And now I must resume my narrative1 for that melancholy2 business that concludes all human histories. In January of the year 1875, while Fleeming’s sky was still unclouded, he was reading Smiles. ‘I read my engineers’ lives steadily3,’ he writes, ‘but find biographies depressing. I suspect one reason to be that misfortunes and trials can be graphically4 described, but happiness and the causes of happiness either cannot be or are not. A grand new branch of literature opens to my view: a drama in which people begin in a poor way and end, after getting gradually happier, in an ecstasy5 of enjoyment6. The common novel is not the thing at all. It gives struggle followed by relief. I want each act to close on a new and triumphant7 happiness, which has been steadily growing all the while. This is the real antithesis8 of tragedy, where things get blacker and blacker and end in hopeless woe10. Smiles has not grasped my grand idea, and only shows a bitter struggle followed by a little respite11 before death. Some feeble critic might say my new idea was not true to nature. I’m sick of this old-fashioned notion of art. Hold a mirror up, indeed! Let’s paint a picture of how things ought to be and hold that up to nature, and perhaps the poor old woman may repent12 and mend her ways.’ The ‘grand idea’ might be possible in art; not even the ingenuity13 of nature could so round in the actual life of any man. And yet it might almost seem to fancy that she had read the letter and taken the hint; for to Fleeming the cruelties of fate were strangely blended with tenderness, and when death came, it came harshly to others, to him not unkindly.
In the autumn of that same year 1875, Fleeming’s father and mother were walking in the garden of their house at Merchiston, when the latter fell to the ground. It was thought at the time to be a stumble; it was in all likelihood a premonitory stroke of palsy. From that day, there fell upon her an abiding14 panic fear; that glib15, superficial part of us that speaks and reasons could allege16 no cause, science itself could find no mark of danger, a son’s solicitude17 was laid at rest; but the eyes of the body saw the approach of a blow, and the consciousness of the body trembled at its coming. It came in a moment; the brilliant, spirited old lady leapt from her bed, raving18. For about six months, this stage of her disease continued with many painful and many pathetic circumstances; her husband who tended her, her son who was unwearied in his visits, looked for no change in her condition but the change that comes to all. ‘Poor mother,’ I find Fleeming writing, ‘I cannot get the tones of her voice out of my head . . . I may have to bear this pain for a long time; and so I am bearing it and sparing myself whatever pain seems useless. Mercifully I do sleep, I am so weary that I must sleep.’ And again later: ‘I could do very well, if my mind did not revert19 to my poor mother’s state whenever I stop attending to matters immediately before me.’ And the next day: ‘I can never feel a moment’s pleasure without having my mother’s suffering recalled by the very feeling of happiness. A pretty, young face recalls hers by contrast — a careworn21 face recalls it by association. I tell you, for I can speak to no one else; but do not suppose that I wilfully22 let my mind dwell on sorrow.’
In the summer of the next year, the frenzy23 left her; it left her stone deaf and almost entirely24 aphasic25, but with some remains26 of her old sense and courage. Stoutly27 she set to work with dictionaries, to recover her lost tongues; and had already made notable progress, when a third stroke scattered28 her acquisitions. Thenceforth, for nearly ten years, stroke followed upon stroke, each still further jumbling30 the threads of her intelligence, but by degrees so gradual and with such partiality of loss and of survival, that her precise state was always and to the end a matter of dispute. She still remembered her friends; she still loved to learn news of them upon the slate31; she still read and marked the list of the subscription32 library; she still took an interest in the choice of a play for the theatricals33, and could remember and find parallel passages; but alongside of these surviving powers, were lapses34 as remarkable35, she misbehaved like a child, and a servant had to sit with her at table. To see her so sitting, speaking with the tones of a deaf mute not always to the purpose, and to remember what she had been, was a moving appeal to all who knew her. Such was the pathos36 of these two old people in their affliction, that even the reserve of cities was melted and the neighbours vied in sympathy and kindness. Where so many were more than usually helpful, it is hard to draw distinctions; but I am directed and I delight to mention in particular the good Dr. Joseph Bell, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Archibald Constable37 with both their wives, the Rev20. Mr. Belcombe (of whose good heart and taste I do not hear for the first time — the news had come to me by way of the Infirmary), and their next-door neighbour, unwearied in service, Miss Hannah Mayne. Nor should I omit to mention that John Ruffini continued to write to Mrs. Jenkin till his own death, and the clever lady known to the world as Vernon Lee until the end: a touching38, a becoming attention to what was only the wreck39 and survival of their brilliant friend.
But he to whom this affliction brought the greatest change was the Captain himself. What was bitter in his lot, he bore with unshaken courage; only once, in these ten years of trial, has Mrs. Fleeming Jenkin seen him weep; for the rest of the time his wife — his commanding officer, now become his trying child — was served not with patience alone, but with a lovely happiness of temper. He had belonged all his life to the ancient, formal, speechmaking, compliment-presenting school of courtesy; the dictates40 of this code partook in his eyes of the nature of a duty; and he must now be courteous41 for two. Partly from a happy illusion, partly in a tender fraud, he kept his wife before the world as a still active partner. When he paid a call, he would have her write ‘with love’ upon a card; or if that (at the moment) was too much, he would go armed with a bouquet42 and present it in her name. He even wrote letters for her to copy and sign: an innocent substitution, which may have caused surprise to Ruffini or to Vernon Lee, if they ever received, in the hand of Mrs. Jenkin the very obvious reflections of her husband. He had always adored this wife whom he now tended and sought to represent in correspondence: it was now, if not before, her turn to repay the compliment; mind enough was left her to perceive his unwearied kindness; and as her moral qualities seemed to survive quite unimpaired, a childish love and gratitude43 were his reward. She would interrupt a conversation to cross the room and kiss him. If she grew excited (as she did too often) it was his habit to come behind her chair and pat her shoulder; and then she would turn round, and clasp his hand in hers, and look from him to her visitor with a face of pride and love; and it was at such moments only that the light of humanity revived in her eyes. It was hard for any stranger, it was impossible for any that loved them, to behold44 these mute scenes, to recall the past, and not to weep. But to the Captain, I think it was all happiness. After these so long years, he had found his wife again; perhaps kinder than ever before; perhaps now on a more equal footing; certainly, to his eyes, still beautiful. And the call made on his intelligence had not been made in vain. The merchants of Aux Cayes, who had seen him tried in some ‘counter-revolution’ in 1845, wrote to the consul45 of his ‘able and decided46 measures,’ ‘his cool, steady judgment47 and discernment’ with admiration48; and of himself, as ‘a credit and an ornament49 to H. M. Naval50 Service.’ It is plain he must have sunk in all his powers, during the years when he was only a figure, and often a dumb figure, in his wife’s drawing-room; but with this new term of service, he brightened visibly. He showed tact51 and even invention in managing his wife, guiding or restraining her by the touch, holding family worship so arranged that she could follow and take part in it. He took (to the world’s surprise) to reading — voyages, biographies, Blair’s Sermons, even (for her letter’s sake) a work of Vernon Lee’s, which proved, however, more than he was quite prepared for. He shone more, in his remarkable way, in society; and twice he had a little holiday to Glenmorven, where, as may be fancied, he was the delight of the Highlanders. One of his last pleasures was to arrange his dining-room. Many and many a room (in their wandering and thriftless existence) had he seen his wife furnish with exquisite52 taste, and perhaps with ‘considerable luxury’: now it was his turn to be the decorator. On the wall he had an engraving53 of Lord Rodney’s action, showing the Prothee, his father’s ship, if the reader recollects54; on either side of this on brackets, his father’s sword, and his father’s telescope, a gift from Admiral Buckner, who had used it himself during the engagement; higher yet, the head of his grandson’s first stag, portraits of his son and his son’s wife, and a couple of old Windsor jugs55 from Mrs. Buckner’s. But his simple trophy56 was not yet complete; a device had to be worked and framed and hung below the engraving; and for this he applied57 to his daughter-inlaw: ‘I want you to work me something, Annie. An anchor at each side — an anchor — stands for an old sailor, you know — stands for hope, you know — an anchor at each side, and in the middle Thankful.’ It is not easy, on any system of punctuation58, to represent the Captain’s speech. Yet I hope there may shine out of these facts, even as there shone through his own troubled utterance59, some of the charm of that delightful60 spirit.
In 1881, the time of the golden wedding came round for that sad and pretty household. It fell on a Good Friday, and its celebration can scarcely be recalled without both smiles and tears. The drawing-room was filled with presents and beautiful bouquets61; these, to Fleeming and his family, the golden bride and bridegroom displayed with unspeakable pride, she so painfully excited that the guests feared every moment to see her stricken afresh, he guiding and moderating her with his customary tact and understanding, and doing the honours of the day with more than his usual delight. Thence they were brought to the dining-room, where the Captain’s idea of a feast awaited them: tea and champagne62, fruit and toast and childish little luxuries, set forth29 pell-mell and pressed at random63 on the guests. And here he must make a speech for himself and his wife, praising their destiny, their marriage, their son, their daughter-inlaw, their grandchildren, their manifold causes of gratitude: surely the most innocent speech, the old, sharp contemner64 of his innocence65 now watching him with eyes of admiration. Then it was time for the guests to depart; and they went away, bathed, even to the youngest child, in tears of inseparable sorrow and gladness, and leaving the golden bride and bridegroom to their own society and that of the hired nurse.
It was a great thing for Fleeming to make, even thus late, the acquaintance of his father; but the harrowing pathos of such scenes consumed him. In a life of tense intellectual effort, a certain smoothness of emotional tenor66 were to be desired; or we burn the candle at both ends. Dr. Bell perceived the evil that was being done; he pressed Mrs. Jenkin to restrain her husband from too frequent visits; but here was one of those clear-cut, indubitable duties for which Fleeming lived, and he could not pardon even the suggestion of neglect.
And now, after death had so long visibly but still innocuously hovered67 above the family, it began at last to strike and its blows fell thick and heavy. The first to go was uncle John Jenkin, taken at last from his Mexican dwelling68 and the lost tribes of Israel; and nothing in this remarkable old gentleman’s life, became him like the leaving of it. His sterling69, jovial70 acquiescence71 in man’s destiny was a delight to Fleeming. ‘My visit to Stowting has been a very strange but not at all a painful one,’ he wrote. ‘In case you ever wish to make a person die as he ought to die in a novel,’ he said to me, ‘I must tell you all about my old uncle.’ He was to see a nearer instance before long; for this family of Jenkin, if they were not very aptly fitted to live, had the art of manly72 dying. Uncle John was but an outsider after all; he had dropped out of hail of his nephew’s way of life and station in society, and was more like some shrewd, old, humble73 friend who should have kept a lodge74; yet he led the procession of becoming deaths, and began in the mind of Fleeming that train of tender and grateful thought, which was like a preparation for his own. Already I find him writing in the plural75 of ‘these impending76 deaths’; already I find him in quest of consolation77. ‘There is little pain in store for these wayfarers,’ he wrote, ‘and we have hope — more than hope, trust.’
On May 19, 1884, Mr. Austin was taken. He was seventy-eight years of age, suffered sharply with all his old firmness, and died happy in the knowledge that he had left his wife well cared for. This had always been a bosom78 concern; for the Barrons were long-lived and he believed that she would long survive him. But their union had been so full and quiet that Mrs. Austin languished79 under the separation. In their last years, they would sit all evening in their own drawing-room hand in hand: two old people who, for all their fundamental differences, had yet grown together and become all the world in each other’s eyes and hearts; and it was felt to be a kind release, when eight months after, on January 14, 1885, Eliza Barron followed Alfred Austin. ‘I wish I could save you from all pain,’ wrote Fleeming six days later to his sorrowing wife, ‘I would if I could — but my way is not God’s way; and of this be assured, — God’s way is best.’
In the end of the same month, Captain Jenkin caught cold and was confined to bed. He was so unchanged in spirit that at first there seemed no ground of fear; but his great age began to tell, and presently it was plain he had a summons. The charm of his sailor’s cheerfulness and ancient courtesy, as he lay dying, is not to be described. There he lay, singing his old sea songs; watching the poultry80 from the window with a child’s delight; scribbling81 on the slate little messages to his wife, who lay bed-ridden in another room; glad to have Psalms82 read aloud to him, if they were of a pious83 strain — checking, with an ‘I don’t think we need read that, my dear,’ any that were gloomy or bloody84. Fleeming’s wife coming to the house and asking one of the nurses for news of Mrs. Jenkin, ‘Madam, I do not know,’ said the nurse; ‘for I am really so carried away by the Captain that I can think of nothing else.’ One of the last messages scribbled85 to his wife and sent her with a glass of the champagne that had been ordered for himself, ran, in his most finished vein86 of childish madrigal87: ‘The Captain bows to you, my love, across the table.’ When the end was near and it was thought best that Fleeming should no longer go home but sleep at Merchiston, he broke his news to the Captain with some trepidation88, knowing that it carried sentence of death. ‘Charming, charming — charming arrangement,’ was the Captain’s only commentary. It was the proper thing for a dying man, of Captain Jenkin’s school of manners, to make some expression of his spiritual state; nor did he neglect the observance. With his usual abruptness89, ‘Fleeming,’ said he, ‘I suppose you and I feel about all this as two Christian90 gentlemen should.’ A last pleasure was secured for him. He had been waiting with painful interest for news of Gordon and Khartoum; and by great good fortune, a false report reached him that the city was relieved, and the men of Sussex (his old neighbours) had been the first to enter. He sat up in bed and gave three cheers for the Sussex regiment91. The subsequent correction, if it came in time, was prudently92 withheld93 from the dying man. An hour before midnight on the fifth of February, he passed away: aged9 eighty-four.
Word of his death was kept from Mrs. Jenkin; and she survived him no more than nine and forty hours. On the day before her death, she received a letter from her old friend Miss Bell of Manchester, knew the hand, kissed the envelope, and laid it on her heart; so that she too died upon a pleasure. Half an hour after midnight, on the eighth of February, she fell asleep: it is supposed in her seventy-eighth year.
Thus, in the space of less than ten months, the four seniors of this family were taken away; but taken with such features of opportunity in time or pleasant courage in the sufferer, that grief was tempered with a kind of admiration. The effect on Fleeming was profound. His pious optimism increased and became touched with something mystic and filial. ‘The grave is not good, the approaches to it are terrible,’ he had written in the beginning of his mother’s illness: he thought so no more, when he had laid father and mother side by side at Stowting. He had always loved life; in the brief time that now remained to him, he seemed to be half in love with death. ‘Grief is no duty,’ he wrote to Miss Bell; ‘it was all too beautiful for grief,’ he said to me; but the emotion, call it by what name we please, shook him to his depths; his wife thought he would have broken his heart when he must demolish94 the Captain’s trophy in the dining-room, and he seemed thenceforth scarcely the same man.
These last years were indeed years of an excessive demand upon his vitality95; he was not only worn out with sorrow, he was worn out by hope. The singular invention to which he gave the name of telpherage, had of late consumed his time, overtaxed his strength and overheated his imagination. The words in which he first mentioned his discovery to me — ‘I am simply Alnaschar’ — were not only descriptive of his state of mind, they were in a sense prophetic; since whatever fortune may await his idea in the future, it was not his to see it bring forth fruit. Alnaschar he was indeed; beholding96 about him a world all changed, a world filled with telpherage wires; and seeing not only himself and family but all his friends enriched. It was his pleasure, when the company was floated, to endow those whom he liked with stock; one, at least, never knew that he was a possible rich man until the grave had closed over his stealthy benefactor97. And however Fleeming chafed98 among material and business difficulties, this rainbow vision never faded; and he, like his father and his mother, may be said to have died upon a pleasure. But the strain told, and he knew that it was telling. ‘I am becoming a fossil,’ he had written five years before, as a kind of plea for a holiday visit to his beloved Italy. ‘Take care! If I am Mr. Fossil, you will be Mrs. Fossil, and Jack99 will be Jack Fossil, and all the boys will be little fossils, and then we shall be a collection.’ There was no fear more chimerical100 for Fleeming; years brought him no repose101; he was as packed with energy, as fiery102 in hope, as at the first; weariness, to which he began to be no stranger, distressed103, it did not quiet him. He feared for himself, not without ground, the fate which had overtaken his mother; others shared the fear. In the changed life now made for his family, the elders dead, the sons going from home upon their education, even their tried domestic (Mrs. Alice Dunns) leaving the house after twenty-two years of service, it was not unnatural104 that he should return to dreams of Italy. He and his wife were to go (as he told me) on ‘a real honeymoon105 tour.’ He had not been alone with his wife ‘to speak of,’ he added, since the birth of his children. But now he was to enjoy the society of her to whom he wrote, in these last days, that she was his ‘Heaven on earth.’ Now he was to revisit Italy, and see all the pictures and the buildings and the scenes that he admired so warmly, and lay aside for a time the irritations106 of his strenuous107 activity. Nor was this all. A trifling108 operation was to restore his former lightness of foot; and it was a renovated109 youth that was to set forth upon this re‰nacted honeymoon.
The operation was performed; it was of a trifling character, it seemed to go well, no fear was entertained; and his wife was reading aloud to him as he lay in bed, when she perceived him to wander in his mind. It is doubtful if he ever recovered a sure grasp upon the things of life; and he was still unconscious when he passed away, June the twelfth, 1885, in the fifty-third year of his age. He passed; but something in his gallant110 vitality had impressed itself upon his friends, and still impresses. Not from one or two only, but from many, I hear the same tale of how the imagination refuses to accept our loss and instinctively111 looks for his reappearing, and how memory retains his voice and image like things of yesterday. Others, the well-beloved too, die and are progressively forgotten; two years have passed since Fleeming was laid to rest beside his father, his mother, and his Uncle John; and the thought and the look of our friend still haunt us.
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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allege
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| vt.宣称，申述，主张，断言 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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aphasic
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| n. adj.患失语症者失语症的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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jumbling
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| 混杂( jumble的现在分词 )； （使）混乱； 使混乱； 使杂乱 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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recollects
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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punctuation
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| n.标点符号，标点法 | |
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59
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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61
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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contemner
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| n.谴责者，宣判者，定罪者 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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madrigal
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| n.牧歌；（流行于16和17世纪无乐器伴奏的）合唱歌曲 | |
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88
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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89
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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92
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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93
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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98
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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99
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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100
chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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101
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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102
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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103
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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104
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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105
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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106
irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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107
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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108
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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109
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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111
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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