The path which O'Connor followed was one of those quiet and pleasant by-roads which, in defiance5 of what are called improvements, are still to be discovered throughout Ireland here and there, in some unsuspected region, winding6 their green and sequestered7 ways through many a varied8 scene of rural beauty; and, unless when explored by some chance fisherman or tourist, unknown to all except the poor peasant to whose simple conveniences they minister.
Low and uneven9 embankments, overgrown by a thousand kinds of weeds and wild flowers and brushwood, marked the boundaries of this rustic10 pathway, but in so friendly a sort, and with so little jealousy11 or exclusion12, that they seemed designed rather to lend a soft and sheltered resting-place to the tired traveller than to check the wayward excursions of the idle rambler into the merry fields and woodlands through which it wound. On either side the tall, hoary14 trees, like time-worn pillars, reared their grey, moss-grown trunks and arching branches, now but thinly clothed with the discoloured foliage15 of autumn, and casting their long shadows in the evening sun far over the sloping and unequal sward. The scene, the hour, and the loneliness of the place, would of themselves have been enough to induce a pensive16 train of thought; but, beyond the silence and seclusion17, and the falling of the leaves in their eternal farewell, and all the other touching18 signs of nature's beautiful decay, there were deep in O'Connor's breast recollections and passions with which the scene before him was more nearly associated, than with the ordinary suggestions of fantastic melancholy19.
At some distance from this road, and half hidden among the trees, there stood an old and extensive building, chiefly of deep red brick, presenting many and varied fronts and quaint20 gables, antique-fashioned casements21, and whole groups of fantastic chimneys, sending up their thin curl of smoke into the still air, and glinting tall and red in the declining sun; while the dusky hue22 of the old bricks was every here and there concealed23 under rich mantles25 of dark, luxuriant ivy26, which, in some parts of the structure, had not only mounted to the summits of the wall, but clambered, in rich profusion27, over the steep roof, and even to the very chimney tops. This antique building—rambling, massive, and picturesque28 in no ordinary degree—might well have attracted the observation of the passer-by, as it presented in succession, through the irregular vistas29 of the rich old timber, now one front, now another, alternately hidden and revealed as the point of observation was removed. But the eyes of O'Connor sought this ancient mansion30, and dwelt upon its ever-varying aspects, as he pursued his way, with an interest more deep and absorbing than that of mere31 curiosity or admiration32; and as he slowly followed the grass-grown road, a thousand emotions and remembrances came crowding upon his mind, impetuous, passionate33, and wild, but all tinged34 with a melancholy which even the strong and sanguine35 heart of early manhood could not overcome. As the path proceeded, it became more closely sheltered by the wild bushes and trees, and its windings36 grew more wayward and frequent, when on a sudden, from behind a screen of old thorns which lay a little in advance, a noble dog, of the true old Irish wolf breed, came bounding towards him, with every token of joy and welcome.
"Rover, Rover—down, boy, down," said the stranger, as the huge animal, in his boisterous37 greeting, leaped upon him again and again, flinging his massive paws upon his shoulders, and thrusting his cold nose into his bosom—"down, Rover, down."
The first transport of welcome past, the noble dog waited to receive from his old friend some marks of recognition in return, and then, swinging his long tail from side to side, away he sprang, as if to carry the joyful38 tidings to the companion of his evening ramble13.
O'Connor knew that some of those whom he should not have chosen to meet just then or there were probably within a stone's throw of the spot where he now stood, and for a moment he was strongly tempted39 to turn, and, if so it might be, unobserved to retrace40 his steps. The close screen of wild trees which overshadowed the road would have rendered this design easy of achievement; but while he was upon the point of turning to depart, a few notes of some wild and simple Irish melody, carelessly lilted by a voice of silvery sweetness, floated to his ear. Every cadence41 and vibration42 of that voice was to him enchantment43—he could not choose but pause. The sweet sounds were interrupted by a rustling44 among the withered45 leaves which strewed46 the ground. Again the fine old dog made his appearance, dashing joyously47 along the path towards him, and following in his wake, with slow and gentle steps, came a light and graceful48 female form. On her shoulders rested a short mantle24 of scarlet cloth; the hood was thrown partially49 backward, so as to leave the rich dark ringlets to float freely in the light breeze of evening; the faintest flush imaginable tinged the clear paleness of her cheek, giving to her exquisitely50 beautiful features a lustre51, whose richness did not, however, subdue52 their habitual53 and tender melancholy. The moment the full dark eyes of the girl encountered O'Connor, the song died away upon her lips—the colour fled from her cheeks, and as instantaneously the sudden paleness was succeeded by a blush of such depth and brilliancy as threw far into shade even the brightest imagery of poetic54 fancy.
"Edmond!" she exclaimed, in a tone so faint and low as scarcely to reach his ear, and which yet thrilled to his very heart.
"Yes, Mary—it is, indeed, Edmond O'Connor," answered he, passionately55 and mournfully—"come, after long years of separation, over many a mile of sea and land—unlooked-for, and, mayhap, unwished-for—come once more to see you, and, in seeing you, to be happy, were it but for a moment—come to tell you that he loves you fondly, passionately as ever—come to ask you, dear, dear Mary, if you, too, are unchanged?"
As he thus spoke56, standing57 by her side, O'Connor gazed on the sad, sweet face of her he loved so well, and held that little hand, which he would have given worlds to call his own. The beautiful girl was too artless to disguise her agitation58. She would have spoken, but the effort was vain—the tears gathered in her dark eyes, and fell faster and faster, till at length the fruitless struggle ceased, and she wept long and bitterly.
"Oh! Edmond," said she, at length, raising her eyes sorrowfully and fondly to O'Connor's face—"what has called you hither? We two should hardly have met now or thus."
"Dear Mary," answered he, with melancholy fervour, "since last I held this loved hand, years have passed away—three long years and more—in which we two have never met—in which you scarce have even heard of me. Mary, three years bring many changes—changes irreparable. Time—which has, if it were possible, made you more beautiful even than when I saw you last—may yet have altered earlier feelings, and turned your heart from me. Were it so, Mary, I would not seek to blame you. I am not so vain—your rank—your great attractions—your surpassing beauty, must have won many admirers—drawn many suitors round you; and I—I, among all these, may well have been forgotten—I, whose best merit is but in loving you beyond my life. I will not, then—I will not, Mary, ask if you love me still: but coming thus unbidden and unlooked-for, am I forgiven—am I welcome, Mary?"
The artless girl looked up in his face with such a beautiful smile of trust and love as told more in one brief moment than language could in volumes.
"Yes, Mary," said O'Connor, reading that smile aright, with swelling59 heart and proud devotion; "yes, Mary. I am remembered—you are still my own—my own: true, faithful, unchanged, in spite of years of time and leagues of separation; in spite of all!—my true-hearted, my adored, my own!"
He spoke; and in the fulness of their hearts they were both for a while silent, each gazing on the other in the rapt tenderness of long-tried love—in the deep, guileless joy of this chance meeting.
"Hear me," he whispered, lower almost than the murmur60 of the breeze through the arching boughs61 above them, as if fearful that even a breath would trouble the still enchantment that held them spell-bound: "hear me, for I have much to tell. The years that have passed since I spoke to you before have brought to me their store of good and ill, of sorrow and of hope. I have many things to tell you, Mary; much that gives me hope—the cheeriest hope—even that of overcoming Sir Richard's opposition62! Ay, Mary, reasonable hope; and why? Because I am no longer poor: an old friend of my father's, Mr. Audley, has taken me by the hand, adopted me, made me his heir—the heir to riches and possessions which even your father will allow to be considerable—which he well may think enough to engage his prudence63 in favour of our union. In this hope, dearest, I am here. I daily expect the arrival of my generous friend and benefactor64; and with him I will go to your father and urge my suit once more, and with God's blessing65 at last prevail—but hark! some one comes."
Even while he spoke, the lovers were startled by the sound of voices in gay colloquy66, approaching along the quiet by-road on which they stood.
"Leave me, Edmond, leave me," said the beautiful girl, with earnest entreaty67; "they must not see you with me now."
"Farewell then, dearest, since it must be so," replied O'Connor, as he pressed her hand closely in his own; "but meet me to-morrow evening—meet me by the old gate in the beech-tree walk, at the hour when you used to walk there. Nay68, refuse me not, Mary. Farewell, farewell till then!" and so saying, before she had time to frame an answer, he turned from her, and was quickly lost among the trees and underwood which skirted the pathway.
In the speakers who approached, the young lady at once recognized her brother, Henry Ashwoode, and Emily Copland, her pretty cousin. The young man was handsome alike in face and figure, slightly made, and bearing in his carriage that indescribable air of aristocratic birth and pretension69 which sits not ungracefully upon a handsome person; his countenance70, too, bore a striking resemblance to that of his sister, and, allowing for the difference of sex, resembled it as nearly as any countenance which had never expressed a passion but such as had its aim and origin alike in self, could do. He was dressed in the extreme of the prevailing71 fashion; and altogether his outward man was in all respects such as to justify72 his acknowledged pretensions73 to be considered one of the prettiest men in the then gay city of Dublin. The young lady who accompanied him was, in all points except in that of years, as unlike her cousin, Mary Ashwoode, as one pretty girl could well be to another. She was very fair; had a quick, clear eye, which carried in its glance something more than mere mirth or vivacity74; an animated75 face, with, however, something of a bold, and at times even of a haughty76 expression. Laughing and chatting in light, careless gaiety, the youthful pair approached the spot where Mary Ashwoode stood.
"So, so, fair sister," cried the young man, gaily77, "alone and musing78, and doubtless melancholy. Shall we venture to approach her, Emily?"
Women have keener eyes in small matters than men; and Miss Copland at a glance perceived her fair cousin's flushed cheek and embarrassed manner.
"Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" cried she; "the girl has certainly seen a ghost or a dragoon officer."
"Neither, I assure you, cousin," replied Miss Ashwoode, with an effort; "my evening's ramble has not extended beyond this spot; and as yet I've seen no monster more alarming than my brother's new periwig."
The young man bowed.
"Nay, nay," cried Miss Copland, "but I must hear it. There certainly is some awful mystery at the bottom of all these conscious looks; but apropos79 of awful mysteries," continued she, turning to young Ashwoode, half in pity for Mary's increasing embarrassment80; "where is Major O'Leary? What has become of your amusing old uncle?"
"That's more than I can tell," replied the young man; "I wash my hands of the scapegrace. I know nothing of him. I saw him for a moment in town this morning, and he promised, with a round dozen of oaths, to be out to dine with us to-day. Thus much you know, and thus much I know; for the rest, having sins enough of my own to carry, as I said before, I wash my hands of him and his."
"Well, now remember, Henry," continued she, "I make it a point with you to bring him out here to-morrow. In sober seriousness I can't get on without him. It is a melancholy and a terrible truth, but still one which I feel it my duty to speak boldly, that Major O'Leary is the only gallant81 and susceptible82 man in the family."
"Monstrous83 assertion?" exclaimed the young man; "why, not to mention myself, the acknowledged pink and perfection of everything that is irresistible84, have you not the perfect command of my worthy85 cousin, Arthur Blake?"
"Now don't put me in a passion, Henry," exclaimed the girl. "How dare you mention that wretch86—that irreclaimable, unredeemed fox-hunter. He never talks, nor thinks, nor dreams of anything but dogs and badgers87, foxes and other vermin. I verily believe he never yet was seen off a horse's back, except sometimes in a stable—he is an absolute Irish centaur88! And then his odious89 attempts at finery—his elaborate, perverse90 vulgarity—the perpetual pinching and mincing91 of his words! An off-hand, shameless brogue I can endure—a brogue that revels92 and riots, and defies the world like your uncle O'Leary's, I can respect and even admire—but a brogue in a strait waistcoat——"
"Well, well," rejoined the young man, laughing, "though you may not find any sprout93 of the family tree, excepting Major O'Leary, worthy to contribute to your laudable requirements; yet surely you have a very fair catalogue of young and able-bodied gentlemen among our neighbours. What say you to young Lloyd—he lives within a stone's throw. He is a most proper, pious94, and punctual young gentleman; and would make, I doubt not, a most devout95 and exemplary 'Cavalier servente.'"
"Worse and worse," cried the young lady despondingly; "the most domestic, stupid, affectionate, invulnerable wretch. He never flirts96 out of his own family, and then, for charity I believe, with the oldest and ugliest. He is the very person for whose special case the rubric provided that no man shall marry his grandmother."
"My fair cousin," replied the young man, laughing, "I see you are hard to please. Meanwhile, sweet ladies both, let me remind you that the sun has just set; we must make our way homeward—at least I must. By the way, can I do anything in town for you this evening, beyond a tender message to my reverend uncle?"
"Dear me," exclaimed Miss Copland, "you have not passed an evening at home this age. What can you want, morning, noon, and night in that smoky, dirty town?"
"Why, the fact is," replied the young man, "business must be done; I positively97 must attend two routs98 to-night."
"Whose routs—what are they?" inquired the young lady.
"One is Mrs. Tresham's, the other Lady Stukely's."
"I guessed that ugly old kinswoman of mine was at the bottom of it," exclaimed the young lady with great vivacity. "Lady Stukely—that pompous99, old, frightful100 goose!—she has laid herself out to seduce101 you, Harry102; but don't let that dismay you, for ten to one if you fall, she'll make an honest man of you in the end and marry you. Only think, Mary, what a sister you shall have," and the young lady laughed heartily103, and then added, "There are some excellent, worthy, abominable104 people, who seem made expressly to put one in a passion—perpetual appeals to one's virtuous105 indignation. Now do, Henry, for goodness sake, if a matrimonial catastrophe106 must come, choose at least some nymph with less rouge107 and wrinkles than poor dear Lady Stukely."
"Kind cousin, thyself shalt choose for me," answered the young man; "but pray, suffer me to be at large for a year or two more. I would fain live and breathe a little, before I go down into the matrimonial pit and be no more seen. But let us mend our pace, the evening turns chill."
Thus chatting carelessly, they moved towards the large brick building which we have already described, embowered among the trees; where arrived, the young man forthwith applied108 himself to prepare for a night of dissipation, and the young ladies to get through a dull evening as best they might.
The two fair cousins sate109 in a large, old-fashioned drawing-room; the walls were covered with elaborately-wrought tapestry110 representing, in a manner sufficiently111 grim and alarming, certain scenes from Ovid's Metamorphoses; a cheerful fire blazed in the capacious hearth112; and the cumbrous mantelpiece was covered with those grotesque113 and monstrous china figures, misnamed ornaments114, which were then beginning to find favour in the eyes of fashion. Abundance of richly carved furniture was disposed variously throughout the room. The young ladies sate by a small table on which lay some books and materials for work, placed near the fire. They occupied each one of those huge, high-backed, and well-stuffed chairs in which it is a mystery how our ancestors could sit and remain awake. Both were silently occupied with their own busy reflections; and it was not until the rapid clank of the horse's hoofs115 upon the pavement underneath116 the windows, as young Ashwoode started upon his night ride to the city, rose sharp and clear, that Miss Copland, waking from her reverie, exclaimed,—
"Well, sweet coz, were ever so woebegone and desolate117 a pair of damsels. The only available male creature in the establishment, with the exception of Sir Richard, who has actually gone to bed, has fairly turned his back upon us."
"Dear Emily," replied her cousin, "pray be serious. I wish to tell you what has passed this evening. You observed my confusion and agitation when you and Henry overtook me."
"Why, to be sure I did," replied the young lady; "and now, like an honest coz, you are going to tell me all about it." She drew her chair nearer as she spoke. "Come, my dear, tell me everything—what was your discovery? Come, now, there's a good girl, do confess." So saying she threw one arm round her cousin's neck and laid the other in her lap, looking curiously118 into her face the while.
"Oh! Emily, I have seen him!" exclaimed Miss Ashwoode, with an effort.
"Seen him!—seen whom?—old Nick, if I may judge from your looks. Whom have you seen, dear?" eagerly inquired Miss Copland.
"I have seen Edmond O'Connor," answered she.
"Edmond O'Connor!" repeated the girl in unfeigned surprise, "why, I thought he was in France, eating frogs and dancing cotillons. What has brought him here?—why, he'll be taken for a spy and executed on the spot. But seriously, can you conceive anything more rash and ill-judged than his coming over just now?"
"It is indeed, I greatly fear, very rash," replied the young lady; "he is resolved to speak with my father once more."
"And your father in such a precious ill-humour just at this precise moment," exclaimed Miss Copland. "I never was so much afraid of Sir Richard as I have been for the last two days; he has been a perfect bruin—begging your pardon, my dear girl—but even you must admit, let filial piety119 and all the cardinal120 virtues121 say what they will, that whenever Sir Richard is recovering from a fit of the gout he is nothing short of a perfect monster. I wager122 my diamond cross to a thimble, that he breaks the poor young man's head the moment he comes within reach of him. But jesting apart, I fear, my dear cousin, that my uncle is in no mood just now to listen to heroics."
A sharp knocking upon the floor immediately above the chamber in which the young ladies sate, interrupted the conference at this juncture123.
"There is my father's signal—he wants me," exclaimed Miss Ashwoode, and rising as she spoke, without more ado she ran to render the required attendance.
"Strange girl," exclaimed Miss Copland, as her cousin's step was heard ascending124 the stairs, "strange girl!—she is the veriest simpleton I ever yet encountered. All this fuss to marry a fellow who is, in plain words, little better than a beggarman—a good-looking beggarman, to be sure, but still a beggar. Oh, Mary, simple Mary! I am very much tempted to despise you—there is certainly something wrong about you! I hate to see people without ambition enough even to wish to keep their own natural position. The girl is full of nonsense; but what's that to me? she'll unlearn it all one day; but I'm much afraid, simple cousin, a little too late."
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1
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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7
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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13
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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casements
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| n.窗扉( casement的名词复数 ) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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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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34
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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40
retrace
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| v.折回；追溯，探源 | |
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41
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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42
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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43
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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44
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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45
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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46
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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47
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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48
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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49
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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50
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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51
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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52
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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53
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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54
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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56
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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57
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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58
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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59
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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60
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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61
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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62
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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63
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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65
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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66
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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67
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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68
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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69
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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70
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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71
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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72
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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73
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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78
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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79
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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80
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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81
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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83
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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84
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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85
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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86
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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87
badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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88
centaur
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| n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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89
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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90
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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92
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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93
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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94
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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95
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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96
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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98
routs
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| n.打垮，赶跑( rout的名词复数 )；（体育）打败对方v.打垮，赶跑( rout的第三人称单数 )；（体育）打败对方 | |
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99
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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100
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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101
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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102
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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103
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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104
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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105
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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106
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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107
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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108
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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109
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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110
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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111
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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112
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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113
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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114
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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115
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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116
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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117
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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118
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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119
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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120
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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121
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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122
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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123
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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124
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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125
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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