MISS MARPLE TELLS HER STORY
“W hen did you find out,” asked Professor Wanstead, “that those two women were private agents accompanying youfor your protection?”
He leaned forward in his chair looking thoughtfully at the white-haired old lady who sat in an upright position inthe chair opposite him. They were in an official Government building in London, and there were four other personspresent.
An official from the Public Prosecutor’s Office; the Assistant Commissioner1 of Scotland Yard, Sir James Lloyd, theGovernor of Manstone Prison, Sir Andrew McNeil. The fourth person was the Home Secretary.
“Not until the last evening,” said Miss Marple. “I wasn’t actually sure until then. Miss Cooke had come to St. MaryMead and I found out fairly quickly that she was not what she represented herself to be, which was a womanknowledgeable in gardening who had come there to help a friend with her garden. So I was left with the choice ofdeciding what her real object had been, once she had acquainted herself with my appearance, which was obviously theonly thing she could have come for. When I recognized her again, on the coach, I had to make up my mind if she wasaccompanying the tour in the r?le of guardianship2, or whether those two women were enemies enlisted4 by what Imight call the other side.
“I was only really sure that last evening when Miss Cooke prevented me, by very distinct words of warning, fromdrinking the cup of coffee that Clotilde Bradbury-Scott had just set down in front of me. She phrased it very cleverly,but the warning was clearly there. Later, when I was wishing those two good night, one of them took my hand in bothof hers giving me a particularly friendly and affectionate handshake. And in doing so she passed something into myhand, which, when I examined it later, I found to be a high-powered whistle. I took it to bed with me, accepted theglass of milk which was urged upon me by my hostess, and wished her good night, being careful not to change mysimple and friendly attitude.”
“You didn’t drink the milk?”
“Of course not,” said Miss Marple. “What do you take me for?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Professor Wanstead. “It surprises me that you didn’t lock your door.”
“That would have been quite the wrong thing to do,” said Miss Marple. “I wanted Clotilde Bradbury-Scott to comein. I wanted to see what she would say or do. I thought it was almost certain that she would come in when sufficienttime had elapsed, to make sure that I had drunk the milk, and was in an unconscious sleep from which presumably Iwould not have woken up again.”
“Did you help Miss Cooke to conceal5 herself in the wardrobe?”
“No. It was a complete surprise when she came out of that suddenly. I suppose,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully,thinking it over, “I suppose she slipped in there just when I had gone down the passage to the—er—to the bathroom.”
“You knew the two women were in the house?”
“I thought they would be at hand somewhere after they’d given me the whistle. I do not think it was a difficulthouse to which to gain access, there were no shuttered windows or burglar alarms or anything of that kind. One ofthem came back on the pretext6 of having left a handbag and a scarf. Between them they probably managed to leave awindow unfastened, and I should imagine they came back into the house almost as soon as they left it, while theinhabitants inside were going up to bed.”
“You took a big risk, Miss Marple.”
“I hoped for the best,” said Miss Marple. “One cannot go through life without attracting certain risks if they arenecessary.”
“Your tip about the parcel dispatched to that charity, by the way, was entirely9 successful. It contained a brand newbrightly coloured man’s polo-necked jumper in scarlet10 and black checks. Most noticeable. What made you think ofthat?”
“Well,” said Miss Marple, “that was really very simple. The description that Emlyn and Joanna gave of the figurethey had seen made it seem almost certain that these very bright coloured and noticeable clothes were meant to benoticed, and that therefore it would be very important that they should not be hidden locally or kept among theperson’s own belongings11. They must be got out of the way as soon as could be. And really there is only one waysuccessfully of disposing of something. That is through the general post. Anything in the nature of clothes can be veryeasily dispatched to charities. Think how pleased the people who collect winter garments for Unemployed13 Mothers, orwhatever the name of the charity, would be to find a nearly brand new woollen jumper. All I had to do was to find outthe address where it had been sent.”
“And you asked them that at the post office?” The Home Secretary looked slightly shocked.
“Not directly, of course. I mean, I had to be a little flustered14 and explain how I’d put the wrong address on someclothes that I was sending to a charity and could they by any chance tell me if the parcel one of my kind hostesses hadbrought up there, had been sent off. And a very nice woman there did her best and remembered that it was not theaddress I was hoping it had been sent to, and she gave me the address that she had noted15. She had no suspicion, Ithink, that I had any wish for the information apart from being—well, rather muddleheaded, elderly, and very worriedabout where my parcel of worn clothes had gone.”
“Ah,” said Professor Wanstead, “I see you are an actress, Miss Marple, as well as an avenger16.” Then he said,“When did you first begin to discover what had happened ten years ago?”
“To begin with,” said Miss Marple, “I found things very difficult, almost impossible. In my mind I was blamingMr. Rafiel for not having made things clear to me. But I see now that he’d been very wise not to do so. Really, youknow, he was extraordinary clever. I can see why he was such a big financier and made so much money so easily. Helaid his plans so well. He gave me just enough information in small packets each time. I was, as it were, directed. Firstmy guardian3 angels were alerted to note what I looked like. Then I was directed on the tour and to the people on it.”
“Did you suspect, if I may use that word, anyone on the tour at first?”
“Only as possibilities.”
“No feeling of evil?”
“Ah, you have remembered that. No, I did not think there was any definite atmosphere of evil. I was not told whomy contact was there, but she made herself known to me.”
“Elizabeth Temple?”
“Yes. It was like a searchlight,” said Miss Marple, “illuminating things on a dark night. So far, you see, I had beenin the dark. There were certain things that must be, must logically be, I mean, because of what Mr. Rafiel hadindicated. There must be somewhere a victim and somewhere a murderer. Yes, a killer17 was indicated because that wasthe only liaison18 that had existed between Mr. Rafiel and myself. There had been a murder in the West Indies. Both heand I had been involved in it and all he knew of me was my connection with that. So it could not be any other type ofcrime. And it could not, either, be a casual crime. It must be, and show itself definitely to be, the handiwork ofsomeone who had accepted evil. Evil instead of good. There seemed to be two victims indicated. There must besomeone who had been killed and there must be clearly a victim of injustice19. A victim who had been accused of acrime he or she had not committed. So now, while I pondered these things, I had no light upon them until I talked toMiss Temple. She was very intense, very compelling. There came the first link which I had with Mr. Rafiel. She spokeof a girl she had known, a girl who had once been engaged to Mr. Rafiel’s son. Here then was my first ray of light.
Presently she also told me that the girl had not married him. I asked why not and she said ‘because she died.’ I askedthen how she died, what had killed her, and she said very strongly, very compellingly—I can hear her voice still, itwas like the sound of a deep bell—she said Love. And she said after that ‘the most frightening word there can be isLove.’ I did not know then exactly what she meant. In fact the first idea that came to me was that the girl hadcommitted suicide as a result of an unhappy love affair. It can happen often enough, and a very sad tragedy it is whenit does happen. That was the most I knew then. That and the fact that the journey she herself was engaged upon was nomere pleasure tour. She was going, she told me, on a pilgrimage. She was going to some place or to some person. I didnot learn then who the person was, that only came later.”
“Archdeacon Brabazon?”
“Yes. I had no idea then of his existence. But from then on I felt that the chief characters—the chief actors—in thedrama, whichever way you like to put it, were not on the tour. They were not members of the coach party. I hesitatedjust for a short time, hesitated over some particular persons. I hesitated, considering Joanna Crawford and EmlynPrice.”
“Why fix on them?”
“Because of their youth,” said Miss Marple. “Because youth is so often associated with suicide, with violence, withintense jealousy20 and tragic21 love. A man kills his girl—it happens. Yes, my mind went to them but it did not seem tome there was any association there. No shadow of evil, of despair, of misery22. I used the idea of them later as a kind offalse pointer when we were drinking sherry at The Old Manor23 House that last evening. I pointed24 out how they couldbe the most easy suspects in the death of Elizabeth Temple. When I see them again,” said Miss Marple, punctiliously,“I shall apologize to them for having used them as useful characters to distract attention from my real ideas.”
“And the next thing was the death of Elizabeth Temple?”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “Actually the next thing was my arrival at The Old Manor House. The kindness of myreception and taking up my stay there under their hospitable25 roof. That again had been arranged by Mr. Rafiel. So Iknew that I must go there, but not for what reason I was to go there. It might be merely a place where moreinformation would come to me to lead me onwards in my quest. I am sorry,” Miss Marple said, suddenly becomingher normal apologetic and slightly fussy26 self, “I am talking at much too great a length. I really must not inflict27 on youall that I thought and….”
“Please go on,” said Professor Wanstead. “You may not know it but what you are telling me is particularlyinteresting to me. It ties up with so much I have known and seen in the work I do. Go on giving me what you felt.”
“Yes, go on,” said Sir Andrew McNeil.
“It was feeling,” said Miss Marple. “It wasn’t really, you know, logical deduction28. It was based on a kind ofemotional reaction or susceptibility to—well, I can only call it atmosphere.”
“Yes,” said Wanstead, “there is atmosphere. Atmosphere in houses, atmosphere in places, in the garden, in theforest, in a public house, in a cottage.”
“The three sisters. That is what I thought and felt and said to myself when I went into The Old Manor House. I wasso kindly29 received by Lavinia Glynne. There’s something about the phrase—the three sisters—that springs up in yourmind as sinister30. It combines with the three sisters in Russian literature, the three witches on Macbeth’s heath. Itseemed to me that there was an atmosphere there of sorrow, of deep felt unhappiness, also an atmosphere of fear and akind of struggling different atmosphere which I can only describe as an atmosphere of normality.”
“Your last word interests me,” said Wanstead.
“It was due, I think, to Mrs. Glynne. She was the one who came to meet me when the coach arrived and explainedthe invitation. She was an entirely normal and pleasant woman, a widow. She was not very happy, but when I say shewas not very happy it was nothing to do with sorrow or deep unhappiness, it was just that she had the wrongatmosphere for her own character. She took me back with her and I met the other two sisters. The next morning I wasto hear from an aged7 housemaid who brought my early morning tea, a story of past tragedy, of a girl who had beenkilled by her boyfriend. Of several other girls in the neighbourhood who’d fallen victims to violence, or sexual assault.
I had to make my second appraisal31. I had dismissed the people in the coach as not being personally concerned in mysearch. Somewhere still there was a killer. I had to ask myself if one of the killers32 could be here. Here in this housewhere I had been sent, Clotilde, Lavinia, Anthea. Three names of three weird33 sisters, three happy—unhappy—suffering—frightened—what were they? My attention was caught first by Clotilde. A tall, handsome woman. Apersonality. Just as Elizabeth Temple had been a personality. I felt that here where the field was limited, I must at leastsum up what I could about the three sisters. Three Fates. Who could be a killer? What kind of a killer? What kind of akilling? I could feel then rising up rather slowly, rather slowly like a miasma35 does, an atmosphere. I don’t think thereis any other word that expresses it except evil. Not necessarily that any of these three was evil, but they were certainlyliving in an atmosphere where evil had happened, had left its shadow or was still threatening them. Clotilde, the eldest,was the first one I considered. She was handsome, she was strong, she was, I thought, a woman of intense emotionalfeeling. I saw her, I will admit, as a possible Clytemnestra. I had recently,” Miss Marple dropped into her everydaytones, “been taken very kindly to a Greek play performed at a well-known boys’ public school not far from my home.
I had been very, very impressed by the acting8 of the Agamemnon and particularly the performance of the boy who hadplayed Clytemnestra. A very remarkable36 performance. It seemed to me that in Clotilde I could imagine a woman whocould plan and carry out the killing34 of a husband in his bath.”
For a moment Professor Wanstead had all he could do to repress a laugh. It was the seriousness of Miss Marple’stone. She gave him a slight twinkle from her eyes.
“Yes, it sounds rather silly, does it not, said like that? But I could see her that way, playing that part, that is to say.
Very unfortunately, she had no husband. She had never had a husband, and therefore did not kill a husband. Then Iconsidered my guide to the house. Lavinia Glynne. She seemed an extremely nice, wholesome37 and pleasant woman.
But alas38, certain people who have killed have produced much that effect on the world round them. They have beencharming people. Many murderers have been delightful39 and pleasant men and people have been astonished. They arewhat I call the respectable killers. The ones who would commit murder from entirely utilitarian40 motives41. Withoutemotion, but to gain a required end. I didn’t think it was very likely and I should be highly surprised if it was so, but Icould not leave out Mrs. Glynne. She had had a husband. She was a widow and had been a widow for some years. Itcould be. I left it at that. And then I came to the third sister. Anthea. She was a disquieting42 personality. Badlycoordinated, it seemed to me, scatterbrained, and in a condition of some emotion which I thought on the whole wasfear. She was frightened of something. Intensely frightened of something. Well, that could fit in too. If she hadcommitted a crime of some kind, a crime which she had thought was finished with and past, there might have beensome recrudescence, some raising up of old problems, something perhaps connected with the Elizabeth Templeenquiries; she might have felt fear that an old crime would be revived or discovered. She had a curious way of lookingat you, and then looking sharply from side to side over one shoulder as though she saw something standing43 behind her.
Something that made her afraid. So she too was a possible answer. A possibly slightly mentally unhinged killer whocould have killed because she considered herself persecuted44. Because she was afraid. These were only ideas. Theywere only a rather more pronounced assessment45 of possibilities that I had already gone through on the coach. But theatmosphere of the house was on me more than ever. The next day I walked in the garden with Anthea. At the end ofthe principal grass path was a mound46. A mound created by the falling down of a former greenhouse. Owing to a lackof repairs and of gardeners at the end of the war it had fallen into disuse, come to pieces, bricks had been piled upsurmounted with earth and turf, and had been planted with a certain creeper. A creeper well known when you want tohide or cover some rather ugly pieces of building in your garden. Polygonum it is called. One of the quickest floweringshrubs which swallows and kills and dries up and gets rid of everything it grows over. It grows over everything. It is ina way a rather frightening plant. It has beautiful white flowers, it can look very lovely. It was not yet in bloom but itwas going to be. I stood there with Anthea, and she seemed to be desperately47 unhappy over the loss of the greenhouse.
She said it had had such lovely grapes, it seemed to be the thing she remembered most about the garden when she hadbeen a child there. And she wanted, she wanted desperately to have enough money so as to dig up the mound, level theground and rebuild the greenhouse and stock it with muscat grapes and peaches as the old greenhouse had been. It wasa terrible nostalgia48 for the past she was feeling. It was more than that. Again, very clearly, I felt an atmosphere of fear.
Something about the mound made her frightened. I couldn’t then think what it was. You know the next thing thathappened. It was Elizabeth Temple’s death and there was no doubt from the story told by Emlyn Price and JoannaCrawford that there could be only one conclusion. It was not accident. It was deliberate murder.
“I think it was from then on,” said Miss Marple, “that I knew. I came to the conclusion there had been threekillings. I heard the full story of Mr. Rafiel’s son, the delinquent49 boy, the exjailbird and I thought that he was all thosethings, but none of them showed him as being a killer or likely to be a killer. All the evidence was against him. Therewas no doubt in anyone’s mind that he had killed the girl whose name I had now learned as being Verity50 Hunt. ButArchdeacon Brabazon put the final crown on the business, as it were. He had known those two young people. Theyhad come to him with their story of wanting to get married and he had taken it upon himself to decide that they shouldget married. He thought that it was not perhaps a wise marriage, but it was a marriage that was justified51 by the fact thatthey both loved each other. The girl loved the boy with what he called a true love. A love as true as her name. And hethought that the boy, for all his bad sexual reputation, had truly loved the girl and had every intention of being faithfulto her and trying to reform some of his evil tendencies. The Archdeacon was not optimistic. He did not, I think,believe it would be a thoroughly52 happy marriage, but it was to his mind what he called a necessary marriage.
Necessary because if you love enough you will pay the price, even if the price is disappointment and a certain amountof unhappiness. But one thing I was quite sure of. That disfigured face, that battered-in head could not have been theaction of a boy who really loved the girl. This was not a story of sexual assault. I was ready to take the Archdeacon’sword for that. But I knew, too, that I’d got the right clue, the clue that was given me by Elizabeth Temple. She hadsaid that the cause of Verity’s death was Love—one of the most frightening words there is.
“It was quite clear then,” said Miss Marple. “I think I’d known for some time really. It was just the small thingsthat hadn’t fitted in, but now they did. They fitted in with what Elizabeth Temple had said. The cause of Verity’sdeath. She had said first the one word ‘Love’ and then that ‘Love could be the most frightening word there was.’ Itwas all mapped out so plainly then. The overwhelming love that Clotilde had had for this girl. The girl’s hero worshipof her, dependency on her, and then as she grew a little older, her normal instincts came into play. She wanted Love.
She wanted to be free to love, to marry, to have children. And along came the boy that she could love. She knew thathe was unreliable, she knew he was what was technically53 called a bad lot, but that,” said Miss Marple, in a moreordinary tone of voice, “is not what puts any girl off a boy. No. Young women like bad lots. They always have. Theyfall in love with bad lots. They are quite sure they can change them. And the nice, kind, steady, reliable husbands gotthe answer, in my young days, that one would be ‘a sister to them,’ which never satisfied them at all. Verity fell inlove with Michael Rafiel, and Michael Rafiel was prepared to turn over a new leaf and marry this girl and was sure hewould never wish to look at another girl again. I don’t say this would have been a happy-ever-after thing, but it was, asthe Archdeacon said quite surely, it was real love. And so they planned to get married. And I think Verity wrote toElizabeth and told her that she was going to marry Michael Rafiel. It was arranged in secret because I think Verity didrealize that what she was doing was essentially54 an escape. She was escaping from a life that she didn’t want to live anylonger, from someone whom she loved very much but not in the way she loved Michael. And she would not beallowed to do so. Permission would not be willingly given, every obstacle would be put in their way. So, like otheryoung people, they were going to elope. There was no need for them to fly off to Gretna Green, they were ofsufficiently mature age to marry. So she appealed to Archdeacon Brabazon, her old friend who had confirmed her—who was a real friend. And the wedding was arranged, the day, the time, probably even she bought secretly somegarment in which to be married. They were to meet somewhere, no doubt. They were to come to the rendezvousseparately. I think he came there, but she did not come. He waited perhaps. Waited and then tried to find out, perhaps,why she didn’t come. I think then a message may have been given him, even a letter sent him, possibly in her forgedhandwriting, saying she had changed her mind. It was all over and she was going away for a time to get over it. I don’tknow. But I don’t think he ever dreamt of the real reason of why she hadn’t come, of why she had sent no word. Hehadn’t thought for one moment that she had been deliberately55, cruelly, almost madly perhaps, destroyed. Clotilde wasnot going to lose the person she loved. She was not going to let her escape, she was not going to let her go to theyoung man whom she herself hated and loathed56. She would keep Verity, keep her in her own way. But what I couldnot believe was—I did not believe that she’d strangled the girl and had then disfigured her face. I don’t think she couldhave borne to do that. I think that she had rearranged the bricks of the fallen greenhouse and piled up earth and turfover most of it. The girl had already been given a drink, an overdose of sleeping draught57 probably. Grecian, as it were,in tradition. One cup of hemlock58—even if it wasn’t hemlock. And she buried the girl there in the garden, piled thebricks over her and the earth and the turf—”
“Did neither of the other sisters suspect it?”
“Mrs. Glynne was not there then. Her husband had not died and she was still abroad. But Anthea was there. I thinkAnthea did know something of what went on. I don’t know that she suspected death at first, but she knew that Clotildehad been occupying herself with the raising up of a mound at the end of the garden to be covered with floweringshrubs, to be a place of beauty. I think perhaps the truth came to her little by little. And then Clotilde, having acceptedevil, done evil, surrendered to evil, had no qualms59 about what she would do next. I think she enjoyed planning it. Shehad a certain amount of influence over a sly, sexy little village girl who came to her cadging60 for benefits now and then.
I think it was easy for her to arrange one day to take the girl on a picnic or an expedition a good long way away. Thirtyor forty miles. She’d chosen the place beforehand, I think. She strangled the girl, disfigured her, hid her under turnedearth, leaves and branches. Why should anyone ever suspect her of doing any such thing? She put Verity’s handbagthere and a little chain Verity used to wear round her neck and possibly dressed her in clothes belonging to Verity. Shehoped the crime would not be found out for some time but in the meantime she spread abroad rumours61 of Nora Broadhaving been seen about in Michael’s car, going about with Michael. Possibly she spread a story that Verity had brokenoff the engagement to be married because of his infidelity with this girl. She may have said anything and I thinkeverything she said she enjoyed, poor lost soul.”
“Why do you say ‘poor lost soul,’ Miss Marple?”
“Because,” said Miss Marple, “I don’t suppose there can be any agony so great as what Clotilde has suffered allthis time—ten years now—living in eternal sorrow. Living, you see, with the thing she had to live with. She had keptVerity, kept her there at The Old Manor House, in the garden, kept her there for ever. She didn’t realize at first whatthat meant. Her passionate62 longing12 for the girl to be alive again. I don’t think she ever suffered from remorse63. I don’tthink she had even that consolation64. She just suffered—went on suffering year after year. And I know now whatElizabeth Temple meant. Better perhaps than she herself did. Love is a very terrible thing. It is alive to evil, it can beone of the most evil things there can be. And she had to live with that day after day, year after year. I think, you know,that Anthea was frightened of that. I think she knew more clearly the whole time what Clotilde had done and shethought that Clotilde knew that she knew. And she was afraid of what Clotilde might do. Clotilde gave that parcel toAnthea to post, the one with the pullover. She said things to me about Anthea, that she was mentally disturbed, that ifshe suffered from persecution65 or jealousy Anthea might do anything. I think—yes—that in the not so distant future—something might have happened to Anthea—an arranged suicide because of a guilty conscience—”
“And yet you are sorry for that woman?” asked Sir Andrew. “Malignant66 evil is like cancer—a malignant tumour67. Itbrings suffering.”
“Of course,” said Miss Marple.
“I suppose you have been told what happened that night,” said Professor Wanstead, “after your guardian angels hadremoved you?”
“You mean Clotilde? She had picked up my glass of milk, I remember. She was still holding it when Miss Cooketook me out of the room. I suppose she—drank it, did she?”
“Yes. Did you know that might happen?”
“I didn’t think of it, no, not at the moment. I suppose I could have known it if I’d thought about it.”
“Nobody could have stopped her. She was so quick about it, and nobody quite realized there was anything wrongin the milk.”
“So she drank it.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No, it would have seemed to her the natural thing to do, one can’t really wonder. It had come by this time that shewanted to escape—from all the things she was having to live with. Just as Verity had wanted to escape from the lifethat she was living there. Very odd, isn’t it, that the retribution one brings on oneself fits so closely with what hascaused it.”
“You sound sorrier for her than you were for the girl who died.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “it’s a different kind of being sorry. I’m sorry for Verity because of all that she missed, allthat she was so near to obtaining. A life of love and devotion and service to the man she had chosen, and whom shetruly loved. Truly and in all verity. She missed all that and nothing can give that back to her. I’m sorry for her becauseof what she didn’t have. But she escaped what Clotilde had to suffer. Sorrow, misery, fear and a growing cultivationand imbibing68 of evil. Clotilde had to live with all those. Sorrow, frustrated69 love which she could never get back, shehad to live with the two sisters who suspected, who were afraid of her, and she had to live with the girl she had keptthere.”
“You mean Verity?”
“Yes. Buried in the garden, buried in the tomb that Clotilde had prepared. She was there in The Old Manor Houseand I think Clotilde knew she was there. It might be that she even saw her or thought she saw her, sometimes when shewent to pick a spray of polygonum blossom. She must have felt very close to Verity then. Nothing worse could happento her, could it, than that? Nothing worse….”
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commissioner
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guardianship
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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conceal
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pretext
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aged
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acting
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entirely
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scarlet
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belongings
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longing
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unemployed
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flustered
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noted
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avenger
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killer
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liaison
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injustice
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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appraisal
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| n.对…作出的评价；评价，鉴定，评估 | |
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killers
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| 凶手( killer的名词复数 )； 消灭…者； 致命物； 极难的事 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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assessment
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| n.评价；评估；对财产的估价，被估定的金额 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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cadging
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| v.乞讨，乞得，索取( cadge的现在分词 ) | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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tumour
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| n.(tumor)(肿)瘤，肿块 | |
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imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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