Under his great sorrow he was always patient. As in times of far greater affliction, he enforced a quiet endurance of his woe8 upon himself. But so many interests were quenched9 by this blindness that he was driven inwards, and must have dwelt much on what was painful and distressing10 in regard to his only son. No wonder that his spirits gave way, and were depressed12. For some time before this autumn, his daughters had been collecting all the information they could respecting the probable success of operations for cataract performed on a person of their father's age. About the end of July, Emily and Charlotte had made a journey to Manchester for the purpose of searching out an operator; and there they heard of the fame of the late Mr. Wilson as an oculist13. They went to him at once, but he could not tell, from description, whether the eyes were ready for being operated upon or not. It therefore became necessary for Mr. Brontë to visit him; and towards the end of August, Charlotte brought her father to him. He determined14 at once to undertake the operation, and recommended them to comfortable lodgings15, kept by an old servant of his. These were in one of numerous similar streets of small monotonous16-looking houses, in a suburb of the town. From thence the following letter is dated, on August 21st, 1846:—
"I just scribble17 a line to you to let you know where I am, in order that you may write to me here, for it seems to me that a letter from you would relieve me from the feeling of strangeness I have in this big town. Papa and I came here on Wednesday; we saw Mr. Wilson, the oculist, the same day; he pronounced papa's eyes quite ready for an operation, and has fixed18 next Monday for the performance of it. Think of us on that day! We got into our lodgings yesterday. I think we shall be comfortable; at least our rooms are very good, but there is no mistress of the house (she is very ill, and gone out into the country), and I am somewhat puzzled in managing about provisions; we board ourselves. I find myself excessively ignorant. I can't tell what to order in the way of meat. For ourselves I could contrive19, papa's diet is so very simple; but there will be a nurse coming in a day or two, and I am afraid of not having things good enough for her. Papa requires nothing, you know, but plain beef and mutton, tea and bread and butter; but a nurse will probably expect to live much better; give me some hints if you can. Mr. Wilson says we shall have to stay here for a month at least. I wonder how Emily and Anne will get on at home with Branwell. They, too, will have their troubles. What would I not give to have you here! One is forced, step by step, to get experience in the world; but the learning is so disagreeable. One cheerful feature in the business is, that Mr. Wilson thinks most favourably20 of the case."
"August 26th, 1846.
"The operation is over; it took place yesterday Mr. Wilson performed it; two other surgeons assisted. Mr. Wilson says, he considers it quite successful; but papa cannot yet see anything. The affair lasted precisely22 a quarter of an hour; it was not the simple operation of couching Mr. C. described, but the more complicated one of extracting the cataract. Mr. Wilson entirely23 disapproves24 of couching. Papa displayed extraordinary patience and firmness; the surgeons seemed surprised. I was in the room all the time; as it was his wish that I should be there; of course, I neither spoke25 nor moved till the thing was done, and then I felt that the less I said, either to papa or the surgeons, the better. Papa is now confined to his bed in a dark room, and is not to be stirred for four days; he is to speak and be spoken to as little as possible. I am greatly obliged to you for your letter, and your kind advice, which gave me extreme satisfaction, because I found I had arranged most things in accordance with it, and, as your theory coincides with my practice, I feel assured the latter is right. I hope Mr. Wilson will soon allow me to dispense26 with the nurse; she is well enough, no doubt, but somewhat too obsequious27; and not, I should think, to be much trusted; yet I was obliged to trust her in some things. . . .
"Greatly was I amused by your account of ——'s flirtations; and yet something saddened also. I think Nature intended him for something better than to fritter away his time in making a set of poor, unoccupied spinsters unhappy. The girls, unfortunately, are forced to care for him, and such as him, because, while their minds are mostly unemployed29, their sensations are all unworn, and, consequently, fresh and green; and he, on the contrary, has had his fill of pleasure, and can with impunity30 make a mere31 pastime of other people's torments32. This is an unfair state of things; the match is not equal. I only wish I had the power to infuse into the souls of the persecuted33 a little of the quiet strength of pride—of the supporting consciousness of superiority (for they are superior to him because purer)—of the fortifying34 resolve of firmness to bear the present, and wait the end. Could all the virgin35 population of —— receive and retain these sentiments, he would continually have to veil his crest36 before them. Perhaps, luckily, their feelings are not so acute as one would think, and the gentleman's shafts37 consequently don't wound so deeply as he might desire. I hope it is so."
A few days later, she writes thus: "Papa is still lying in bed, in a dark room, with his eyes bandaged. No inflammation ensued, but still it appears the greatest care, perfect quiet, and utter privation of light are necessary to ensure a good result from the operation. He is very patient, but, of course, depressed and weary. He was allowed to try his sight for the first time yesterday. He could see dimly. Mr. Wilson seemed perfectly38 satisfied, and said all was right. I have had bad nights from the toothache since I came to Manchester."
All this time, notwithstanding the domestic anxieties which were harassing39 them—notwithstanding the ill-success of their poems—the three sisters were trying that other literary venture, to which Charlotte made allusion40 in one of her letters to the Messrs. Aylott. Each of them had written a prose tale, hoping that the three might be published together. "Wuthering Heights" and "Agnes Grey" are before the world. The third—Charlotte's contribution—is yet in manuscript, but will be published shortly after the appearance of this memoir41. The plot in itself is of no great interest; but it is a poor kind of interest that depends upon startling incidents rather than upon dramatic development of character; and Charlotte Brontë never excelled one or two sketches42 of portraits which she had given in "The Professor", nor, in grace of womanhood, ever surpassed one of the female characters there described. By the time she wrote this tale, her taste and judgment43 had revolted against the exaggerated idealisms of her early girlhood, and she went to the extreme of reality, closely depicting44 characters as they had shown themselves to her in actual life: if there they were strong even to coarseness,—as was the case with some that she had met with in flesh and blood existence,—she "wrote them down an ass21;" if the scenery of such life as she saw was for the most part wild and grotesque45, instead of pleasant or picturesque46, she described it line for line. The grace of the one or two scenes and characters, which are drawn47 rather from her own imagination than from absolute fact stand out in exquisite48 relief from the deep shadows and wayward lines of others, which call to mind some of the portraits of Rembrandt.
The three tales had tried their fate in vain together, at length they were sent forth49 separately, and for many months with still-continued ill success. I have mentioned this here, because, among the dispiriting circumstances connected with her anxious visit to Manchester, Charlotte told me that her tale came back upon her hands, curtly50 rejected by some publisher, on the very day when her father was to submit to his operation. But she had the heart of Robert Bruce within her, and failure upon failure daunted51 her no more than him. Not only did "The Professor" return again to try his chance among the London publishers, but she began, in this time of care and depressing inquietude, in those grey, weary, uniform streets; where all faces, save that of her kind doctor, were strange and untouched with sunlight to her,—there and then, did the brave genius begin "Jane Eyre". Read what she herself says:—"Currer Bell's book found acceptance nowhere, nor any acknowledgment of merit, so that something like the chill of despair began to invade his heart." And, remember it was not the heart of a person who, disappointed in one hope, can turn with redoubled affection to the many certain blessings52 that remain. Think of her home, and the black shadow of remorse53 lying over one in it, till his very brain was mazed54, and his gifts and his life were lost;—think of her father's sight hanging on a thread;—of her sister's delicate health, and dependence55 on her care;—and then admire as it deserves to be admired, the steady courage which could work away at "Jane Eyre", all the time "that the one-volume tale was plodding56 its weary round in London."
I believe I have already mentioned that some of her surviving friends consider that an incident which she heard, when at school at Miss Wooler's, was the germ of the story of Jane Eyre. But of this nothing can be known, except by conjecture57. Those to whom she spoke upon the subject of her writings are dead and silent; and the reader may probably have noticed, that in the correspondence from which I have quoted, there has been no allusion whatever to the publication of her poems, nor is there the least hint of the intention of the sisters to publish any tales. I remember, however, many little particulars which Miss Brontë gave me, in answer to my inquiries58 respecting her mode of composition, etc. She said, that it was not every day, that she could write. Sometimes weeks or even months elapsed before she felt that she had anything to add to that portion of her story which was already written. Then, some morning, she would waken up, and the progress of her tale lay clear and bright before her, in distinct vision, when this was the case, all her care was to discharge her household and filial duties, so as to obtain leisure to sit down and write out the incidents and consequent thoughts, which were, in fact, more present to her mind at such times than her actual life itself. Yet notwithstanding this "possession" (as it were), those who survive, of her daily and household companions, are clear in their testimony59, that never was the claim of any duty, never was the call of another for help, neglected for an instant. It had become necessary to give Tabby—now nearly eighty years of age—the assistance of a girl. Tabby relinquished60 any of her work with jealous reluctance61, and could not bear to be reminded, though ever so delicately, that the acuteness of her senses was dulled by age. The other servant might not interfere62 with what she chose to consider her exclusive work. Among other things, she reserved to herself the right of peeling the potatoes for dinner; but as she was growing blind, she often left in those black specks63, which we in the North call the "eyes" of the potato. Miss Brontë was too dainty a housekeeper64 to put up with this; yet she could not bear to hurt the faithful old servant, by bidding the younger maiden65 go over the potatoes again, and so reminding Tabby that her work was less effectual than formerly66. Accordingly she would steal into the kitchen, and quietly carry off the bowl of vegetables, without Tabby's being aware, and breaking off in the full flow of interest and inspiration in her writing, carefully cut out the specks in the potatoes, and noiselessly carry them back to their place. This little proceeding68 may show how orderly and fully67 she accomplished69 her duties, even at those times when the "possession" was upon her.
Any one who has studied her writings,—whether in print or in her letters; any one who has enjoyed the rare privilege of listening to her talk, must have noticed her singular felicity in the choice of words. She herself, in writing her books, was solicitous70 on this point. One set of words was the truthful71 mirror of her thoughts; no others, however apparently72 identical in meaning, would do. She had that strong practical regard for the simple holy truth of expression, which Mr. Trench73 has enforced, as a duty too often neglected. She would wait patiently searching for the right term, until it presented itself to her. It might be provincial74, it might be derived75 from the Latin; so that it accurately76 represented her idea, she did not mind whence it came; but this care makes her style present the finish of a piece of mosaic77. Each component78 part, however small, has been dropped into the right place. She never wrote down a sentence until she clearly understood what she wanted to say, had deliberately79 chosen the words, and arranged them in their right order. Hence it comes that, in the scraps80 of paper covered with her pencil writing which I have seen, there will occasionally be a sentence scored out, but seldom, if ever, a word or an expression. She wrote on these bits of paper in a minute hand, holding each against a piece of board, such as is used in binding81 books, for a desk. This plan was necessary for one so short-sighted as she was; and, besides, it enabled her to use pencil and paper, as she sat near the fire in the twilight82 hours, or if (as was too often the case) she was wakeful for hours in the night. Her finished manuscripts were copied from these pencil scraps, in clear, legible, delicate traced writing, almost as easy to read as print.
The sisters retained the old habit, which was begun in their aunt's life-time, of putting away their work at nine o'clock, and beginning their study, pacing up and down the sitting room. At this time, they talked over the stories they were engaged upon, and described their plots. Once or twice a week, each read to the others what she had written, and heard what they had to say about it. Charlotte told me, that the remarks made had seldom any effect in inducing her to alter her work, so possessed83 was she with the feeling that she had described reality; but the readings were of great and stirring interest to all, taking them out of the gnawing84 pressure of daily-recurring cares, and setting them in a free place. It was on one of these occasions, that Charlotte determined to make her heroine plain, small, and unattractive, in defiance85 of the accepted canon.
The writer of the beautiful obituary86 article on "the death of Currer Bell" most likely learnt from herself what is there stated, and which I will take the liberty of quoting, about Jane Eyre.
"She once told her sisters that they were wrong—even morally wrong—in making their heroines beautiful as a matter of course. They replied that it was impossible to make a heroine interesting on any other terms. Her answer was, 'I will prove to you that you are wrong; I will show you a heroine as plain and as small as myself, who shall be as interesting as any of yours.' Hence 'Jane Eyre,' said she in telling the anecdote87: 'but she is not myself, any further than that.' As the work went on, the interest deepened to the writer. When she came to 'Thornfield' she could not stop. Being short-sighted to excess, she wrote in little square paper-books, held close to her eyes, and (the first copy) in pencil. On she went, writing incessantly88 for three weeks; by which time she had carried her heroine away from Thornfield, and was herself in a fever which compelled her to pause."
This is all, I believe, which can now be told respecting the conception and composition of this wonderful book, which was, however, only at its commencement when Miss Brontë returned with her father to Haworth, after their anxious expedition to Manchester.
They arrived at home about the end of September. Mr. Brontë was daily gaining strength, but he was still forbidden to exercise his sight much. Things had gone on more comfortably while she was away than Charlotte had dared to hope, and she expresses herself thankful for the good ensured and the evil spared during her absence.
Soon after this some proposal, of which I have not been able to gain a clear account, was again mooted89 for Miss Brontë's opening a school at some place distant from Haworth. It elicited90 the following fragment of a characteristic reply:—
"Leave home!—I shall neither be able to find place nor employment, perhaps, too, I shall be quite past the prime of life, my faculties91 will be rusted28, and my few acquirements in a great measure forgotten. These ideas sting me keenly sometimes; but, whenever I consult my conscience, it affirms that I am doing right in staying at home, and bitter are its upbraidings when I yield to an eager desire for release. I could hardly expect success if I were to err92 against such warnings. I should like to hear from you again soon. Bring —— to the point, and make him give you a clear, not a vague, account of what pupils he really could promise; people often think they can do great things in that way till they have tried; but getting pupils is unlike getting any other sort of goods."
Whatever might be the nature and extent of this negotiation93, the end of it was that Charlotte adhered to the decision of her conscience, which bade her remain at home, as long as her presence could cheer or comfort those who were in distress11, or had the slightest influence over him who was the cause of it. The next extract gives us a glimpse into the cares of that home. It is from a letter dated December 15th.
"I hope you are not frozen up; the cold here is dreadful. I do not remember such a series of North-Pole days. England might really have taken a slide up into the Arctic Zone; the sky looks like ice; the earth is frozen; the wind is as keen as a two-edged blade. We have all had severe colds and coughs in consequence of the weather. Poor Anne has suffered greatly from asthma94, but is now, we are glad to say, rather better. She had two nights last week when her cough and difficulty of breathing were painful indeed to hear and witness, and must have been most distressing to suffer; she bore it, as she bears all affliction, without one complaint, only sighing now and then when nearly worn out. She has an extraordinary heroism95 of endurance. I admire, but I certainly could not imitate her." . . . "You say I am to 'tell you plenty.' What would you have me say? Nothing happens at Haworth; nothing, at least, of a pleasant kind. One little incident occurred about a week ago, to sting us to life; but if it gives no more pleasure for you to hear, than it did for us to witness, you will scarcely thank me for adverting96 to it. It was merely the arrival of a Sheriff's officer on a visit to B., inviting97 him either to pay his debts or take a trip to York. Of course his debts had to be paid. It is not agreeable to lose money, time after time, in this way; but where is the use of dwelling98 on such subjects? It will make him no better."
"December 28th.
"I feel as if it was almost a farce99 to sit down and write to you now, with nothing to say worth listening to; and, indeed, if it were not for two reasons, I should put off the business at least a fortnight hence. The first reason is, I want another letter from you, for your letters are interesting, they have something in them; some results of experience and observation; one receives them with pleasure, and reads them with relish100; and these letters I cannot expect to get, unless I reply to them. I wish the correspondence could be managed so as to be all on one side. The second reason is derived from a remark in your last, that you felt lonely, something as I was at Brussels, and that consequently you had a peculiar101 desire to hear from old acquaintance. I can understand and sympathise with this. I remember the shortest note was a treat to me, when I was at the above-named place; therefore I write. I have also a third reason: it is a haunting terror lest you should imagine I forget you—that my regard cools with absence. It is not in my nature to forget your nature; though, I dare say, I should spit fire and explode sometimes if we lived together continually; and you, too, would get angry, and then we should get reconciled and jog on as before. Do you ever get dissatisfied with your own temper when you are long fixed to one place, in one scene, subject to one monotonous species of annoyance102? I do: I am now in that unenviable frame of mind; my humour, I think, is too soon over-thrown, too sore, too demonstrative and vehement103. I almost long for some of the uniform serenity104 you describe in Mrs. ——'s disposition105; or, at least, I would fain have her power of self-control and concealment106; but I would not take her artificial habits and ideas along with her composure. After all I should prefer being as I am. . . You do right not to be annoyed at any maxims107 of conventionality you meet with. Regard all new ways in the light of fresh experience for you: if you see any honey gather it." . . . "I don't, after all, consider that we ought to despise everything we see in the world, merely because it is not what we are accustomed to. I suspect, on the contrary, that there are not unfrequently substantial reasons underneath108 for customs that appear to us absurd; and if I were ever again to find myself amongst strangers, I should be solicitous to examine before I condemned109. Indiscriminating irony110 and faultfinding are just sumphishness, and that is all. Anne is now much better, but papa has been for near a fortnight far from well with the influenza111; he has at times a most distressing cough, and his spirits are much depressed."
So ended the year 1846.
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1
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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2
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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5
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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9
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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oculist
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| n.眼科医生 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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rusted
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| v.（使）生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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33
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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34
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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37
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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38
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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39
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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40
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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41
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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42
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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43
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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44
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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45
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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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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58
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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60
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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84
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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89
mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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92
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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93
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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94
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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95
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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96
adverting
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| 引起注意（advert的现在分词形式） | |
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97
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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98
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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99
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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100
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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101
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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102
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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103
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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104
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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105
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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106
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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107
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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108
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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109
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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111
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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