to her curious ear so many confidential18 matters, ranging from the secret scandals of aristocratic Rome to high debates of ecclesiastical polity—or what Petronilla regarded as such. Their closer acquaintance began with the lady’s presentation of certain columns of tawny19 Numidian marble, from a ruined temple she had inherited, to the deacon’s basilica, St. Laurentius; and many were the donations which Leander had since accepted from her on behalf of the Church. In return, he had once or twice rejoiced her with the gift of a precious relic20, such as came into the hands of few below royal rank; thus had Petronilla obtained the filings of the chain of St. Peter, which, enclosed in a golden key, hung upon her bosom21. Some day, as the deacon well knew, this pious virgin22 would beg him to relieve her of all her earthly possessions, and enter into some holy retreat; but she awaited the death of her brother, by whose will she would doubtless benefit more or less substantially.
If in view of the illness of Maximus, Petronilla had regarded the deacon’s visit as providential, the event of yesterday moved her to a more agitated23 thankfulness for the conference she was about to enjoy. After a night made sleepless24 by dread25 and wrath26, she rose at daybreak and passed in a fever of impatience27 the time which elapsed before her reverend guest issued from his chamber28. This being the fourth day of the week, Petronilla held rigid29 fast until the hour of nones; and of course no refreshment30 was offered to the churchman, who, with that smiling placidity31, that graceful32 self-possession, which ever distinguished33 him in such society, at length entered the inner hall, and suavely34, almost tenderly, greeted his noble hostess. Brimming over as she was with anxiety and indignation, Petronilla allowed nothing of this to appear in her reception of the revered35 friend. To his inquiries36 touching37 the health of the Senator, she replied with significant gravity that Maximus had suffered during the night, and was this morning, by the physician’s report, much weaker; she added not a word on the momentous38 subject presently to be broached39. Then Leander, after viewing with many compliments a piece of rich embroidery40 which occupied the lady’s leisure, and or its completion would of course be put at his disposal, took a seat, set the tips of his fingers together, and began to chat pleasantly of his journey. Many were the pious offerings which had fallen to him upon his way: that of the Sicilian lady who gave her little all to be used to maintain the lamps in the basilica of the Chief Apostle; that of the merchant encountered on shipboard, who gave ten pounds of gold to purchase the freedom of slaves; that of the wealthy curial in Lucania, healed of disease by miracle on the feast of St. Cyprian, who bestowed41 upon the church in gratitude43 many acres of olive-bearing land, and promised an annual shipload of prime hogs44 to feed St. Peter’s poor. By smooth transition he passed to higher themes: with absent eyes turned to the laurel-planted court on to which the hall opened, he spoke45 as if scarcely aware of a listener, of troubles at Rome occasioned by imprudences, indiscretions—what should he say—of the Holy Father. As Petronilla bent46 forward, all tremulous curiosity, he lowered his voice, grew frankly47 confidential. The Pope had been summoned to Byzantium, to discuss certain points of doctrine48 with the Emperor; his departure was delayed, but no doubt in his weakness he would obey. Verily, the lack of courage—not to use severer terms—so painfully evident in Pope Vigilius, was a grave menace to the Church—the Catholic Church, which, rightly claiming to rule Christendom, should hold no terms with the arrogance49 of Justinian. Could it be wondered that the Holy Father was disliked—not to say hated—by the people of Rome? By his ill management the papal granaries had of late been so ill stored that the poor had suffered famine, the Greeks having put an end to that gratuitous50 distribution of food to which the Roman populace had from of old been accustomed. On this account, chiefly, had Leander journeyed to Sicily, to look after the supplies of corn, and seek out those who were to blame for the recent negligence51. His bushy eyebrows gave a hint of their sterner possibilities as he spoke of the measures he had taken, the reproofs52 and threats he had distributed.
‘May I live,’ breathed Petronilla, with modest emphasis, ‘to see a great, a noble, a puissant53 Pontiff in the Apostolic Chair!’
Whereat the deacon smiled, well understanding whither the lady looked for her ideal Pope. She went on to speak of the part Vigilius had played in the deposition55 and miserable56 death of his predecessor57 Silverius, and that, as was too well known, at the bidding of haughty58, unscrupulous women, the Empress Theodora and her friend Antonina, wife of Belisarius. Verily, the time had come for a great reform at the Lateran; the time had come, and perhaps the divine instrument was not far to seek. Whereupon Petronilla murmured ardently59, and the deacon again smiled.
There was a pause. Having permitted Leander to muse60 a little, his hostess turned the conversation to the troublous topic of her thoughts; and began by saying how her brother would esteem61 the privilege of counsel and solace62 from one so qualified63 to impart them. But alas64 she must make known a distressful66 occurrence, whereby the office of a spiritual adviser67 by the bedside of Maximus must needs be complicated and made painful; and therewith Petronilla related the events of yesterday. As he listened, the deacon knitted his brows, but in thought rather than in affliction; and when the speaker was silent, he still mused68 awhile.
‘Gracious madam,’ he began at length solemnly, ‘you of course hold no intercourse69 with this lady?’
‘None! I have shrunk ever from the sight of her.’
‘Such abhorrence70 of error witnesses to the purity and the illumination of your soul: I could have expected nothing less from Petronilla. You know not whether the misguided woman shows any disposition71 to return to the true faith?’
‘I fear not,’ replied Petronilla, looking rather as if the fear were a hope. ‘Her nature is stubborn: she has the pride of the fallen angels.’
‘And her father, I am afraid, has no longer the strength to treat her sin with due severity?’
‘Earthly affection has subdued72 him,’ replied the lady, shaking her head. ‘Who knows,’ she added, ‘how far his weakness may lead my poor brother?’
She glanced about the hall, and Leander perfectly73 understood what was in her mind.
‘Be not over anxious,’ he replied soothingly75. ‘Leave this in my hands. Should it be necessary, I can dispose of some days before pursuing my journey. Take comfort, noble and pious lady! The truth will prevail.’
The deacon’s first step was to obtain a private interview with the physician. He then made known his desire to wait upon Maximus, and with no great delay was admitted. Tactfully, sagaciously, he drew the sufferer to confide17 in him, to see in him, not so much a spiritual admonisher as a counsellor and a support in worldly difficulties. Leander was already well aware that the Senator had small religious zeal76, but belonged to the class of men, numerous at this time, who, whilst professing77 the Christian78 and the orthodox faith, were in truth philosophers rather than devotees, and regarded dogmatic questions with a calm not easily distinguished from indifference79. Maximus had scarcely spoken of his daughter, when the deacon understood it was Aurelia’s temporal, much more than her eternal, interests which disturbed the peace of the dying man. Under Roman law, bequests81 to a heretic were null and void; though this enactment82 had for the most part been set aside in Italy under Gothic rule, it might be that the Imperial code would henceforth prevail. Maximus desired to bestow42 upon his daughter a great part of his possessions. Petronilla, having sufficient means of her own, might well be content with a moderate bequest80; Basil, the relative next of kin7, had a worthy84 claim upon his uncle’s generous treatment, and Decius, who needed but little, must have that little assured. The father had hoped that his entreaties85, together with a prospect86 of substantial reward, would prevail against Aurelia’s pride-rooted heresy87, but as yet he pleaded and tempted88 in vain. Could the deacon help him?
Leander seemed to meditate89 profoundly. The subject of his thought was what seemed to him a glaring omission90 in this testament91 of Maximus. He breathed an intimate inquiry92: Was the sick man at peace with his own soul? Had he sought strength and solace from the reverend presbyter of Surrentum, his spiritual father in this district? Maximus replied that he had neglected no ordinary means of grace. Whilst speaking, he met the deacon’s eye; its significance was not to be mistaken.
‘I should have mentioned,’ he said, averting93 his look, ‘that the presbyter Andreas and his poor will not be forgotten. Moreover, many of my slaves will receive their freedom.’
Leander murmured approvingly. Again he reflected, and again he ventured an inquiry: Maximus would desire, no doubt, to rest with his glorious ancestors in the mortuary chapel94 known as the Temple of Probus, by St. Peter’s? And seeing the emotion this excited in his listener he went on to speak at large of the Anician house—first among the great families of Rome to embrace Christianity, and distinguished, generation after generation, by their support of the church, which indeed numbered among its Supreme95 Pontiffs one of their line, the third Felix. Did not the illustrious father of Maximus lead the Christian senators in their attack upon that lingering shame, the heathen Lupercalia, since so happily supplanted96 by the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Mary? He, dying—added Leander, with an ecstatic smile—made over to the Apostolic See an estate in Sicily which yielded every year two rich harvests to the widows, the orphans97, the sick, and the destitute98 of Rome.
‘Deacon,’ broke from the hot lips of Maximus, who struggled to raise himself, ‘if I do the like, will you swear to me to use your influence, your power, for the protection of my daughter?’
It was the voice of nature in its struggle with the universal doom99; reason had little part in the hope with which those fading eyes fixed100 themselves upon the countenance101 of the self-possessed churchman.
‘Heaven forbid,’ was Leander’s reply, ‘that I should bind102 myself in such terms to perform an office of friendship, which under any circumstances would be my anxious care.’
‘Even,’ asked Maximus, ‘if she persist in her heresy?’
‘Even so, my dear lord, remembering from whom she springs. But,’ he added, in a soothing74 voice, ‘let me put your mind at rest. Trust me, the lady Aurelia will not long cling to her error. In poverty, in humiliation103, she might be obstinate104; but as the possessor of wealth—restored to her due rank—oh, my gracious lord, be assured that her conversion105 will soon follow.’
The same thought had occurred to Maximus. He sighed in profound relief, and regarded the deacon gratefully.
‘In that hope I rest. Give me your promise to befriend her, and ask of me what you will.’
Save for the hours she passed at her father’s side, Aurelia kept a strict retirement106, guarded by the three female slaves whom Petronilla had reluctantly assigned to her. Of them she required no intimate service, having her own attendants, an elderly woman, the nurse of her childhood, who through all changes of fortune had never quitted her, and a younger, half-Goth, half-Italian, who discharged humbler duties. She occupied a small dwelling107 apart from the main structure of the villa108, but connected with it by a portico109: this was called the House of Proba, it having been constructed a hundred years ago for the lady Faltonia Proba, who wrote verses, and perhaps on that account desired a special privacy. Though much neglected, the building had beauty of form, and was full of fine work in mosaic110. Here, in a little peristyle, where shrubs111 and creepers had come to wild growth, the sore-hearted lady sat brooding or paced backwards112 and forwards, her eyes ever on the ground. When yet a maiden113 she had several times spent summer at Surrentum; her memory revived that early day which seemed so long ago; she lived again with her brothers and sisters, all dead, with her mother whom griefs had aged114 so soon. Then came a loveless marriage, which soon involved her in the public troubles of the time; for her husband, whose estates lay in Tuscany, was robbed of all by Theodahad, and having vainly sought redress115 from the young King Athalaric, decided116 to leave Italy for Byzantium, to which end Aurelia sold a property in Campania, her dower. Before they could set forth83 upon their journey, her husband caught the plague and died. In second wedlock117 she would have known contentment but for the alienation118 of her kin and the scornful hostility119 of all her class. When widowhood again befell her she was saved from want by a small treasure of money which remained hidden in the dwelling at Cumae when the Gothic warrior120, her lord, escaped from Belisarius. As this store diminished, Aurelia had looked forward with dread, for she hoped nothing from her father. And now that such fears seemed to be over, her long tortured pride clamoured for solace. It was not enough to regain121 her father’s love and enjoy an inheritance; she wished to see her enemies at her feet, and to trample122 upon them—her enemies being not only Petronilla and certain other kinsfolk but all the nobility of Rome, nay123, all the orthodox of the Christian church. Pacing, pacing alone, she brooded vast schemes of vengeance124.
When it was announced to her that the Roman deacon besought125 an interview, she at first refused to receive him. Thereupon Leander sent her a few lines in writing, most ceremoniously worded, in which he declared that his purposes were those of a disinterested126 friend, that no word such as could pain or offend her would pass his lips, and that he had it in his power to communicate something which would greatly benefit her. Aurelia reflected disdainfully, but at length consented to the churchman’s approach. Leander’s bearing as he entered her presence was as elaborately courteous127 as the phrasing of his letter.
‘Noble lady,’ he began, standing54 with bowed head, ‘let not your eyes take note of my garb128. See in me only a devoted129 servant of your illustrious house. His Magnificence, your father, assured of the sincerity130 wherewith I place at his command such powers and opportunities as I owe to heaven’s grace, has deigned131 to confide in me regarding the disposition of his worldly affairs whereto he is prompted by languishing132 health.’
He paused a moment, but Aurelia had no word of reply to this exordium. Seeing her keep the same haughty posture133 in her chair, with eyes scornfully averted134 as if she scarce listened, Leander proceeded to disclose his mind in less ornate terms By subtle grades of confidential speech, beginning with a declaration of the sympathy moved in him by the parent’s love, the daughter’s distress65, he came with lowering voice, with insinuating135 tone, with blandly136 tolerant countenance, to the kernel137 of his discourse138; it contained a suggestion which might—he only said might—aid her amid the manifold perplexities of her position. By this time Aurelia was more attentive139; the churchman almost affectionate in his suavity140, grew still more direct; and at length, in a voice which only reached the ear of the listener, he spoke thus:
‘I understand why you stepped aside from the way of truth; I perceive the obstacles hindering your return. I know the tender impulses which urge you to soothe141 your father’s last hours, and, no less, the motives142, natural to a woman of your beauty, of your birth, which are at strife143 with that tenderness and threaten to overcome it. Could you discover a means of yielding to your filial affection, and at the same time safeguarding your noble pride, would you not gladly use it? Such a means I can point out to you.’
He became silent, watching Aurelia. She, won by the perspicacity144 which read her heart, had put aside all arrogance, and wore a look of grave intentness.
‘Let me know it,’ she murmured.
‘It is this. Return to the true belief, but guard awhile the secret of your conversion. That it shall not be disclosed until you wish, I can give you firm assurance—if need be, on solemn oath. You will privately145 make known to your father that he has prevailed, thereby146 you put his flesh and spirit at rest,—he will die blessing147 you, and enriching you to the full extent of his desire. You will then also set your signature to a paper, which I shall write, making confession148 of the orthodox faith, and undertaking149 to be duly reconciled with the church, by the imposition of hands, at some convenient season. That is all that will be asked of you for the present. The lady Petronilla’—he all but smiled in uttering the name—‘shall not even suspect what has happened.’
‘Will this villa be mine?’ asked the listener after brief reflection.
‘This villa shall be yours.’
An exultant150 gleam shone in Aurelia’s eyes.
‘Deacon,’ she said sternly, ‘your promise is not enough. Swear to me that no one living, save my father and you, shall know.’
From his bosom Leander drew forth a little golden cross.
‘This,’ he said reverently151, ‘contains dust of iron from the bars on which the blessed Laurentius suffered martyrdom.’
‘Swear also,’ demanded Aurelia, ‘by the Holy Pancratius.’ In the name of both saints Leander took his oath of secrecy152. Petronilla was of course aware that the deacon had been admitted to audience by her niece. When he descended153, she awaited him at the end of the portico, and her look questioned him.
‘Stubborn, stubborn!’ murmured Leander, shaking his head, and passed on as though in troubled thought.
Later in the day, when she had seen her father, Aurelia made known to her cousin Basil, who had requested an interview, that he might come. His cousin received him smilingly, almost affectionately.
Marcian having this morning taken his leave, called away by some unexplained business to Neapolis, Basil had been on the point of taking Decius into his amorous154 confidence, when this summons rejoiced him.
‘Is the letter written?’ were Basil’s first words.
‘It is here. Can you despatch155 it at once?’
‘I will take it myself,’ he answered promptly156.
Aurelia shook her head.
‘You must not. My father’s life is fast failing. No one can say which hour may be his last. If he asked for you, and you were absent—’
‘Felix shall go,’ said Basil. ‘The wind is favourable157. He may have to ride back tomorrow, but we can trust him to make all speed.’
‘He took the letter, which was superscribed, ‘To the most noble lady Veranilda.’
‘Dear cousin, you have spoken of me?’ he asked with a wistful look.
‘I have said, good cousin,’ Aurelia answered pleasantly, ‘that you wished to be spoken of.’
‘Only that?’
‘What more should I say? Your Amiability158 is too hasty. Remember that you have scarce seen her.’
‘Scarce seen Veranilda!’ exclaimed Basil. ‘Why, it seems to me as though I had known her for years! Have we not talked together?’
‘Once. The first time does not count; you exchanged hardly a dozen words. When,’ added Aurelia, smiling, ‘were you so dashed in a maid’s presence?’
‘Nay, never! I am not accused of too much modesty159; but when I entered and looked on Veranilda—oh, it was the strangest moment of my life! Noble cousin,’ he added pleadingly, ‘honoured Aurelia, do but tell me what is her parentage?’
‘How does that concern your Excellence160? I have told you all that it imports you to know—at all events for the present. Cousin Basil, you delay the letter; I should wish her to have it before nightfall, for she thinks anxiously of me.’
‘I go. When may I again speak with you?’
‘You shall hear when I am at leisure.’
Basil despatched his servant to Cumae not with one letter only, but with two. Greatly daring, he had himself written to Veranilda; in brief terms, but every word tremulous with his passion. And for half an hour he stood watching the sail which wafted161 his messenger over the gulf162, ruffled163 today by a south-west wind, driver of clouds. Little thought had he to give to the dying Maximus, but at the ninth hour he turned his steps to the oratory164, once a temple of Isis, and heard the office, and breathed a prayer for his kindly165 relative. Which duty discharged, he prayed more fervently166, to whatever saint or deity167 has ear for such petitions, that he might be loved by the Gothic maid.
This evening Maximus seemed to suffer less. He lay with closed eyes, a look of calm on his worn countenance. Beside him sat Decius, reading in low tones from that treatise168 on the Consolation169 of Philosophy, which Boethius wrote in prison, a hook wherein Maximus sought comfort, this last year or two more often than in the Evangel, or the Lives of Saints. Decius himself would have chosen a philosopher of older time, but in the words of his own kinsman170, Maximus found an appeal more intimate, a closer sympathy, than in ancient teaching. He loved especially the passages of verse; and when the reader came to those lines—
‘O felix hominum genus,
Si vestros animos amor
Quo coelum regitur, regat,’
he raised his hand, smiling with peculiar171 sweetness.
‘Pause there, O Decius,’ he said, in a weak but clear voice; ‘let me muse awhile.’ And he murmured the verses to himself.
点击收听单词发音
1 stoutish | |
略胖的 | |
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2 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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3 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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4 genial | |
adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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5 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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6 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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7 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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8 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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9 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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10 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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11 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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12 steward | |
n.乘务员,服务员;看管人;膳食管理员 | |
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13 patrimony | |
n.世袭财产,继承物 | |
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14 reverenced | |
v.尊敬,崇敬( reverence的过去式和过去分词 );敬礼 | |
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15 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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16 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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17 confide | |
v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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18 confidential | |
adj.秘(机)密的,表示信任的,担任机密工作的 | |
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19 tawny | |
adj.茶色的,黄褐色的;n.黄褐色 | |
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20 relic | |
n.神圣的遗物,遗迹,纪念物 | |
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21 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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22 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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23 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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24 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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25 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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26 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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27 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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28 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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29 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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30 refreshment | |
n.恢复,精神爽快,提神之事物;(复数)refreshments:点心,茶点 | |
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31 placidity | |
n.平静,安静,温和 | |
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32 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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33 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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34 suavely | |
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35 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36 inquiries | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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37 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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38 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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39 broached | |
v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 );打开并开始用;用凿子扩大(或修光);(在桶上)钻孔取液体 | |
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40 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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41 bestowed | |
赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 bestow | |
v.把…赠与,把…授予;花费 | |
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43 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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44 hogs | |
n.(尤指喂肥供食用的)猪( hog的名词复数 );(供食用的)阉公猪;彻底地做某事;自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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45 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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46 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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47 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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48 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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49 arrogance | |
n.傲慢,自大 | |
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50 gratuitous | |
adj.无偿的,免费的;无缘无故的,不必要的 | |
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51 negligence | |
n.疏忽,玩忽,粗心大意 | |
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52 reproofs | |
n.责备,责难,指责( reproof的名词复数 ) | |
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53 puissant | |
adj.强有力的 | |
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54 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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55 deposition | |
n.免职,罢官;作证;沉淀;沉淀物 | |
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56 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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57 predecessor | |
n.前辈,前任 | |
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58 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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59 ardently | |
adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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60 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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61 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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62 solace | |
n.安慰;v.使快乐;vt.安慰(物),缓和 | |
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63 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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64 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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65 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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66 distressful | |
adj.苦难重重的,不幸的,使苦恼的 | |
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67 adviser | |
n.劝告者,顾问 | |
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68 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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69 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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70 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
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71 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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72 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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73 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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74 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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75 soothingly | |
adv.抚慰地,安慰地;镇痛地 | |
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76 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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77 professing | |
声称( profess的现在分词 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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78 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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79 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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80 bequest | |
n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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81 bequests | |
n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 );遗产,遗赠物 | |
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82 enactment | |
n.演出,担任…角色;制订,通过 | |
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83 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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84 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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85 entreaties | |
n.恳求,乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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86 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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87 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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88 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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89 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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90 omission | |
n.省略,删节;遗漏或省略的事物,冗长 | |
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91 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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92 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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93 averting | |
防止,避免( avert的现在分词 ); 转移 | |
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94 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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95 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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96 supplanted | |
把…排挤掉,取代( supplant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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98 destitute | |
adj.缺乏的;穷困的 | |
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99 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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100 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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101 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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102 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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103 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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104 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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105 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
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106 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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107 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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108 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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109 portico | |
n.柱廊,门廊 | |
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110 mosaic | |
n./adj.镶嵌细工的,镶嵌工艺品的,嵌花式的 | |
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111 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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112 backwards | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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113 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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114 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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115 redress | |
n.赔偿,救济,矫正;v.纠正,匡正,革除 | |
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116 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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117 wedlock | |
n.婚姻,已婚状态 | |
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118 alienation | |
n.疏远;离间;异化 | |
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119 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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120 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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121 regain | |
vt.重新获得,收复,恢复 | |
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122 trample | |
vt.踩,践踏;无视,伤害,侵犯 | |
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123 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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124 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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125 besought | |
v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的过去式和过去分词 );(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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126 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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127 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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128 garb | |
n.服装,装束 | |
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129 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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130 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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131 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132 languishing | |
a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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133 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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134 averted | |
防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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135 insinuating | |
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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136 blandly | |
adv.温和地,殷勤地 | |
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137 kernel | |
n.(果实的)核,仁;(问题)的中心,核心 | |
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138 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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139 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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140 suavity | |
n.温和;殷勤 | |
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141 soothe | |
v.安慰;使平静;使减轻;缓和;奉承 | |
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142 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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143 strife | |
n.争吵,冲突,倾轧,竞争 | |
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144 perspicacity | |
n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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145 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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146 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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147 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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148 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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149 undertaking | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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150 exultant | |
adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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151 reverently | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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152 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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153 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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154 amorous | |
adj.多情的;有关爱情的 | |
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155 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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156 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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157 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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158 amiability | |
n.和蔼可亲的,亲切的,友善的 | |
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159 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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160 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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161 wafted | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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163 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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164 oratory | |
n.演讲术;词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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165 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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166 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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167 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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168 treatise | |
n.专著;(专题)论文 | |
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169 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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170 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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171 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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