Some fortnight after this Madame Merle drove up in a hansom cab to the house in Winchester Square. As she descended1 from her vehicle she observed, suspended between the dining-room windows, a large, neat, wooden tablet, on whose fresh black ground were inscribed2 in white paint the words —“This noble freehold mansion3 to be sold”; with the name of the agent to whom application should be made. “They certainly lose no time,” said the visitor as, after sounding the big brass4 knocker, she waited to be admitted; “it’s a practical country!” And within the house, as she ascended5 to the drawing-room, she perceived numerous signs of abdication6; pictures removed from the walls and placed upon sofas, windows undraped and floors laid bare. Mrs. Touchett presently received her and intimated in a few words that condolences might be taken for granted.
“I know what you’re going to say — he was a very good man. But I know it better than any one, because I gave him more chance to show it. In that I think I was a good wife.” Mrs. Touchett added that at the end her husband apparently7 recognised this fact. “He has treated me most liberally,” she said; “I won’t say more liberally than I expected, because I didn’t expect. You know that as a general thing I don’t expect. But he chose, I presume, to recognise the fact that though I lived much abroad and mingled8 — you may say freely — in foreign life, I never exhibited the smallest preference for any one else.”
“For any one but yourself,” Madame Merle mentally observed; but the reflexion was perfectly9 inaudible.
“Oh no,” thought Madame Merle; “you never did anything for another!”
There was a certain cynicism in these mute comments which demands an explanation; the more so as they are not in accord either with the view — somewhat superficial perhaps — that we have hitherto enjoyed of Madame Merle’s character or with the literal facts of Mrs. Touchett’s history; the more so, too, as Madame Merle had a well-founded conviction that her friend’s last remark was not in the least to be construed12 as a side-thrust at herself. The truth is that the moment she had crossed the threshold she received an impression that Mr. Touchett’s death had had subtle consequences and that these consequences had been profitable to a little circle of persons among whom she was not numbered. Of course it was an event which would naturally have consequences; her imagination had more than once rested upon this fact during her stay at Gardencourt. But it had been one thing to foresee such a matter mentally and another to stand among its massive records. The idea of a distribution of property — she would almost have said of spoils — just now pressed upon her senses and irritated her with a sense of exclusion13. I am far from wishing to picture her as one of the hungry mouths or envious14 hearts of the general herd15, but we have already learned of her having desires that had never been satisfied. If she had been questioned, she would of course have admitted — with a fine proud smile — that she had not the faintest claim to a share in Mr. Touchett’s relics16. “There was never anything in the world between us,” she would have said. “There was never that, poor man!”— with a fillip of her thumb and her third finger. I hasten to add, moreover, that if she couldn’t at the present moment keep from quite perversely17 yearning18 she was careful not to betray herself. She had after all as much sympathy for Mrs. Touchett’s gains as for her losses.
“He has left me this house,” the newly-made widow said; “but of course I shall not live in it; I’ve a much better one in Florence. The will was opened only three days since, but I’ve already offered the house for sale. I’ve also a share in the bank; but I don’t yet understand if I’m obliged to leave it there. If not I shall certainly take it out. Ralph, of course, has Gardencourt; but I’m not sure that he’ll have means to keep up the place. He’s naturally left very well off, but his father has given away an immense deal of money; there are bequests19 to a string of third cousins in Vermont. Ralph, however, is very fond of Gardencourt and would be quite capable of living there — in summer — with a maid-of-all-work and a gardener’s boy. There’s one remarkable20 clause in my husband’s will,” Mrs. Touchett added. “He has left my niece a fortune.”
“A fortune!” Madame Merle softly repeated.
“Isabel steps into something like seventy thousand pounds.” Madame Merle’s hands were clasped in her lap; at this she raised them, still clasped, and held them a moment against her bosom21 while her eyes, a little dilated22, fixed23 themselves on those of her friend. “Ah,” she cried, “the clever creature!”
Mrs. Touchett gave her a quick look. “What do you mean by that?”
For an instant Madame Merle’s colour rose and she dropped her eyes. “It certainly is clever to achieve such results — without an effort!”
“There assuredly was no effort. Don’t call it an achievement.”
Madame Merle was seldom guilty of the awkwardness of retracting24 what she had said; her wisdom was shown rather in maintaining it and placing it in a favourable25 light. “My dear friend, Isabel would certainly not have had seventy thousand pounds left her if she had not been the most charming girl in the world. Her charm includes great cleverness.”
“She never dreamed, I’m sure, of my husband’s doing anything for her; and I never dreamed of it either, for he never spoke26 to me of his intention,” Mrs. Touchett said. “She had no claim upon him whatever; it was no great recommendation to him that she was my niece. Whatever she achieved she achieved unconsciously.”
“Ah,” rejoined Madame Merle, “those are the greatest strokes!” Mrs. Touchett reserved her opinion. “The girl’s fortunate; I don’t deny that. But for the present she’s simply stupefied.”
“Do you mean that she doesn’t know what to do with the money?”
“That, I think, she has hardly considered. She doesn’t know what to think about the matter at all. It has been as if a big gun were suddenly fired off behind her; she’s feeling herself to see if she be hurt. It’s but three days since she received a visit from the principal executor, who came in person, very gallantly27, to notify her. He told me afterwards that when he had made his little speech she suddenly burst into tears. The money’s to remain in the affairs of the bank, and she’s to draw the interest.”
Madame Merle shook her head with a wise and now quite benignant smile. “How very delicious! After she has done that two or three times she’ll get used to it.” Then after a silence, “What does your son think of it?” she abruptly29 asked.
“He left England before the will was read — used up by his fatigue30 and anxiety and hurrying off to the south. He’s on his way to the Riviera and I’ve not yet heard from him. But it’s not likely he’ll ever object to anything done by his father.”
“Didn’t you say his own share had been cut down?”
“Only at his wish. I know that he urged his father to do something for the people in America. He’s not in the least addicted31 to looking after number one.”
“It depends upon whom he regards as number one!” said Madame Merle. And she remained thoughtful a moment, her eyes bent32 on the floor.
“Am I not to see your happy niece?” she asked at last as she raised them.
“You may see her; but you’ll not be struck with her being happy. She has looked as solemn, these three days, as a Cimabue Madonna!” And Mrs. Touchett rang for a servant.
Isabel came in shortly after the footman had been sent to call her; and Madame Merle thought, as she appeared, that Mrs. Touchett’s comparison had its force. The girl was pale and grave — an effect not mitigated33 by her deeper mourning; but the smile of her brightest moments came into her face as she saw Madame Merle, who went forward, laid her hand on our heroine’s shoulder and, after looking at her a moment, kissed her as if she were returning the kiss she had received from her at Gardencourt. This was the only allusion34 the visitor, in her great good taste, made for the present to her young friend’s inheritance.
Mrs. Touchett had no purpose of awaiting in London the sale of her house. After selecting from among its furniture the objects she wished to transport to her other abode35, she left the rest of its contents to be disposed of by the auctioneer and took her departure for the Continent. She was of course accompanied on this journey by her niece, who now had plenty of leisure to measure and weigh and otherwise handle the windfall on which Madame Merle had covertly36 congratulated her. Isabel thought very often of the fact of her accession of means, looking at it in a dozen different lights; but we shall not now attempt to follow her train of thought or to explain exactly why her new consciousness was at first oppressive. This failure to rise to immediate37 joy was indeed but brief; the girl presently made up her mind that to be rich was a virtue38 because it was to be able to do, and that to do could only be sweet. It was the graceful39 contrary of the stupid side of weakness — especially the feminine variety. To be weak was, for a delicate young person, rather graceful, but, after all, as Isabel said to herself, there was a larger grace than that. Just now, it is true, there was not much to do — once she had sent off a cheque to Lily and another to poor Edith; but she was thankful for the quiet months which her mourning robes and her aunt’s fresh widowhood compelled them to spend together. The acquisition of power made her serious; she scrutinised her power with a kind of tender ferocity, but was not eager to exercise it. She began to do so during a stay of some weeks which she eventually made with her aunt in Paris, though in ways that will inevitably40 present themselves as trivial. They were the ways most naturally imposed in a city in which the shops are the admiration41 of the world, and that were prescribed unreservedly by the guidance of Mrs. Touchett, who took a rigidly42 practical view of the transformation43 of her niece from a poor girl to a rich one. “Now that you’re a young woman of fortune you must know how to play the part — I mean to play it well,” she said to Isabel once for all; and she added that the girl’s first duty was to have everything handsome. “You don’t know how to take care of your things, but you must learn,” she went on; this was Isabel’s second duty. Isabel submitted, but for the present her imagination was not kindled44; she longed for opportunities, but these were not the opportunities she meant.
Mrs. Touchett rarely changed her plans, and, having intended before her husband’s death to spend a part of the winter in Paris, saw no reason to deprive herself — still less to deprive her companion — of this advantage. Though they would live in great retirement45 she might still present her niece, informally, to the little circle of her fellow countrymen dwelling46 upon the skirts of the Champs Elysees. With many of these amiable47 colonists48 Mrs. Touchett was intimate; she shared their expatriation, their convictions, their pastimes, their ennui49. Isabel saw them arrive with a good deal of assiduity at her aunt’s hotel, and pronounced on them with a trenchancy50 doubtless to be accounted for by the temporary exaltation of her sense of human duty. She made up her mind that their lives were, though luxurious51, inane52, and incurred53 some disfavour by expressing this view on bright Sunday afternoons, when the American absentees were engaged in calling on each other. Though her listeners passed for people kept exemplarily genial54 by their cooks and dressmakers, two or three of them thought her cleverness, which was generally admitted, inferior to that of the new theatrical55 pieces. “You all live here this way, but what does it lead to?” she was pleased to ask. “It doesn’t seem to lead to anything, and I should think you’d get very tired of it.”
Mrs. Touchett thought the question worthy56 of Henrietta Stackpole. The two ladies had found Henrietta in Paris, and Isabel constantly saw her; so that Mrs. Touchett had some reason for saying to herself that if her niece were not clever enough to originate almost anything, she might be suspected of having borrowed that style of remark from her journalistic friend. The first occasion on which Isabel had spoken was that of a visit paid by the two ladies to Mrs. Luce, an old friend of Mrs. Touchett’s and the only person in Paris she now went to see. Mrs. Luce had been living in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe; she used to say jocosely57 that she was one of the generation of 1830 — a joke of which the point was not always taken. When it failed Mrs. Luce used to explain —“Oh yes, I’m one of the romantics;” her French had never become quite perfect. She was always at home on Sunday afternoons and surrounded by sympathetic compatriots, usually the same. In fact she was at home at all times, and reproduced with wondrous58 truth in her well-cushioned little corner of the brilliant city, the domestic tone of her native Baltimore. This reduced Mr. Luce, her worthy husband, a tall, lean, grizzled, well-brushed gentleman who wore a gold eye-glass and carried his hat a little too much on the back of his head, to mere59 platonic60 praise of the “distractions” of Paris — they were his great word — since you would never have guessed from what cares he escaped to them. One of them was that he went every day to the American banker’s, where he found a post-office that was almost as sociable61 and colloquial62 an institution as in an American country town. He passed an hour (in fine weather) in a chair in the Champs Elysees, and he dined uncommonly63 well at his own table, seated above a waxed floor which it was Mrs. Luce’s happiness to believe had a finer polish than any other in the French capital. Occasionally he dined with a friend or two at the Cafe Anglais, where his talent for ordering a dinner was a source of felicity to his companions and an object of admiration even to the headwaiter of the establishment. These were his only known pastimes, but they had beguiled64 his hours for upwards65 of half a century, and they doubtless justified66 his frequent declaration that there was no place like Paris. In no other place, on these terms, could Mr. Luce flatter himself that he was enjoying life. There was nothing like Paris, but it must be confessed that Mr. Luce thought less highly of this scene of his dissipations than in earlier days. In the list of his resources his political reflections should not be omitted, for they were doubtless the animating67 principle of many hours that superficially seemed vacant. Like many of his fellow colonists Mr. Luce was a high — or rather a deep — conservative, and gave no countenance68 to the government lately established in France. He had no faith in its duration and would assure you from year to year that its end was close at hand. “They want to be kept down, sir, to be kept down; nothing but the strong hand — the iron heel — will do for them,” he would frequently say of the French people; and his ideal of a fine showy clever rule was that of the superseded69 Empire. “Paris is much less attractive than in the days of the Emperor; HE knew how to make a city pleasant,” Mr. Luce had often remarked to Mrs. Touchett, who was quite of his own way of thinking and wished to know what one had crossed that odious70 Atlantic for but to get away from republics.
“Why, madam, sitting in the Champs Elysees, opposite to the Palace of Industry, I’ve seen the court-carriages from the Tuileries pass up and down as many as seven times a day. I remember one occasion when they went as high as nine. What do you see now? It’s no use talking, the style’s all gone. Napoleon knew what the French people want, and there’ll be a dark cloud over Paris, our Paris, till they get the Empire back again.”
Among Mrs. Luce’s visitors on Sunday afternoons was a young man with whom Isabel had had a good deal of conversation and whom she found full of valuable knowledge. Mr. Edward Rosier71 — Ned Rosier as he was called — was native to New York and had been brought up in Paris, living there under the eye of his father who, as it happened, had been an early and intimate friend of the late Mr. Archer72. Edward Rosier remembered Isabel as a little girl; it had been his father who came to the rescue of the small Archers73 at the inn at Neufchatel (he was travelling that way with the boy and had stopped at the hotel by chance), after their bonne had gone off with the Russian prince and when Mr. Archer’s whereabouts remained for some days a mystery. Isabel remembered perfectly the neat little male child whose hair smelt74 of a delicious cosmetic75 and who had a bonne all his own, warranted to lose sight of him under no provocation76. Isabel took a walk with the pair beside the lake and thought little Edward as pretty as an angel — a comparison by no means conventional in her mind, for she had a very definite conception of a type of features which she supposed to be angelic and which her new friend perfectly illustrated77. A small pink face surmounted78 by a blue velvet79 bonnet80 and set off by a stiff embroidered81 collar had become the countenance of her childish dreams; and she had firmly believed for some time afterwards that the heavenly hosts conversed82 among themselves in a queer little dialect of French-English, expressing the properest sentiments, as when Edward told her that he was “defended” by his bonne to go near the edge of the lake, and that one must always obey to one’s bonne. Ned Rosier’s English had improved; at least it exhibited in a less degree the French variation. His father was dead and his bonne dismissed, but the young man still conformed to the spirit of their teaching — he never went to the edge of the lake. There was still something agreeable to the nostrils83 about him and something not offensive to nobler organs. He was a very gentle and gracious youth, with what are called cultivated tastes — an acquaintance with old china, with good wine, with the bindings of books, with the Almanach de Gotha, with the best shops, the best hotels, the hours of railway-trains. He could order a dinner almost as well as Mr. Luce, and it was probable that as his experience accumulated he would be a worthy successor to that gentleman, whose rather grim politics he also advocated in a soft and innocent voice. He had some charming rooms in Paris, decorated with old Spanish altar-lace, the envy of his female friends, who declared that his chimney-piece was better draped than the high shoulders of many a duchess. He usually, however, spent a part of every winter at Pau, and had once passed a couple of months in the United States.
He took a great interest in Isabel and remembered perfectly the walk at Neufchatel, when she would persist in going so near the edge. He seemed to recognise this same tendency in the subversive84 enquiry that I quoted a moment ago, and set himself to answer our heroine’s question with greater urbanity than it perhaps deserved. “What does it lead to, Miss Archer? Why Paris leads everywhere. You can’t go anywhere unless you come here first. Every one that comes to Europe has got to pass through. You don’t mean it in that sense so much? You mean what good it does you? Well, how can you penetrate85 futurity? How can you tell what lies ahead? If it’s a pleasant road I don’t care where it leads. I like the road, Miss Archer; I like the dear old asphalte. You can’t get tired of it — you can’t if you try. You think you would, but you wouldn’t; there’s always something new and fresh. Take the Hotel Drouot, now; they sometimes have three and four sales a week. Where can you get such things as you can here? In spite of all they say I maintain they’re cheaper too, if you know the right places. I know plenty of places, but I keep them to myself. I’ll tell you, if you like, as a particular favour; only you mustn’t tell any one else. Don’t you go anywhere without asking me first; I want you to promise me that. As a general thing avoid the Boulevards; there’s very little to be done on the Boulevards. Speaking conscientiously86 — sans blague — I don’t believe any one knows Paris better than I. You and Mrs. Touchett must come and breakfast with me some day, and I’ll show you my things; je ne vous dis que ca! There has been a great deal of talk about London of late; it’s the fashion to cry up London. But there’s nothing in it — you can’t do anything in London. No Louis Quinze — nothing of the First Empire; nothing but their eternal Queen Anne. It’s good for one’s bed-room, Queen Anne — for one’s washing-room; but it isn’t proper for a salon87. Do I spend my life at the auctioneer’s?” Mr. Rosier pursued in answer to another question of Isabel’s. “Oh no; I haven’t the means. I wish I had. You think I’m a mere trifler; I can tell by the expression of your face — you’ve got a wonderfully expressive88 face. I hope you don’t mind my saying that; I mean it as a kind of warning. You think I ought to do something, and so do I, so long as you leave it vague. But when you come to the point you see you have to stop. I can’t go home and be a shopkeeper. You think I’m very well fitted? Ah, Miss Archer, you overrate me. I can buy very well, but I can’t sell; you should see when I sometimes try to get rid of my things. It takes much more ability to make other people buy than to buy yourself. When I think how clever they must be, the people who make ME buy! Ah no; I couldn’t be a shopkeeper. I can’t be a doctor; it’s a repulsive89 business. I can’t be a clergyman; I haven’t got convictions. And then I can’t pronounce the names right in the Bible. They’re very difficult, in the Old Testament90 particularly. I can’t be a lawyer; I don’t understand — how do you call it? — the American procedure. Is there anything else? There’s nothing for a gentleman in America. I should like to be a diplomatist; but American diplomacy91 — that’s not for gentlemen either. I’m sure if you had seen the last min —”
Henrietta Stackpole, who was often with her friend when Mr. Rosier, coming to pay his compliments late in the afternoon, expressed himself after the fashion I have sketched92, usually interrupted the young man at this point and read him a lecture on the duties of the American citizen. She thought him most unnatural93; he was worse than poor Ralph Touchett. Henrietta, however, was at this time more than ever addicted to fine criticism, for her conscience had been freshly alarmed as regards Isabel. She had not congratulated this young lady on her augmentations and begged to be excused from doing so.
“If Mr. Touchett had consulted me about leaving you the money,” she frankly94 asserted, “I’d have said to him ‘Never!”
“I see,” Isabel had answered. “You think it will prove a curse in disguise. Perhaps it will.”
“Leave it to some one you care less for — that’s what I should have said.”
“To yourself for instance?” Isabel suggested jocosely. And then, “Do you really believe it will ruin me?” she asked in quite another tone.
“I hope it won’t ruin you; but it will certainly confirm your dangerous tendencies.”
“Do you mean the love of luxury — of extravagance?”
“No, no,” said Henrietta; “I mean your exposure on the moral side. I approve of luxury; I think we ought to be as elegant as possible. Look at the luxury of our western cities; I’ve seen nothing over here to compare with it. I hope you’ll never become grossly sensual; but I’m not afraid of that. The peril95 for you is that you live too much in the world of your own dreams. You’re not enough in contact with reality — with the toiling96, striving, suffering, I may even say sinning, world that surrounds you. You’re too fastidious; you’ve too many graceful illusions. Your newly-acquired thousands will shut you up more and more to the society of a few selfish and heartless people who will be interested in keeping them up.”
Isabel’s eyes expanded as she gazed at this lurid97 scene. “What are my illusions?” she asked. “I try so hard not to have any.”
“Well,” said Henrietta, “you think you can lead a romantic life, that you can live by pleasing yourself and pleasing others. You’ll find you’re mistaken. Whatever life you lead you must put your soul in it — to make any sort of success of it; and from the moment you do that it ceases to be romance, I assure you: it becomes grim reality! And you can’t always please yourself; you must sometimes please other people. That, I admit, you’re very ready to do; but there’s another thing that’s still more important — you must often displease98 others. You must always be ready for that — you must never shrink from it. That doesn’t suit you at all — you’re too fond of admiration, you like to be thought well of. You think we can escape disagreeable duties by taking romantic views — that’s your great illusion, my dear. But we can’t. You must be prepared on many occasions in life to please no one at all — not even yourself.”
Isabel shook her head sadly; she looked troubled and frightened. “This, for you, Henrietta,” she said, “must be one of those occasions!”
It was certainly true that Miss Stackpole, during her visit to Paris, which had been professionally more remunerative99 than her English sojourn100, had not been living in the world of dreams. Mr. Bantling, who had now returned to England, was her companion for the first four weeks of her stay; and about Mr. Bantling there was nothing dreamy. Isabel learned from her friend that the two had led a life of great personal intimacy101 and that this had been a peculiar102 advantage to Henrietta, owing to the gentleman’s remarkable knowledge of Paris. He had explained everything, shown her everything, been her constant guide and interpreter. They had breakfasted together, dined together, gone to the theatre together, supped together, really in a manner quite lived together. He was a true friend, Henrietta more than once assured our heroine; and she had never supposed that she could like any Englishman so well. Isabel could not have told you why, but she found something that ministered to mirth in the alliance the correspondent of the Interviewer had struck with Lady Pensil’s brother; her amusement moreover subsisted103 in face of the fact that she thought it a credit to each of them. Isabel couldn’t rid herself of a suspicion that they were playing somehow at cross-purposes — that the simplicity104 of each had been entrapped105. But this simplicity was on either side none the less honourable106. It was as graceful on Henrietta’s part to believe that Mr. Bantling took an interest in the diffusion107 of lively journalism108 and in consolidating109 the position of lady-correspondents as it was on the part of his companion to suppose that the cause of the Interviewer — a periodical of which he never formed a very definite conception — was, if subtly analysed (a task to which Mr. Bantling felt himself quite equal), but the cause of Miss Stackpole’s need of demonstrative affection. Each of these groping celibates110 supplied at any rate a want of which the other was impatiently conscious. Mr. Bantling, who was of rather a slow and a discursive111 habit, relished112 a prompt, keen, positive woman, who charmed him by the influence of a shining, challenging eye and a kind of bandbox freshness, and who kindled a perception of raciness in a mind to which the usual fare of life seemed unsalted. Henrietta, on the other hand, enjoyed the society of a gentleman who appeared somehow, in his way, made, by expensive, roundabout, almost “quaint” processes, for her use, and whose leisured state, though generally indefensible, was a decided113 boon114 to a breathless mate, and who was furnished with an easy, traditional, though by no means exhaustive, answer to almost any social or practical question that could come up. She often found Mr. Bantling’s answers very convenient, and in the press of catching115 the American post would largely and showily address them to publicity116. It was to be feared that she was indeed drifting toward those abysses of sophistication as to which Isabel, wishing for a good-humoured retort, had warned her. There might be danger in store for Isabel; but it was scarcely to be hoped that Miss Stackpole, on her side, would find permanent rest in any adoption117 of the views of a class pledged to all the old abuses. Isabel continued to warn her good-humouredly; Lady Pensil’s obliging brother was sometimes, on our heroine’s lips, an object of irreverent and facetious118 allusion. Nothing, however, could exceed Henrietta’s amiability119 on this point; she used to abound120 in the sense of Isabel’s irony121 and to enumerate122 with elation123 the hours she had spent with this perfect man of the world — a term that had ceased to make with her, as previously124, for opprobrium125. Then, a few moments later, she would forget that they had been talking jocosely and would mention with impulsive126 earnestness some expedition she had enjoyed in his company. She would say: “Oh, I know all about Versailles; I went there with Mr. Bantling. I was bound to see it thoroughly127 — I warned him when we went out there that I was thorough: so we spent three days at the hotel and wandered all over the place. It was lovely weather — a kind of Indian summer, only not so good. We just lived in that park. Oh yes; you can’t tell me anything about Versailles.” Henrietta appeared to have made arrangements to meet her gallant28 friend during the spring in Italy.
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inscribed
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mansion
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brass
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ascended
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abdication
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apparently
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mingled
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perfectly
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curtness
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construed
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exclusion
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envious
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herd
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relics
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perversely
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yearning
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bequests
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
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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24
retracting
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的现在分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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25
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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26
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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27
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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28
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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29
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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30
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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31
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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32
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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33
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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35
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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36
covertly
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| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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37
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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38
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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39
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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40
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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41
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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42
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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43
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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44
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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45
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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46
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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47
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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48
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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49
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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50
trenchancy
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| n.锐利，鲜明，有力 | |
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51
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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52
inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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53
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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54
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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56
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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57
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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58
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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59
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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60
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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61
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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62
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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63
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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64
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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65
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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66
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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67
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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68
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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69
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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70
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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71
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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72
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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73
archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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74
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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75
cosmetic
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| n.化妆品；adj.化妆用的；装门面的；装饰性的 | |
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76
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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77
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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79
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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80
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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81
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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82
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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83
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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84
subversive
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| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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85
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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86
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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87
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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88
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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89
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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90
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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91
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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92
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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93
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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94
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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95
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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96
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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97
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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98
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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99
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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100
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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101
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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102
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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103
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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105
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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107
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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108
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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109
consolidating
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| v.（使）巩固， （使）加强( consolidate的现在分词 )；（使）合并 | |
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110
celibates
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| n.独身者( celibate的名词复数 ) | |
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111
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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112
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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113
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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114
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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115
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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116
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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117
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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118
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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119
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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120
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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121
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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122
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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123
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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124
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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125
opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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126
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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127
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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