Oliver Twist 雾都孤儿 - Chapter 51
时间：2016-05-05 05:51:28
（单词翻译:单击）
The events narrated2 in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town.
Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him:
and Mr. Brownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been mentioned. They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of agitation3 and uncertainty4 which deprived him of the power of collecting his thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree.
He and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks5; and although they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped6 in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense suspense7. The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.
'It was quite true,' he said, 'that they must know them before long, but it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a worse.'
So, they travelled on in silence:
each busied with reflections on the object which had brought them together:
and no one disposed to give utterance8 to the thoughts which crowded upon all. But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into that which he had traversed on foot:
a poor houseless, wandering boy, without a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head. 'See there, there!' cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and pointing out at the carriage window; 'that's the stile I came over; there are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake me and force me back!
Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house where I was a little child!
Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could only see you now!' 'You will see him soon,' replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands between her own.
'You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the coming back to make him happy too.' 'Yes, yes,' said Oliver, 'and we'll--we'll take him away from here, and have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well,--shall we?' Rose nodded 'yes,' for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she could not speak. 'You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,' said Oliver.
'It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again--I know that too--to think how changed he is; you did the same with me.
He said "God bless you" to me when I ran away,' cried the boy with a burst of affectionate emotion; 'and I will say "God bless you" now, and show him how I love him for it!' As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within reasonable bounds.
There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just as it used to be, only smaller and less imposing9 in appearance than he remembered it--there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of which he had some slight incident connected--there was Gamfield's cart, the very cart he used to have, standing10 at the old public-house door--there was the workhouse, the dreary11 prison of his youthful days, with its dismal12 windows frowning on the street--there was the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed again--there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew quite well--there was nearly everything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life had been but a happy dream. But it was pure, earnest, joyful13 reality.
They drove straight to the door of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe14, and think a mighty15 palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur16 and size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head--no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep.
There was dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic. Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, the same silence and constraint17 prevailed that had marked their journey down.
Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate room.
The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, during the short intervals18 when they were present, conversed19 apart.
Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen20 with weeping.
All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable.
They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke21 in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked22 with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room.
Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door.
Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated. 'This is a painful task,' said he, 'but these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here.
I would have spared you the degradation23, but we must hear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.' 'Go on,' said the person addressed, turning away his face. 'Quick.
I have almost done enough, I think.
Don't keep me here.' 'This child,' said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand upon his head, 'is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in giving him birth.' 'Yes,' said Monks, scowling24 at the trembling boy:
the beating of whose heart he might have heard.
'That is the bastard25 child.' 'The term you use,' said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, 'is a reproach to those long since passed beyond the feeble censure26 of the world. It reflects disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass.
He was born in this town.' 'In the workhouse of this town,' was the sullen27 reply. 'You have the story there.'
He pointed28 impatiently to the papers as he spoke. 'I must have it here, too,' said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the listeners. 'Listen then!
You!' returned Monks.
'His father being taken ill at Rome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, who went from Paris and took me with her--to look after his property, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her.
Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed to yourself'; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; 'and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead.
One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.' 'What of the letter?' asked Mr. Brownlow. 'The letter?--A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent30 confession31, and prayers to God to help her.
He had palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery--to be explained one day--prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back.
She was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement32.
He told her all he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt33 was his.
He reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her christian34 name engraved35 upon it, and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have bestowed36 upon her--prayed her yet to keep it, and wear it next her heart, as she had done before--and then ran on, wildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted.
I believe he had.' 'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast. Monks was silent. 'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, 'was in the same spirit as the letter.
He talked of miseries37 which his wife had brought upon him; of the rebellious38 disposition39, vice40, malice41, and premature42 bad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your mother, each an annuity43 of eight hundred pounds.
The bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions--one for Agnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age.
If it were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally44; but if a boy, only on the stipulation45 that in his minority he should never have stained his name with any public act of dishonour46, meanness, cowardice47, or wrong.
He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the other, and his conviction--only strengthened by approaching death--that the child would share her gentle heart, and noble nature.
If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the money was to come to you:
for then, and not till then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed48 him with coldness and aversion.' 'My mother,' said Monks, in a louder tone, 'did what a woman should have done.
She burnt this will.
The letter never reached its destination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the blot49.
The girl's father had the truth from her with every aggravation50 that her violent hate--I love her for it now--could add.
Goaded51 by shame and dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed.
The girl had left her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in every town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home, assured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that his old heart broke.' There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of the narrative52. 'Years after this,' he said, 'this man's--Edward Leeford's--mother came to me.
He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; gambled, squandered53, forged, and fled to London:
where for two years he had associated with the lowest outcasts.
Inquiries55 were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France.' 'There she died,' said Monks, 'after a lingering illness; and, on her death-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her unquenchable and deadly hatred56 of all whom they involved--though she need not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before.
She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive.
I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to vent1 upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by draggin it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot.
She was right. He came in my way at last.
I began well; and, but for babbling57 drabs, I would have finished as I began!' As the villain58 folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his old accomplice59 and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared:
of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being rescued:
and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country house for the purpose of identifying him. 'The locket and ring?' said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks. 'I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,' answered Monks without raising his eyes.
'You know what became of them.' Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity60, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling61 consort62 after him. 'Do my hi's deceive me!' cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, 'or is that little Oliver?
Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been a-grieving for you--' 'Hold your tongue, fool,' murmured Mrs. Bumble. 'Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?' remonstrated63 the workhouse master.
'Can't I be supposed to feel--I as brought him up porochially--when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description!
I always loved that boy as if he'd been my--my--my own grandfather,' said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison.
'Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat?
Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin64 with plated handles, Oliver.' 'Come, sir,' said Mr. Grimwig, tartly65; 'suppress your feelings.' 'I will do my endeavours, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble.
'How do you do, sir?
I hope you are very well.' This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple.
He inquired, as he pointed to Monks, 'Do you know that person?' 'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble flatly. 'Perhaps you don't?' said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse66. 'I never saw him in all my life,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Nor sold him anything, perhaps?' 'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble. 'You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?' said Mr. Brownlow. 'Certainly not,' replied the matron.
'Why are we brought here to answer to such nonsense as this?' Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped away with extraordinary readiness.
But not again did he return with a stout67 man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and tottered68 as they walked. 'You shut the door the night old Sally died,' said the foremost one, raising her shrivelled hand, 'but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop the chinks.' 'No, no,' said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaws69.
'No, no, no.' 'We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker70's shop,' said the first. 'Yes,' added the second, 'and it was a "locket and gold ring." We found out that, and saw it given you.
We were by.
Oh! we were by.' 'And we know more than that,' resumed the first, 'for she told us often, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child.' 'Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?' asked Mr. Grimwig with a motion towards the door. 'No,' replied the woman; 'if he--she pointed to Monks--'has been coward enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say.
I did sell them, and they're where you'll never get them.
What then?' 'Nothing,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'except that it remains71 for us to take care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again.
You may leave the room.' 'I hope,' said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: 'I hope that this unfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?' 'Indeed it will,' replied Mr. Brownlow.
'You may make up your mind to that, and think yourself well off besides.' 'It was all Mrs. Bumble.
She would do it,' urged Mr. Bumble; first looking round to ascertain72 that his partner had left the room. 'That is no excuse,' replied Mr. Brownlow.
'You were present on the occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction.' 'If the law supposes that,' said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, 'the law is a ass--a idiot.
If that's the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience--by experience.' Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed73 his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs. 'Young lady,' said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, 'give me your hand.
Do not tremble.
You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.' 'If they have--I do not know how they can, but if they have--any reference to me,' said Rose, 'pray let me hear them at some other time.
I have not strength or spirits now.' 'Nay,' returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; 'you have more fortitude74 than this, I am sure.
Do you know this young lady, sir?' 'Yes,' replied Monks. 'I never saw you before,' said Rose faintly. 'I have seen you often,' returned Monks. 'The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,' said Mr. Brownlow.
'What was the fate of the other--the child?' 'The child,' replied Monks, 'when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap75 of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced--the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.' 'Go on,' said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. 'Go on!' 'You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired,' said Monks, 'but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way.
My mother found it, after a year of cunning search--ay, and found the child.' 'She took it, did she?' 'No.
The people were poor and began to sicken--at least the man did--of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promised more, which she never meant to send.
She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of the sister's shame, with such alterations76 as suited her; bade them take good heed77 of the child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or other.
The circumstances countenanced78 all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable79 enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home.
There was some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy.
I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.' 'Do you see her now?' 'Yes.
Leaning on your arm.' 'But not the less my niece,' cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl in her arms; 'not the less my dearest child.
I would not lose her now, for all the treasures of the world.
My sweet companion, my own dear girl!' 'The only friend I ever had,' cried Rose, clinging to her. 'The kindest, best of friends.
My heart will burst.
I cannot bear all this.' 'You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,' said Mrs. Maylie, embracing her tenderly. 'Come, come, my love, remember who this is who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child!
See here--look, look, my dear!' 'Not aunt,' cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; 'I'll never call her aunt--sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first!
Rose, dear, darling Rose!' Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the long close embrace between the orphans80, be sacred.
A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment.
for even grief itself arose so softened82, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain. They were a long, long time alone.
A soft tap at the door, at length announced that some one was without.
Oliver opened it, glided83 away, and gave place to Harry84 Maylie. 'I know it all,' he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. 'Dear Rose, I know it all.' 'I am not here by accident,' he added after a lengthened85 silence; 'nor have I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday--only yesterday.
Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?' 'Stay,' said Rose.
'You do know all.' 'All.
You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of our last discourse86.' 'I did.' 'Not to press you to alter your determination,' pursued the young man, 'but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to change it.' 'The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,' said Rose firmly.
'If I ever owed a strict and rigid87 duty to her, whose goodness saved me from a life of indigence88 and suffering, when should I ever feel it, as I should to-night?
It is a struggle,' said Rose, 'but one I am proud to make; it is a pang89, but one my heart shall bear.' 'The disclosure of to-night,'--Harry began. 'The disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly, 'leaves me in the same position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.' 'You harden your heart against me, Rose,' urged her lover. 'Oh Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, bursting into tears; 'I wish I could, and spare myself this pain.' 'Then why inflict90 it on yourself?' said Harry, taking her hand. 'Think, dear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.' 'And what have I heard!
What have I heard!' cried Rose. 'That a sense of his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned91 all--there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.' 'Not yet, not yet,' said the young man, detaining her as she rose.
every thought in life except my love for you:
have undergone a change.
I offer you, now, no distinction among a bustling93 crowd; no mingling94 with a world of malice and detraction95, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; but a home--a heart and home--yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.' 'What do you mean!' she faltered96. 'I mean but this--that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it.
This I have done.
Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right.
such relatives of influence and rank:
as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church--mine, Rose, my own!--there stands a rustic98 dwelling99 which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced100, measured a thousandfold.
This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!'
* * * * * * * 'It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,' said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head. Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable101 time.
Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation102. 'I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'for I began to think I should get nothing else.
I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting103 the bride that is to be.' Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious104, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow:
some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, orginally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal:
he being young and a clergyman. 'Oliver, my child,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'where have you been, and why do you look so sad?
There are tears stealing down your face at this moment.
What is the matter?' It is a world of disappointment:
often to the hopes we most cherish, and hopes that do our nature the greatest honour. Poor Dick was dead!
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dreary
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dismal
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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awe
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mighty
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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swollen
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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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shrieked
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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24
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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25
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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26
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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27
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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28
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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29
slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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30
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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31
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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32
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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33
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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34
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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35
engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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36
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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38
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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39
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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40
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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41
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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42
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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43
annuity
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| n.年金；养老金 | |
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44
unconditionally
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| adv.无条件地 | |
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45
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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46
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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47
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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48
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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49
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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50
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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51
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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52
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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53
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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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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56
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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57
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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58
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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59
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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60
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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61
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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62
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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63
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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64
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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65
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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66
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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67
stout
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| adj.强壮的，粗大的，结实的，勇猛的，矮胖的 | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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69
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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70
pawnbroker
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| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
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71
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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72
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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73
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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74
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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75
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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76
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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77
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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78
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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79
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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80
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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81
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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82
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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83
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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84
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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85
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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87
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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88
indigence
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| n.贫穷 | |
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89
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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90
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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91
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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92
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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93
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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94
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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95
detraction
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| n.减损；诽谤 | |
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96
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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97
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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98
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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99
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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100
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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101
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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102
extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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103
saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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104
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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