CHAPTER 29
Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading1 its length or feeling its solitariness3. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation4 were excessive.
The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed5 regard—had he even confused her by his too significant reference! And now—what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change?
The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy6 to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification7 so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures8 on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing10, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing11; it sometimes suggested the dread2 of his calm acquiescence12, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment13. To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
In this unceasing recurrence14 of doubts and inquiries15, on any one article of which her mind was incapable16 of more than momentary17 repose18, the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighbourhood of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no object on the road could engage a moment’s attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey’s conclusion; for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an eleven weeks’ absence. What had she to say that would not humble19 herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession20 of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor’s merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of unfavourably, on their father’s account, it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings, she rather dreaded21 than sought for the first view of that well-known spire22 which would announce her within twenty miles of home. Salisbury she had known to be her point on leaving Northanger; but after the first stage she had been indebted to the post-masters for the names of the places which were then to conduct her to it; so great had been her ignorance of her route. She met with nothing, however, to distress23 or frighten her. Her youth, civil manners, and liberal pay procured24 her all the attention that a traveller like herself could require; and stopping only to change horses, she travelled on for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o’clock in the evening found herself entering Fullerton.
A heroine returning, at the close of her career, to her native village, in all the triumph of recovered reputation, and all the dignity of a countess, with a long train of noble relations in their several phaetons, and three waiting-maids in a travelling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the contriver26 may well delight to dwell; it gives credit to every conclusion, and the author must share in the glory she so liberally bestows27. But my affair is widely different; I bring back my heroine to her home in solitude28 and disgrace; and no sweet elation25 of spirits can lead me into minuteness. A heroine in a hack29 post-chaise is such a blow upon sentiment, as no attempt at grandeur30 or pathos31 can withstand. Swiftly therefore shall her post-boy drive through the village, amid the gaze of Sunday groups, and speedy shall be her descent from it.
But, whatever might be the distress of Catherine’s mind, as she thus advanced towards the parsonage, and whatever the humiliation32 of her biographer in relating it, she was preparing enjoyment of no everyday nature for those to whom she went; first, in the appearance of her carriage—and secondly, in herself. The chaise of a traveller being a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family were immediately at the window; and to have it stop at the sweep-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and occupy every fancy—a pleasure quite unlooked for by all but the two youngest children, a boy and girl of six and four years old, who expected a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the glance that first distinguished33 Catherine! Happy the voice that proclaimed the discovery! But whether such happiness were the lawful34 property of George or Harriet could never be exactly understood.
Her father, mother, Sarah, George, and Harriet, all assembled at the door to welcome her with affectionate eagerness, was a sight to awaken35 the best feelings of Catherine’s heart; and in the embrace of each, as she stepped from the carriage, she found herself soothed36 beyond anything that she had believed possible. So surrounded, so caressed37, she was even happy! In the joyfulness38 of family love everything for a short time was subdued39, and the pleasure of seeing her, leaving them at first little leisure for calm curiosity, they were all seated round the tea-table, which Mrs. Morland had hurried for the comfort of the poor traveller, whose pale and jaded40 looks soon caught her notice, before any inquiry41 so direct as to demand a positive answer was addressed to her.
Reluctantly, and with much hesitation42, did she then begin what might perhaps, at the end of half an hour, be termed, by the courtesy of her hearers, an explanation; but scarcely, within that time, could they at all discover the cause, or collect the particulars, of her sudden return. They were far from being an irritable43 race; far from any quickness in catching44, or bitterness in resenting, affronts45: but here, when the whole was unfolded, was an insult not to be overlooked, nor, for the first half hour, to be easily pardoned. Without suffering any romantic alarm, in the consideration of their daughter’s long and lonely journey, Mr. and Mrs. Morland could not but feel that it might have been productive of much unpleasantness to her; that it was what they could never have voluntarily suffered; and that, in forcing her on such a measure, General Tilney had acted neither honourably46 nor feelingly—neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, what could have provoked him to such a breach47 of hospitality, and so suddenly turned all his partial regard for their daughter into actual ill will, was a matter which they were at least as far from divining as Catherine herself; but it did not oppress them by any means so long; and, after a due course of useless conjecture9, that “it was a strange business, and that he must be a very strange man,” grew enough for all their indignation and wonder; though Sarah indeed still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility, exclaiming and conjecturing48 with youthful ardour. “My dear, you give yourself a great deal of needless trouble,” said her mother at last; “depend upon it, it is something not at all worth understanding.”
“I can allow for his wishing Catherine away, when he recollected49 this engagement,” said Sarah, “but why not do it civilly?”
“I am sorry for the young people,” returned Mrs. Morland; “they must have a sad time of it; but as for anything else, it is no matter now; Catherine is safe at home, and our comfort does not depend upon General Tilney.” Catherine sighed. “Well,” continued her philosophic50 mother, “I am glad I did not know of your journey at the time; but now it is all over, perhaps there is no great harm done. It is always good for young people to be put upon exerting themselves; and you know, my dear Catherine, you always were a sad little scatter-brained creature; but now you must have been forced to have your wits about you, with so much changing of chaises and so forth51; and I hope it will appear that you have not left anything behind you in any of the pockets.”
Catherine hoped so too, and tried to feel an interest in her own amendment52, but her spirits were quite worn down; and, to be silent and alone becoming soon her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother’s next counsel of going early to bed. Her parents, seeing nothing in her ill looks and agitation but the natural consequence53 of mortified54 feelings, and of the unusual exertion55 and fatigue56 of such a journey, parted from her without any doubt of their being soon slept away; and though, when they all met the next morning, her recovery was not equal to their hopes, they were still perfectly57 unsuspicious of there being any deeper evil. They never once thought of her heart, which, for the parents of a young lady of seventeen, just returned from her first excursion from home, was odd enough!
As soon as breakfast was over, she sat down to fulfil her promise to Miss Tilney, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend’s disposition58 was already justified59, for already did Catherine reproach herself with having parted from Eleanor coldly, with having never enough valued her merits or kindness, and never enough commiserated60 her for what she had been yesterday left to endure. The strength of these feelings, however, was far from assisting her pen; and never had it been harder for her to write than in addressing Eleanor Tilney. To compose a letter which might at once do justice to her sentiments and her situation, convey gratitude61 without servile regret, be guarded without coldness, and honest without resentment—a letter which Eleanor might not be pained by the perusal62 of—and, above all, which she might not blush herself, if Henry should chance to see, was an undertaking63 to frighten away all her powers of performance; and, after long thought and much perplexity, to be very brief was all that she could determine on with any confidence of safety. The money therefore which Eleanor had advanced was enclosed with little more than grateful thanks, and the thousand good wishes of a most affectionate heart.
“This has been a strange acquaintance,” observed Mrs. Morland, as the letter was finished; “soon made and soon ended. I am sorry it happens so, for Mrs. Allen thought them very pretty kind of young people; and you were sadly out of luck too in your Isabella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we must live and learn; and the next new friends you make I hope will be better worth keeping.”
Catherine coloured as she warmly answered, “No friend can be better worth keeping than Eleanor.”
“If so, my dear, I dare say you will meet again some time or other; do not be uneasy. It is ten to one but you are thrown together again in the course of a few years; and then what a pleasure it will be!”
Mrs. Morland was not happy in her attempt at consolation64. The hope of meeting again in the course of a few years could only put into Catherine’s head what might happen within that time to make a meeting dreadful to her. She could never forget Henry Tilney, or think of him with less tenderness than she did at that moment; but he might forget her; and in that case, to meet—! Her eyes filled with tears as she pictured her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, perceiving her comfortable suggestions to have had no good effect, proposed, as another expedient65 for restoring her spirits, that they should call on Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter of a mile apart; and, as they walked, Mrs. Morland quickly dispatched all that she felt on the score of James’s disappointment. “We are sorry for him,” said she; “but otherwise there is no harm done in the match going off; for it could not be a desirable thing to have him engaged to a girl whom we had not the smallest acquaintance with, and who was so entirely66 without fortune; and now, after such behaviour, we cannot think at all well of her. Just at present it comes hard to poor James; but that will not last forever; and I dare say he will be a discreeter man all his life, for the foolishness of his first choice.”
This was just such a summary view of the affair as Catherine could listen to; another sentence might have endangered her complaisance67, and made her reply less rational; for soon were all her thinking powers swallowed up in the reflection of her own change of feelings and spirits since last she had trodden that well-known road. It was not three months ago since, wild with joyful expectation, she had there run backwards68 and forwards some ten times a day, with an heart light, gay, and independent; looking forward to pleasures untasted and unalloyed, and free from the apprehension69 of evil as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago had seen her all this; and now, how altered a being did she return!
She was received by the Allens with all the kindness which her unlooked-for appearance, acting70 on a steady affection, would naturally call forth; and great was their surprise, and warm their displeasure, on hearing how she had been treated—though Mrs. Morland’s account of it was no inflated71 representation, no studied appeal to their passions. “Catherine took us quite by surprise yesterday evening,” said she. “She travelled all the way post by herself, and knew nothing of coming till Saturday night; for General Tilney, from some odd fancy or other, all of a sudden grew tired of having her there, and almost turned her out of the house. Very unfriendly, certainly; and he must be a very odd man; but we are so glad to have her amongst us again! And it is a great comfort to find that she is not a poor helpless creature, but can shift very well for herself.”
Mr. Allen expressed himself on the occasion with the reasonable resentment of a sensible friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his expressions quite good enough to be immediately made use of again by herself. His wonder, his conjectures, and his explanations became in succession hers, with the addition of this single remark—“I really have not patience with the general”—to fill up every accidental pause. And, “I really have not patience with the general,” was uttered twice after Mr. Allen left the room, without any relaxation72 of anger, or any material digression of thought. A more considerable degree of wandering attended the third repetition; and, after completing the fourth, she immediately added, “Only think, my dear, of my having got that frightful73 great rent in my best Mechlin so charmingly mended, before I left Bath, that one can hardly see where it was. I must show it you some day or other. Bath is a nice place, Catherine, after all. I assure you I did not above half like coming away. Mrs. Thorpe’s being there was such a comfort to us, was not it? You know, you and I were quite forlorn at first.”
“Yes, but that did not last long,” said Catherine, her eyes brightening at the recollection of what had first given spirit to her existence there.
“Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Thorpe, and then we wanted for nothing. My dear, do not you think these silk gloves wear very well? I put them on new the first time of our going to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I have worn them a great deal since. Do you remember that evening?”
“Do I! Oh! Perfectly.”
“It was very agreeable, was not it? Mr. Tilney drank tea with us, and I always thought him a great addition, he is so very agreeable. I have a notion you danced with him, but am not quite sure. I remember I had my favourite gown on.”
Catherine could not answer; and, after a short trial of other subjects, Mrs. Allen again returned to—“I really have not patience with the general! Such an agreeable, worthy74 man as he seemed to be! I do not suppose, Mrs. Morland, you ever saw a better-bred man in your life. His lodgings75 were taken the very day after he left them, Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know.”
As they walked home again, Mrs. Morland endeavoured to impress on her daughter’s mind the happiness of having such steady well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. Allen, and the very little consideration which the neglect or unkindness of slight acquaintance like the Tilneys ought to have with her, while she could preserve the good opinion and affection of her earliest friends. There was a great deal of good sense in all this; but there are some situations of the human mind in which good sense has very little power; and Catherine’s feelings contradicted almost every position her mother advanced. It was upon the behaviour of these very slight acquaintance that all her present happiness depended; and while Mrs. Morland was successfully confirming her own opinions by the justness of her own representations, Catherine was silently reflecting that now Henry must have arrived at Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now, perhaps, they were all setting off for Hereford.
1 dreading [dredɪŋ] 第7级 | |
v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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2 dread [dred] 第7级 | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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3 solitariness ['sɔlitərinis] 第7级 | |
n.隐居;单独 | |
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4 agitation [ˌædʒɪˈteɪʃn] 第9级 | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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5 pointed [ˈpɔɪntɪd] 第7级 | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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6 privy [ˈprɪvi] 第12级 | |
adj.私用的;隐密的 | |
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7 justification [ˌdʒʌstɪfɪˈkeɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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8 conjectures [kənˈdʒektʃəz] 第9级 | |
推测,猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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9 conjecture [kənˈdʒektʃə(r)] 第9级 | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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10 prevailing [prɪˈveɪlɪŋ] 第9级 | |
adj.盛行的;占优势的;主要的 | |
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11 soothing [su:ðɪŋ] 第12级 | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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12 acquiescence [ˌækwiˈesns] 第12级 | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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13 resentment [rɪˈzentmənt] 第8级 | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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14 recurrence [rɪˈkʌrəns] 第9级 | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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15 inquiries [inˈkwaiəriz] 第7级 | |
n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 );疑问;探究;打听 | |
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16 incapable [ɪnˈkeɪpəbl] 第8级 | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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17 momentary [ˈməʊməntri] 第7级 | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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18 repose [rɪˈpəʊz] 第11级 | |
vt.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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19 humble [ˈhʌmbl] 第7级 | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;vt.降低,贬低 | |
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20 confession [kənˈfeʃn] 第10级 | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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21 dreaded [ˈdredɪd] 第7级 | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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22 spire [ˈspaɪə(r)] 第10级 | |
n.(教堂)尖顶,尖塔,高点 | |
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23 distress [dɪˈstres] 第7级 | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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24 procured [prəʊˈkjʊəd] 第9级 | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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25 elation [iˈleɪʃn] 第11级 | |
n.兴高采烈,洋洋得意 | |
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27 bestows [biˈstəuz] 第9级 | |
赠给,授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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28 solitude [ˈsɒlɪtju:d] 第7级 | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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29 hack [hæk] 第9级 | |
n.劈,砍,出租马车;vt.劈,砍,干咳;vi.砍 | |
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30 grandeur [ˈgrændʒə(r)] 第8级 | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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31 pathos [ˈpeɪθɒs] 第10级 | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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32 humiliation [hju:ˌmɪlɪ'eɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.羞辱 | |
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33 distinguished [dɪˈstɪŋgwɪʃt] 第8级 | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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34 lawful [ˈlɔ:fl] 第8级 | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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35 awaken [əˈweɪkən] 第8级 | |
vi.醒,觉醒;vt.唤醒,使觉醒,唤起,激起 | |
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36 soothed [su:ðd] 第7级 | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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37 caressed [kəˈrest] 第7级 | |
爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38 joyfulness [] 第8级 | |
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39 subdued [səbˈdju:d] 第7级 | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40 jaded ['dʒeɪdɪd] 第7级 | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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41 inquiry [ɪn'kwaɪərɪ] 第7级 | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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42 hesitation [ˌhezɪ'teɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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43 irritable [ˈɪrɪtəbl] 第9级 | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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44 catching [ˈkætʃɪŋ] 第8级 | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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45 affronts [əˈfrʌnts] 第10级 | |
n.(当众)侮辱,(故意)冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 );相遇 | |
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46 honourably ['ɒnərəblɪ] 第7级 | |
adv.可尊敬地,光荣地,体面地 | |
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47 breach [bri:tʃ] 第7级 | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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48 conjecturing [kənˈdʒektʃərɪŋ] 第9级 | |
v. & n. 推测,臆测 | |
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49 recollected [ˌrekə'lektɪd] 第7级 | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50 philosophic [ˌfɪlə'sɒfɪk] 第8级 | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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51 forth [fɔ:θ] 第7级 | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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52 amendment [əˈmendmənt] 第8级 | |
n.改正,修正,改善,修正案 | |
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53 consequence [ˈkɒnsɪkwəns] 第8级 | |
n.结果,后果;推理,推断;重要性 | |
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54 mortified [ˈmɔ:təˌfaɪd] 第11级 | |
v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 );伤害(人的感情);克制;抑制(肉体、情感等) | |
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55 exertion [ɪgˈzɜ:ʃn] 第11级 | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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56 fatigue [fəˈti:g] 第7级 | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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57 perfectly [ˈpɜ:fɪktli] 第8级 | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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58 disposition [ˌdɪspəˈzɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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59 justified ['dʒʌstifaid] 第7级 | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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60 commiserated [kəˈmɪzəˌreɪtid] 第10级 | |
v.怜悯,同情( commiserate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61 gratitude [ˈgrætɪtju:d] 第7级 | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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62 perusal [pə'ru:zl] 第12级 | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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63 undertaking [ˌʌndəˈteɪkɪŋ] 第9级 | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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64 consolation [ˌkɒnsəˈleɪʃn] 第10级 | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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65 expedient [ɪkˈspi:diənt] 第9级 | |
adj.有用的,有利的;n.紧急的办法,权宜之计 | |
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66 entirely [ɪnˈtaɪəli] 第9级 | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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67 complaisance [kəm'pleɪzəns] 第12级 | |
n.彬彬有礼,殷勤,柔顺 | |
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68 backwards [ˈbækwədz] 第8级 | |
adv.往回地,向原处,倒,相反,前后倒置地 | |
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69 apprehension [ˌæprɪˈhenʃn] 第7级 | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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70 acting [ˈæktɪŋ] 第7级 | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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71 inflated [ɪnˈfleɪtɪd] 第8级 | |
adj.(价格)飞涨的;(通货)膨胀的;言过其实的;充了气的v.使充气(于轮胎、气球等)( inflate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)膨胀;(使)通货膨胀;物价上涨 | |
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72 relaxation [ˌri:lækˈseɪʃn] 第7级 | |
n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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73 frightful [ˈfraɪtfl] 第9级 | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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