II
In the last paper there was perhaps too much about mere2 debate; and there was nothing said at all about that kind of talk which is merely luminous3 and restful, a higher power of silence, the quiet of the evening shared by ruminating4 friends. There is something, aside from personal preference, to be alleged5 in support of this omission6. Those who are no chimney-cornerers, who rejoice in the social thunderstorm, have a ground in reason for their choice. They get little rest indeed; but restfulness is a quality for cattle; the virtues8 are all active, life is alert, and it is in repose9 that men prepare themselves for evil. On the other hand, they are bruised11 into a knowledge of themselves and others; they have in a high degree the fencer’s pleasure in dexterity12 displayed and proved; what they get they get upon life’s terms, paying for it as they go; and once the talk is launched, they are assured of honest dealing14 from an adversary15 eager like themselves. The aboriginal16 man within us, the cave-dweller, still lusty as when he fought tooth and nail for roots and berries, scents17 this kind of equal battle from afar; it is like his old primaeval days upon the crags, a return to the sincerity18 of savage19 life from the comfortable fictions of the civilised. And if it be delightful20 to the Old Man, it is none the less profitable to his younger brother, the conscientious21 gentleman I feel never quite sure of your urbane22 and smiling coteries23; I fear they indulge a man’s vanities in silence, suffer him to encroach, encourage him on to be an ass13, and send him forth again, not merely contemned24 for the moment, but radically25 more contemptible26 than when he entered. But if I have a flushed, blustering27 fellow for my opposite, bent28 on carrying a point, my vanity is sure to have its ears rubbed, once at least, in the course of the debate. He will not spare me when we differ; he will not fear to demonstrate my folly29 to my face.
For many natures there is not much charm in the still, chambered society, the circle of bland30 countenances32, the digestive silence, the admired remark, the flutter of affectionate approval. They demand more atmosphere and exercise; “a gale33 upon their spirits,” as our pious34 ancestors would phrase it; to have their wits well breathed in an uproarious Valhalla. And I suspect that the choice, given their character and faults, is one to be defended. The purely35 wise are silenced by facts; they talk in a clear atmosphere, problems lying around them like a view in nature; if they can be shown to be somewhat in the wrong, they digest the reproof36 like a thrashing, and make better intellectual blood. They stand corrected by a whisper; a word or a glance reminds them of the great eternal law. But it is not so with all. Others in conversation seek rather contact with their fellow-men than increase of knowledge or clarity of thought. The drama, not the philosophy, of life is the sphere of their intellectual activity. Even when they pursue truth, they desire as much as possible of what we may call human scenery along the road they follow. They dwell in the heart of life; the blood sounding in their ears, their eyes laying hold of what delights them with a brutal37 avidity that makes them blind to all besides, their interest riveted38 on people, living, loving, talking, tangible39 people. To a man of this description, the sphere of argument seems very pale and ghostly. By a strong expression, a perturbed40 countenance31, floods of tears, an insult which his conscience obliges him to swallow, he is brought round to knowledge which no syllogism41 would have conveyed to him. His own experience is so vivid, he is so superlatively conscious of himself, that if, day after day, he is allowed to hector and hear nothing but approving echoes, he will lose his hold on the soberness of things and take himself in earnest for a god. Talk might be to such an one the very way of moral ruin; the school where he might learn to be at once intolerable and ridiculous.
This character is perhaps commoner than philosophers suppose. And for persons of that stamp to learn much by conversation, they must speak with their superiors, not in intellect, for that is a superiority that must be proved, but in station. If they cannot find a friend to bully42 them for their good, they must find either an old man, a woman, or some one so far below them in the artificial order of society, that courtesy may he particularly exercised.
The best teachers are the aged43. To the old our mouths are always partly closed; we must swallow our obvious retorts and listen. They sit above our heads, on life’s raised dais, and appeal at once to our respect and pity. A flavour of the old school, a touch of something different in their manner — which is freer and rounder, if they come of what is called a good family, and often more timid and precise if they are of the middle class — serves, in these days, to accentuate44 the difference of age and add a distinction to gray hairs. But their superiority is founded more deeply than by outward marks or gestures. They are before us in the march of man; they have more or less solved the irking problem; they have battled through the equinox of life; in good and evil they have held their course; and now, without open shame, they near the crown and harbour. It may be we have been struck with one of fortune’s darts46; we can scarce be civil, so cruelly is our spirit tossed. Yet long before we were so much as thought upon, the like calamity47 befell the old man or woman that now, with pleasant humour, rallies us upon our inattention, sitting composed in the holy evening of man’s life, in the clear shining after rain. We grow ashamed of our distresses48, new and hot and coarse, like villainous roadside brandy; we see life in aerial perspective, under the heavens of faith; and out of the worst, in the mere presence of contented49 elders, look forward and take patience. Fear shrinks before them “like a thing reproved,” not the flitting and ineffectual fear of death, but the instant, dwelling50 terror of the responsibilities and revenges of life. Their speech, indeed, is timid; they report lions in the path; they counsel a meticulous51 footing; but their serene52, marred53 faces are more eloquent54 and tell another story. Where they have gone, we will go also, not very greatly fearing; what they have endured unbroken, we also, God helping55 us, will make a shift to bear.
Not only is the presence of the aged in itself remedial, but their minds are stored with antidotes56, wisdom’s simples, plain considerations overlooked by youth. They have matter to communicate, be they never so stupid. Their talk is not merely literature, it is great literature; classic in virtue7 of the speaker’s detachment, studded, like a book of travel, with things we should not otherwise have learnt. In virtue, I have said, of the speaker’s detachment, — and this is why, of two old men, the one who is not your father speaks to you with the more sensible authority; for in the paternal57 relation the oldest have lively interests and remain still young. Thus I have known two young men great friends; each swore by the other’s father; the father of each swore by the other lad; and yet each pair of parent and child were perpetually by the ears. This is typical: it reads like the germ of some kindly58 comedy.
The old appear in conversation in two characters: the critically silent and the garrulous59 anecdotic. The last is perhaps what we look for; it is perhaps the more instructive. An old gentleman, well on in years, sits handsomely and naturally in the bow-window of his age, scanning experience with reverted60 eye; and chirping61 and smiling, communicates the accidents and reads the lesson of his long career. Opinions are strengthened, indeed, but they are also weeded out in the course of years. What remains62 steadily63 present to the eye of the retired64 veteran in his hermitage, what still ministers to his content, what still quickens his old honest heart — these are “the real long-lived things” that Whitman tells us to prefer. Where youth agrees with age, not where they differ, wisdom lies; and it is when the young disciple65 finds his heart to beat in tune45 with his gray-bearded teacher’s that a lesson may be learned. I have known one old gentleman, whom I may name, for he in now gathered to his stock — Robert Hunter, Sheriff of Dumbarton, and author of an excellent law-book still re-edited and republished. Whether he was originally big or little is more than I can guess. When I knew him he was all fallen away and fallen in; crooked66 and shrunken; buckled67 into a stiff waistcoat for support; troubled by ailments68, which kept him hobbling in and out of the room; one foot gouty; a wig69 for decency70, not for deception71, on his head; close shaved, except under his chin — and for that he never failed to apologise, for it went sore against the traditions of his life. You can imagine how he would fare in a novel by Miss Mather; yet this rag of a Chelsea veteran lived to his last year in the plenitude of all that is best in man, brimming with human kindness, and staunch as a Roman soldier under his manifold infirmities. You could not say that he had lost his memory, for he would repeat Shakespeare and Webster and Jeremy Taylor and Burke by the page together; but the parchment was filled up, there was no room for fresh inscriptions72, and he was capable of repeating the same anecdote73 on many successive visits. His voice survived in its full power, and he took a pride in using it. On his last voyage as Commissioner74 of lighthouses, he hailed a ship at sea and made himself clearly audible without a speaking trumpet75, ruffling76 the while with a proper vanity in his achievement. He had a habit of eking77 out his words with interrogative hems10, which was puzzling and a little wearisome, suited ill with his appearance, and seemed a survival from some former stage of bodily portliness. Of yore, when he was a great pedestrian and no enemy to good claret, he may have pointed78 with these minute guns his allocutions to the bench. His humour was perfectly79 equable, set beyond the reach of fate; gout, rheumatism80, stone and gravel81 might have combined their forces against that frail82 tabernacle, but when I came round on Sunday evening, he would lay aside Jeremy Taylor’s Life of Christ and greet me with the same open brow, the same kind formality of manner. His opinions and sympathies dated the man almost to a decade. He had begun life, under his mother’s influence, as an admirer of Junius, but on maturer knowledge had transferred his admiration83 to Burke. He cautioned me, with entire gravity, to be punctilious84 in writing English; never to forget that I was a Scotchman, that English was a foreign tongue, and that if I attempted the colloquial86, I should certainly, be shamed: the remark was apposite, I suppose, in the days of David Hume. Scott was too new for him; he had known the author — known him, too, for a Tory; and to the genuine classic a contemporary is always something of a trouble. He had the old, serious love of the play; had even, as he was proud to tell, played a certain part in the history of Shakespearian revivals87, for he had successfully pressed on Murray, of the old Edinburgh Theatre, the idea of producing Shakespeare’s fairy pieces with great scenic88 display. A moderate in religion, he was much struck in the last years of his life by a conversation with two young lads, revivalists “H’m,” he would say — “new to me. I have had — h’m — no such experience.” It struck him, not with pain, rather with a solemn philosophic89 interest, that he, a Christian90 as he hoped, and a Christian of so old a standing91, should hear these young fellows talking of his own subject, his own weapons that he had fought the battle of life with, — “and — h’m — not understand.” In this wise and graceful92 attitude he did justice to himself and others, reposed93 unshaken in his old beliefs, and recognised their limits without anger or alarm. His last recorded remark, on the last night of his life, was after he had been arguing against Calvinism with his minister and was interrupted by an intolerable pang94. “After all,” he said, “of all the ‘isms, I know none so bad as rheumatism.” My own last sight of him was some time before, when we dined together at an inn; he had been on circuit, for he stuck to his duties like a chief part of his existence; and I remember it as the only occasion on which he ever soiled his lips with slang — a thing he loathed96. We were both Roberts; and as we took our places at table, he addressed me with a twinkle: “We are just what you would call two bob.” He offered me port, I remember, as the proper milk of youth; spoke97 of “twenty-shilling notes”; and throughout the meal was full of old-world pleasantry and quaintness98, like an ancient boy on a holiday. But what I recall chiefly was his confession99 that he had never read Othello to an end. Shakespeare was his continual study. He loved nothing better than to display his knowledge and memory by adducing parallel passages from Shakespeare, passages where the same word was employed, or the same idea differently treated. But Othello had beaten him. “That noble gentleman and that noble lady — h’m — too painful for me.” The same night the hoardings were covered with posters, “Burlesque of Othello,” and the contrast blazed up in my mind like a bonfire. An unforgettable look it gave me into that kind man’s soul. His acquaintance was indeed a liberal and pious education. All the humanities were taught in that bare dining-room beside his gouty footstool. He was a piece of good advice; he was himself the instance that pointed and adorned100 his various talk. Nor could a young man have found elsewhere a place so set apart from envy, fear, discontent, or any of the passions that debase; a life so honest and composed; a soul like an ancient violin, so subdued101 to harmony, responding to a touch in music — as in that dining-room, with Mr. Hunter chatting at the eleventh hour, under the shadow of eternity102, fearless and gentle.
The second class of old people are not anecdotic; they are rather hearers than talkers, listening to the young with an amused and critical attention. To have this sort of intercourse103 to perfection, I think we must go to old ladies. Women are better hearers than men, to begin with; they learn, I fear in anguish104, to bear with the tedious and infantile vanity of the other sex; and we will take more from a woman than even from the oldest man in the way of biting comment. Biting comment is the chief part, whether for profit or amusement, in this business. The old lady that I have in my eye is a very caustic105 speaker, her tongue, after years of practice, in absolute command, whether for silence or attack. If she chance to dislike you, you will be tempted85 to curse the malignity106 of age. But if you chance to please even slightly, you will be listened to with a particular laughing grace of sympathy, and from time to time chastised107, as if in play, with a parasol as heavy as a pole-axe. It requires a singular art, as well as the vantage-ground of age, to deal these stunning108 corrections among the coxcombs of the young. The pill is disguised in sugar of wit; it is administered as a compliment — if you had not pleased, you would not have been censured109; it is a personal affair — a hyphen, a trait d’union, between you and your censor110; age’s philandering111, for her pleasure and your good. Incontestably the young man feels very much of a fool; but he must be a perfect Malvolio, sick with self-love, if he cannot take an open buffet112 and still smile. The correction of silence is what kills; when you know you have transgressed113, and your friend says nothing and avoids your eye. If a man were made of gutta-percha, his heart would quail114 at such a moment. But when the word is out, the worst is over; and a fellow with any good-humour at all may pass through a perfect hail of witty115 criticism, every bare place on his soul hit to the quick with a shrewd missile, and reappear, as if after a dive, tingling116 with a fine moral reaction, and ready, with a shrinking readiness, one-third loath95, for a repetition of the discipline.
There are few women, not well sunned and ripened117, and perhaps toughened, who can thus stand apart from a man and say the true thing with a kind of genial118 cruelty. Still there are some — and I doubt if there be any man who can return the compliment. The class of man represented by Vernon Whitford in The Egoist says, indeed, the true thing, but he says it stockishly. Vernon is a noble fellow, and makes, by the way, a noble and instructive contrast to Daniel Deronda; his conduct is the conduct of a man of honour; but we agree with him, against our consciences, when he remorsefully119 considers “its astonishing dryness.” He is the best of men, but the best of women manage to combine all that and something more. Their very faults assist them; they are helped even by the falseness of their position in life. They can retire into the fortified120 camp of the proprieties121. They can touch a subject and suppress it. The most adroit122 employ a somewhat elaborate reserve as a means to be frank, much as they wear gloves when they shake hands. But a man has the full responsibility of his freedom, cannot evade123 a question, can scarce be silent without rudeness, must answer for his words upon the moment, and is not seldom left face to face with a damning choice, between the more or less dishonourable wriggling124 of Deronda and the downright woodenness of Vernon Whitford.
But the superiority of women is perpetually menaced; they do not sit throned on infirmities like the old; they are suitors as well as sovereigns; their vanity is engaged, their affections are too apt to follow; and hence much of the talk between the sexes degenerates125 into something unworthy of the name. The desire to please, to shine with a certain softness of lustre126 and to draw a fascinating picture of oneself, banishes127 from conversation all that is sterling128 and most of what is humorous. As soon as a strong current of mutual129 admiration begins to flow, the human interest triumphs entirely130 over the intellectual, and the commerce of words, consciously or not, becomes secondary to the commencing of eyes. But even where this ridiculous danger is avoided, and a man and woman converse131 equally and honestly, something in their nature or their education falsifies the strain. An instinct prompts them to agree; and where that is impossible, to agree to differ. Should they neglect the warning, at the first suspicion of an argument, they find themselves in different hemispheres. About any point of business or conduct, any actual affair demanding settlement, a woman will speak and listen, hear and answer arguments, not only with natural wisdom, but with candour and logical honesty. But if the subject of debate be something in the air, an abstraction, an excuse for talk, a logical Aunt Sally, then may the male debater instantly abandon hope; he may employ reason, adduce facts, be supple132, be smiling, be angry, all shall avail him nothing; what the woman said first, that (unless she has forgotten it) she will repeat at the end. Hence, at the very junctures133 when a talk between men grows brighter and quicker and begins to promise to bear fruit, talk between the sexes is menaced with dissolution. The point of difference, the point of interest, is evaded134 by the brilliant woman, under a shower of irrelevant135 conversational136 rockets; it is bridged by the discreet137 woman with a rustle138 of silk, as she passes smoothly139 forward to the nearest point of safety. And this sort of prestidigitation, juggling140 the dangerous topic out of sight until it can be reintroduced with safety in an altered shape, is a piece of tactics among the true drawing-room queens.
The drawing-room is, indeed, an artificial place; it is so by our choice and for our sins. The subjection of women; the ideal imposed upon them from the cradle, and worn, like a hair-shirt, with so much constancy; their motherly, superior tenderness to man’s vanity and self-importance; their managing arts — the arts of a civilised slave among good-natured barbarians141 — are all painful ingredients and all help to falsify relations. It is not till we get clear of that amusing artificial scene that genuine relations are founded, or ideas honestly compared. In the garden, on the road or the hillside, or tete-A-T_et_E and apart from interruptions, occasions arise when we may learn much from any single woman; and nowhere more often than in married life. Marriage is one long conversation, chequered by disputes. The disputes are valueless; they but ingrain the difference; the heroic heart of woman prompting her at once to nail her colours to the mast. But in the intervals142, almost unconsciously and with no desire to shine, the whole material of life is turned over and over, ideas are struck out and shared, the two persons more and more adapt their notions one to suit the other, and in process of time, without sound of trumpet, they conduct each other into new worlds of thought.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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hems
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| 布的褶边，贴边( hem的名词复数 )； 短促的咳嗽 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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coteries
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| n.（有共同兴趣的）小集团( coterie的名词复数 ) | |
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contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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syllogism
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| n.演绎法，三段论法 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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accentuate
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| v.着重，强调 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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52
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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53
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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54
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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55
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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56
antidotes
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| 解药( antidote的名词复数 )； 解毒剂； 对抗手段； 除害物 | |
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57
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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58
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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59
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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60
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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61
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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62
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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63
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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64
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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65
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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66
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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67
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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68
ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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69
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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70
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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71
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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72
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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73
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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74
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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75
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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76
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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77
eking
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的现在分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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78
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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79
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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80
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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81
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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82
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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83
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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84
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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85
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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86
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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87
revivals
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| n.复活( revival的名词复数 )；再生；复兴；（老戏多年后）重新上演 | |
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88
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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89
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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90
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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91
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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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93
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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95
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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96
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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97
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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98
quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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99
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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100
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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101
subdued
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| 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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102
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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103
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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104
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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105
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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106
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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107
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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108
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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109
censured
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的过去式 ) | |
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110
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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111
philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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112
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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113
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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114
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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115
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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116
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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117
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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119
remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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120
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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121
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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122
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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123
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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124
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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125
degenerates
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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127
banishes
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
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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129
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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130
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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131
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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132
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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133
junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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134
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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135
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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136
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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137
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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138
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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139
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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140
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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141
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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142
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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