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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
CHAPTER 6
Hundreds of People
THE quiet lodgings1 of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived, on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine Sundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly2, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and generally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have his own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the Doctor's household pointed3 to that time as a likely time for solving them.
A quainter4 corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista5 of street that had a congenial air of retirement6 on it. There were few buildings then, north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and the hawthorn7 blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing8 into the parish like stray paupers9 without a settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which the peaches ripened10 in their season.
The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part of the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow, though not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
There ought to have been a tranquil11 bark in such an anchorage, and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large still house, where several callings purported12 to be pursued by day, but whereof little was audible any day, and which was shunned13 by all of them at night. In a building at the back, attainable14 by a court-yard' where a plane-tree rustled16 its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion17 of all visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger18 rumoured19 to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker20 asserted to have a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray workman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered about there, or a distant clink was heard across the court-yard, or a thump21 from the golden giant. These, how-ever, were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and its revival22 in the floating whispers of his story, brought him. His scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious experiments, brought him other-wise into moderate request, and he earned a, much as he wanted.
These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner, on the fine Sunday afternoon.
`Doctor Manette at home?'
Expected home.
`Miss Lucie at home?'
Expected home.
`Miss Pross at home?'
Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for hand-maid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the fact.
`As I am at home myself,' said Mr. Lorry, `I'll go up-stairs.'
Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her birth, she appeared to have innately24 derived25 from it that ability to make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, that its effect was delightful26. The disposition27 of everything in the rooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours, the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift28 in trifles, by delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in themselves, and so expressive29 of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, with something of that peculiar30 expression which he knew so well by this time, whether he approved?
There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which he detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third, changingly speckled by the rustle15 of the plane-tree in the yard, was the Doctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the dismal31 house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
`I wonder,' said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, `that he keeps that reminder32 of his sufferings about him!'
`And why wonder at that?' was the abrupt33 inquiry34 that made him start.
It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved.
`I should have thought---`Mr. Lorry began.
`Pooh! You'd have thought!' said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
`How do you do?' inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to express that she bore him no malice35.
`I am pretty well, I thank you,' answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness36; `how are you?'
`Nothing to boast of,' said Miss Pross.
`Indeed?'
`Ah! indeed!' said Miss Pross. `I am very much put out about my Ladybird.'
`Indeed?'
`For gracious sake say something else besides ``indeed,'' or you'll fidget me to death,' said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from stature) was shortness.'
`Really, then?' said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment37.
`Really, is bad enough,' returned Miss Pross, `but better. Yes, I am very much put out.'
`May I ask the cause?'
`I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy38 of Ladybird, to come here looking after her,' said Miss Pross.
`Do dozens come for that purpose?'
`Hundreds,' said Miss Pross.
It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her time and since) that whenever her original pro-position was questioned, she exaggerated it.
`Dear me!' said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
`I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take your affidavit39, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,' said Miss Pross.
Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head; using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would fit anything.
`All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet, are always turning up,' said Miss Pross. `When you began it---'
`I began it, Miss Pross?'
`Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?'
`Oh! If that was beginning it---'said Mr. Lorry.
`It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation40 on him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.'
Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by this time to be, beneath the surface of her eccentricity41, one of those unselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and admiration42, bind43 themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments44 that they were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there is nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so rendered and so free from any mercenary taint23, he had such an exalted45 respect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own mind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.
`There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Lady-bird,' said Miss Pross; `and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a mistake in life.'
Here again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries46 into Miss Pross's personal history had established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped her of everything she possessed47, as a stake to speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity48 of belief in Solomon (deducting a mere49 trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
`As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of business,' he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had sat down there in friendly relations, `let me ask you--does the Doctor, in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?'
`Never.'
`And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?'
`Ah!' returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. `But I don't say he don't refer to it within himself.'
`Do you believe that he thinks of it much?'
`I do,' said Miss Pross.
`Do you imagine---' Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up short with:
`Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.'
`I stand corrected,; do you suppose--you go so far as to Suppose, sometimes?
`Now and then,' said Miss Pross.
`Do you suppose,' Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his bright eye, as it looked kindly50 at her, `that Doctor Manette has any theory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to the cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor?'
`I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.'
`And that is---?'
`That she thinks he has.'
`Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.'
`Dull?' Miss Pross inquired, with placidity51.
Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, `No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business:- Is it not remarkable52 that Doctor Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me, though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly53 attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous54 interest.'
`Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell me,' said Miss Pross, softened55 by the tone of the apology, `he is afraid of the whole subject.
`Afraid?'
`It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not knowing how he lost himself, or how he re-covered himself, he may never feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the subject pleasant, I should think.'
It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. `True,' said he, `and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks56 in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.'
`Can't be helped,' said Miss Pross, shaking her head. `Touch that string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone. In short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, lie gets up in the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in his old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up and down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says a word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down together, walking up and down together, till her love and company have brought him to himself.'
Notwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a perception of the pain of being monotonously57 haunted by one sad idea, in her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to her possessing such a thing.
The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had set it going.
`Here they are!' said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference; `and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!'
It was such a curious comer in its acoustical58 properties, such a peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window, looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though the steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross was ready at the street door to receive them.
Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit59 wild, and red, and grim, taking off her darling's bonnet60 when she came up-stairs, and touching61 it up with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and folding her mantle62 ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against her taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired63 to her own chamber64 and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his little wig65, and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and always acquitted66 herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be better. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly67 practical kind, she had ravaged68 Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of impoverished69 French, who, tempted70 by shillings and half-crowns, would impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress, or Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl71, a rabbit, a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into any-thing she pleased.
On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower regions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion, Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts to please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit there in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved72 about her, they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for the special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished73. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its own way above their heads.
Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he was only One.
Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross suddenly became afflicted74 with a twitching75 in the head and body, and retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this disorder76, and she called it, in familiar conversation, `a fit of the jerks.'
The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially77 young. The resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the likeness78.
He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual vivacity79. `Pray, Doctor Manette,' said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be the old buildings of London-have you seen much of the Tower?'
`Lucie and I have been there; but only casually80. We have seen enough of it, to know that it teems81 with interest; little more.'
`I have been there, as you remember,' said Darnay, with a smile, though reddening a little angrily, `in another character, and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing, much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was there.
`What was that?' Lucie asked.
`In making some alterations82, the workmen came upon an old dungeon83, which had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered by inscriptions85 which had been carved by prisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested that the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription84, and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled86 with the ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.'
`My father,' exclaimed Lucie, `you are ill!'
He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and his look quite terrified them all.
`No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they made me start. We had better go in.'
He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned towards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and that the rain had startled him.
Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Garton had lounged in, but he made only Two.
The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was done with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the heavy twilight87. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the ceiling, and waved them like spectral88 wings.
`The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,' said Doctor Manette. `It comes slowly.
`It comes surely,' said Carton.
They spoke89 low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
There was a great hurry in the streets, of people speeding away to get shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes resounded90 with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a footstep was there.
`A multitude of people, and yet a solitude91!' said Darnay, when they had listened for a while.
`Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?' asked Lucie. `Sometimes, I have sat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder92 to-night, when all is so black and solemn---'
`Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.'
`It will seem nothing to you. Such whims93 are only impressive as we originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-by into our lives.'
`There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,' Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody94 way.
The footsteps were incessant95, and the hurry of them became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some, as it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some coming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in the distant streets, and not one within sight.
`Are all these footsteps destined96 to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or are we to divide them among us?'
`I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and then I have imagined them the foot-steps the people who are to come into my life, and my father's.'
`I take them into mine!' said Carton. `I ask no questions and make no stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette, and I see them---by the Lightning.' He added the last words, after there had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
`And I hear them.' he added again, after a peal97 of thunder.
`Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious.'
It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him, for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable98 storm of thunder and lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's interval99 in crash, and We, and rain, until after the moon rose at midnight.
The great bell of Saint Paul's was striking One in the cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted. and bearing a lantern, set forth100 on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary101 patches of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful of footpads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was usually performed a good two hours earlier.
`What a night it has been! Almost a night, `Jerry,' said Mr. Lorry, `to bring the dead out of their graves.
`I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what would do that,' answered Jerry.
`Good-night, Mr. Carton,' said the man of business. `Good-night, Mr. Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!'
Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar, bearing down upon them, too.
收听单词发音 |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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quainter
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的比较级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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innately
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| adv.天赋地；内在地，固有地 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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30
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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31
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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32
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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33
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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34
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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35
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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36
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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37
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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38
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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39
affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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40
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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41
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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42
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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43
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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44
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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48
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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51
placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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52
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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53
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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55
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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56
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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57
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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58
acoustical
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| adj. 听觉的，声学的，音响学的 | |
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59
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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60
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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61
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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62
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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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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66
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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68
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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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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71
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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72
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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74
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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76
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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78
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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79
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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81
teems
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| v.充满( teem的第三人称单数 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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82
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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83
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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84
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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85
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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86
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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87
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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88
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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89
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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90
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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91
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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92
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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93
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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94
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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95
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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96
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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97
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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98
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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99
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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