Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his mother’s door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness. Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted that of his progenitors1 his father ministered most to his sense of the sweetness of filial dependence2. His father, as he had often said to himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was paternal3, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial. She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her thoroughly4 arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the other nearest subjects of her solicitude5, the various punctualities of performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired6 scrupulously7 about her husband’s health and about the young man’s own, and, receiving no very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate. In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of his mother’s giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he absented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett, a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as subordinate partner in a banking8-house where some ten years later he gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a simple, sane9 and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble10 a problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to him equally simple his lawful11 heir should after his death carry on the grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify12 this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return as even redundantly13 native, he was placed for some three years in residence at Oxford14. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became at last English enough. His outward conformity15 to the manners that surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which, naturally inclined to adventure and irony17, indulged in a boundless18 liberty of appreciation19. He began with being a young man of promise; at Oxford he distinguished20 himself, to his father’s ineffable21 satisfaction, and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded22 in uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put a watery23 waste permanently24 between himself and the old man whom he regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father, he admired him — he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself had no aptitude25 for the banking mystery he made a point of learning enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was not this, however, he mainly relished26; it was the fine ivory surface, polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to possibilities of penetration27. Daniel Touchett had been neither at Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his son’s hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem28 for the latter’s originality29. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr. Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy30 half the ground of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted31 with pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow32 as he was rich; he combined consummate33 shrewdness with the disposition34 superficially to fraternise, and his “social position,” on which he had never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less well of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling; after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father’s bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of standing35, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise, however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed36 itself on his lungs and threw them into dire37 confusion. He had to give up work and apply, to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging38 tolerance39, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something at stake in the matter — it usually struck him as his reputation for ordinary wit — devoted40 to his graceless charge an amount of attention of which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which consumptives chiefly congregate41. As he had grown extremely fond of London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter42 hand. He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked43 in the sun, stopped at home when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard44 of indifference45 — like a thick cake a fond old nurse might have slipped into his first school outfit46 — came to his aid and helped to reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught but that arduous47 game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced48 the field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance49 of forbidden fruit seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading a good book in a poor translation — a meagre entertainment for a young man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist50. He had good winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled51 some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers. He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between life and death. His convalescence52 was a miracle, but the first use he made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the interval53 as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation. With the prospect54 of losing them the simple use of his faculties55 became an exquisite56 pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself; an idea none the less importunate57 for being vague and none the less delightful58 for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity59 was but the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph’s quickly-stirred interest in the advent16 of a young lady who was evidently not insipid61. If he was consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the imagination of loving — as distinguished from that of being loved — had still a place in his reduced sketch62. He had only forbidden himself the riot of expression. However, he shouldn’t inspire his cousin with a passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one. “And now tell me about the young lady,” he said to his mother. “What do you mean to do with her?”
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. “I mean to ask your father to invite her to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt.”
“You needn’t stand on any such ceremony as that,” said Ralph. “My father will ask her as a matter of course.”
“I don’t know about that. She’s my niece; she’s not his.”
“Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That’s all the more reason for his asking her. But after that — I mean after three months (for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four paltry63 weeks)— what do you mean to do with her?”
“I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing.”
“Ah yes, that’s of course. But independently of that?”
“I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence.”
“You don’t rise above detail, dear mother,” said Ralph. “I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way.”
“My duty!” Mrs. Touchett declared. “I suppose you pity her very much,” she added.
“No, I don’t think I pity her. She doesn’t strike me as inviting64 compassion65. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a hint of where you see your duty.”
“In showing her four European countries — I shall leave her the choice of two of them — and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in French, which she already knows very well.”
Ralph frowned a little. “That sounds rather dry — even allowing her the choice of two of the countries.”
“If it’s dry,” said his mother with a laugh, “you can leave Isabel alone to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day.”
“Do you mean she’s a gifted being?”
“I don’t know whether she’s a gifted being, but she’s a clever girl — with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being bored.”
“Do you mean by that that I’m a bore? I don’t think she finds me one. Some girls might, I know; but Isabel’s too clever for that. I think I greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort of girl she is. She’s very frank, and I’m very frank: we know just what to expect of each other.”
“Ah, dear mother,” Ralph exclaimed, “one always knows what to expect of you! You’ve never surprised me but once, and that’s to-day — in presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never suspected.”
“Do you think her so very pretty?”
“Very pretty indeed; but I don’t insist upon that. It’s her general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make her acquaintance?”
“I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary67 room on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn’t know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn’t have enlightened he — I should have let her alone. There’s a good deal in that, but I acted conscientiously68; I thought she was meant for something better. It occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of it — like most American girls; but like most American girls she’s ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there’s no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my sister’s children for years; I disapproved69 entirely70 of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained71 where they were to be found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was just what her sister needed — that some one should take an interest in her. She spoke72 of her as you might speak of some young person of genius — in want of encouragement and patronage73. It may be that Isabel’s a genius; but in that case I’ve not yet learned her special line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe; they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a refuge for their superfluous74 population. Isabel herself seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse75 to being under pecuniary76 obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes herself to be travelling at her own expense.”
Ralph had listened attentively77 to this judicious78 report, by which his interest in the subject of it was not impaired79. “Ah, if she’s a genius,” he said, “we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for flirting80?”
“I don’t think so. You may suspect that at first, but you’ll be wrong. You won’t, I think, in anyway, be easily right about her.”
“Warburton’s wrong then!” Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. “He flatters himself he has made that discovery.”
His mother shook her head. “Lord Warburton won’t understand her. He needn’t try.”
“He’s very intelligent,” said Ralph; “but it’s right he should be puzzled once in a while.”
“Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord,” Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. What does she know about lords?”
“Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more.”
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window. Then, “Are you not going down to see my father?” he asked.
“At a quarter to eight,” said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. “You’ve another quarter of an hour then. Tell me some more about Isabel.” After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, “Well,” he pursued, “she’ll certainly do you credit. But won’t she also give you trouble?”
“I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do that.”
“She strikes me as very natural,” said Ralph.
“Natural people are not the most trouble.”
“No,” said Ralph; “you yourself are a proof of that. You’re extremely natural, and I’m sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?”
“Ah,” cried his mother, “you ask too many questions! Find that out for yourself.”
His questions, however, were not exhausted81. “All this time,” he said, “you’ve not told me what you intend to do with her.”
“Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she chooses. She gave me notice of that.”
“What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character’s independent.”
“I never know what I mean in my telegrams — especially those I send from America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father.”
“It’s not yet a quarter to eight,” said Ralph.
“I must allow for his impatience82,” Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew what to think of his father’s impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they descended83 together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the staircase — the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. “You’ve no plan of marrying her?” he smiled.
“Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart from that, she’s perfectly84 able to marry herself. She has every facility.”
“Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?”
“I don’t know about a husband, but there’s a young man in Boston —!”
Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston. “As my father says, they’re always engaged!”
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their forms, withdrew, under the valid85 pretext86 of fatigue87, to their respective apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow; but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion88 to the furthest point and confess to it only when dissimulation89 broke down. A fine hypocrisy90 was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures; there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing. The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions, which had a sitting-room91 at either end of it and which in the evening was usually lighted. The light was insufficient92 to show the pictures to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow. This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked disappointed — smiling still, however — and said: “If you please I should like to see them just a little.” She was eager, she knew she was eager and now seemed so; she couldn’t help it. “She doesn’t take suggestions,” Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation93; her pressure amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals94, and if the light was imperfect it was genial95. It fell upon the vague squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding96 of heavy frames; it made a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations97 and murmurs98. She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there; she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art. She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers99 they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an enchanting100 range of concession101. They walked slowly up one side of the gallery and down the other, and then she said: “Well, now I know more than I did when I began!”
“You apparently102 have a great passion for knowledge,” her cousin returned.
“You strike me as different from most girls.”
“Ah, some of them would — but the way they’re talked to!” murmured Isabel, who preferred not to dilate104 just yet on herself. Then in a moment, to change the subject, “Please tell me — isn’t there a ghost?” she went on.
“A ghost?”
“A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in America.”
“So we do here, when we see them.”
“You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house.”
“It’s not a romantic old house,” said Ralph. “You’ll be disappointed if you count on that. It’s a dismally105 prosaic106 one; there’s no romance here but what you may have brought with you.”
“I’ve brought a great deal; but it seems to me I’ve brought it to the right place.”
“To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here, between my father and me.”
Isabel looked at him a moment. “Is there never any one here but your father and you?”
“My mother, of course.”
“Oh, I know your mother; she’s not romantic. Haven’t you other people?”
“Very few.”
“I’m sorry for that; I like so much to see people.”
“Oh, we’ll invite all the county to amuse you,” said Ralph.
“Now you’re making fun of me,” the girl answered rather gravely. “Who was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?”
“A county neighbour; he doesn’t come very often.”
“I’m sorry for that; I liked him,” said Isabel.
“Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him,” Ralph objected.
“Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too, immensely.”
“You can’t do better than that. He’s the dearest of the dear.”
“I’m so sorry he is ill,” said Isabel.
“You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse.”
“I don’t think I am; I’ve been told I’m not; I’m said to have too many theories. But you haven’t told me about the ghost,” she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed107 to this observation. “You like my father and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother.”
“I like your mother very much, because — because —” And Isabel found herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs. Touchett.
“Ah, we never know why!” said her companion, laughing.
“I always know why,” the girl answered. “It’s because she doesn’t expect one to like her. She doesn’t care whether one does or not.”
“So you adore her — out of perversity108? Well, I take greatly after my mother,” said Ralph.
“I don’t believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try to make them do it.”
“Good heavens, how you see through one!” he cried with a dismay that was not altogether jocular.
“But I like you all the same,” his cousin went on. “The way to clinch109 the matter will be to show me the ghost.”
Ralph shook his head sadly. “I might show it to you, but you’d never see it. The privilege isn’t given to every one; it’s not enviable. It has never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable110 knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,” said Ralph.
“I told you just now I’m very fond of knowledge,” Isabel answered.
“Yes, of happy knowledge — of pleasant knowledge. But you haven’t suffered, and you’re not made to suffer. I hope you’ll never see the ghost!”
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck him as rather presumptuous111 — indeed it was a part of her charm; and he wondered what she would say. “I’m not afraid, you know,” she said: which seemed quite presumptuous enough.
“You’re not afraid of suffering?”
“Yes, I’m afraid of suffering. But I’m not afraid of ghosts. And I think people suffer too easily,” she added.
“I don’t believe you do,” said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t think that’s a fault,” she answered. “It’s not absolutely necessary to suffer; we were not made for that.”
“You were not, certainly.”
“I’m not speaking of myself.” And she wandered off a little.
“No, it isn’t a fault,” said her cousin. “It’s a merit to be strong.”
“Only, if you don’t suffer they call you hard,” Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle, which he had taken from a niche60. “Never mind what they call you. When you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point’s to be as happy as possible.”
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot on the oaken stair. “Well,” she said, “that’s what I came to Europe for, to be as happy as possible. Good-night.”
“Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to contribute to it!”
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended112. Then, with his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.
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1
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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soluble
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| adj.可溶的；可以解决的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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redundantly
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| 多余地，冗余地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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conformity
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| n.一致，遵从，顺从 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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38
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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41
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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42
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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43
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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44
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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47
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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49
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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50
linguist
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| n.语言学家；精通数种外国语言者 | |
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51
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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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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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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81
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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82
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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83
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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84
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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86
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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87
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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88
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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89
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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91
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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92
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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93
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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94
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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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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97
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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98
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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99
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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100
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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101
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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102
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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103
horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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104
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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105
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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106
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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107
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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108
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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109
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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110
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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111
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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