Chapter XLVII
It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton’s departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some importance to Isabel — the temporary absence, once again, of Madame Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor of a villa1 at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel’s happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet2 of women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her friend — his friend — in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve. Isabel’s imagination applied3 itself actively4 to this elusive5 point, but every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread6, so that when the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness of respite7. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage, had had quite the character of a complete rupture9; if she remembered rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then he had been the most discordant10 survival of her earlier time — the only one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her that morning with a sense of the most superfluous12 of shocks: it was like a collision between vessels14 in broad daylight. There had been no mist, no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer15 wide. He had bumped against her prow16, however, while her hand was on the tiller, and — to complete the metaphor17 — had given the lighter18 vessel13 a strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It had been horrid19 to see him, because he represented the only serious harm that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she couldn’t help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried with rage, after he had left her, at — she hardly knew what: she tried to think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss20 was so perfect; he had done his best to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent, and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted three or four days.
The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord Warburton’s; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith in Mr. Goodwood’s compensations and no esteem21 for them. A cotton factory was not a compensation for anything — least of all for having failed to marry Isabel Archer22. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what he had — save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If he extended his business — that, to the best of her belief, was the only form exertion23 could take with him — it would be because it was an enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of bareness and bleakness24 which made the accident of meeting it in memory or in apprehension25 a peculiar26 concussion27; it was deficient28 in the social drapery commonly muffling29, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston — her imagination was all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions30; she had had more than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband about him — never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a reserve not dictated31 in the early period by a want of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man’s disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her, she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood’s affairs could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that, considering his grievance32, the least she could do was to let him alone. Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him. It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him; even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately33 she needed to feel that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault. She had no near prospect34 of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace with the world — to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for him than for any one else to make out — since he WOULD make it out, as over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort — the intimate disarray35 of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal36 her stress. She was reassured37, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he spent several days without coming to see her.
Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been superficial — the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather enriched than blighted38 those peculiarities39 which had been humorously criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still marked enough to give loyalty40 a spice of heroism41. Henrietta was as keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her remarkably42 open eyes, lighted like great glazed43 railway-stations, had put up no shutters44; her attire45 had lost none of its crispness, her opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had never been vague; though undertaking46 many enquiries at once, she had managed to be entire and pointed47 about each. She had a reason for everything she did; she fairly bristled48 with motives49. Formerly50, when she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn’t for a moment pretend that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to it. “It’s nothing to come to Europe,” she said to Isabel; “it doesn’t seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home; this is much more important.” It was not therefore with a sense of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the other’s fidelity52. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel’s satisfactions just now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified53 in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large concessions54 with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however, that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph, nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.
“Yes, I’m wretched,” she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say it; she tried to say it as judicially55 as possible.
“What does he do to you?” Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were enquiring56 into the operations of a quack57 doctor.
“He does nothing. But he doesn’t like me.”
“He’s very hard to please!” cried Miss Stackpole. “Why don’t you leave him?”
“I can’t change that way,” Isabel said.
“Why not, I should like to know? You won’t confess that you’ve made a mistake. You’re too proud.”
“I don’t know whether I’m too proud. But I can’t publish my mistake. I don’t think that’s decent. I’d much rather die.”
“You won’t think so always,” said Henrietta.
“I don’t know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one’s deeds. I married him before all the world; I was perfectly58 free; it was impossible to do anything more deliberate. One can’t change that way,” Isabel repeated.
“You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don’t mean to say you like him.”
Isabel debated. “No, I don’t like him. I can tell you, because I’m weary of my secret. But that’s enough; I can’t announce it on the housetops.”
Henrietta gave a laugh. “Don’t you think you’re rather too considerate?”
“It’s not of him that I’m considerate — it’s of myself!” Isabel answered.
It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition59 to a young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal60 roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta that as Osmond didn’t like her she couldn’t invite her to dine, but they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room61, and took her repeatedly to drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated62 authoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should remember everything one said. “I don’t want to be remembered that way,” Miss Stackpole declared; “I consider that my conversation refers only to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring them out some day against me.” She could not teach herself to think favourably63 of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural64 and even uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her, so that he might appear to suffer for good manners’ sake. Her immediate8 acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong — it being in effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held to his credit, and yet he held to his objections — all of which were elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice, so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife’s friends; he took occasion to call Isabel’s attention to it.
“You’re certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make a new collection,” he said to her one morning in reference to nothing visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal65 abruptness66. “It’s as if you had taken the trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited67 ass11 — besides his being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it’s insufferably tiresome68 that one can’t tell him so; one must spare him on account of his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he’s so desperately69 ill there’s only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can’t say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it, the cool insolence70 of that performance was something rare! He comes and looks at one’s daughter as if she were a suite71 of apartments; he tries the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and almost thinks he’ll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he doesn’t think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month’s lodging72 in the poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn’t a nerve in one’s body that she doesn’t set quivering. You know I never have admitted that she’s a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of a new steel pen — the most odious73 thing in nature. She talks as a steel pen writes; aren’t her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that she doesn’t hurt me, inasmuch as I don’t see her. I don’t see her, but I hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can’t get rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give you great comfort. I don’t like at all to think she talks about me — I feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat.”
Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity74 was unable to suggest what comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs. Touchett’s door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour of his cravat75; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky.
Miss Stackpole’s other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him considerable attention. She didn’t know how much he had enjoyed it, but she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn’t the same man when he left as he had been when be came. It had opened his eyes and shown him that England wasn’t everything. He had been very much liked in most places, and thought extremely simple — more simple than the English were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him affected76; she didn’t know whether they meant that his simplicity77 was an affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all the chambermaids were farmers’ daughters — or all the farmers’ daughters were chambermaids — she couldn’t exactly remember which. He hadn’t seemed able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of everything — as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest; he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of geography — had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to confess at last that it was fully51 equal to the Rhine. They had spent some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea — that you could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn’t, nor fans, nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England, hunting —“hunting round” Henrietta called it. These amusements were those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of the ancient regime. They didn’t agree about that, but that was what she liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was determined78 that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight. The mystery about that other one had never been explained.
Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly79 granted; she would be at home at six o’clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what he was coming for — what good he expected to get of it. He had presented himself hitherto as a person destitute80 of the faculty81 of compromise, who would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel’s hospitality, however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction82 with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the ghost of this gentleman’s ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before, “Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn’t talk.” He spoke83 a good deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is, how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn’t like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis exhausted84 the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert; it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband still held for the sake not so much of inviting85 people as of not inviting them.
To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early; he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about him; she thought he might know that she didn’t know what to do with him. But she couldn’t call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was only extraordinarily86 honest. To be as honest as that made a man very different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with HIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case be had an irresistible87 need of disappointing you. It was in virtue88 of this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy to a perpendicular89 Bostonian whom he bad been depended upon to treat with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration90 in the upper air. He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn’t easy at first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful91 qualities, and he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being inaccessible92 to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English portmanteau — he had plenty of straps93 and buckles94 which would never wear out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the Campagna and devoted95 much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And then she added smiling:
“I don’t know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you.”
“You’re the person in the world who has most right,” he answered. “I’ve given you assurances that I’ve never given any one else.”
The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular change had in fact occurred in this lady’s relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit — always under the conviction that they were great enemies. “Oh yes, we’re intimate enemies,” Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely — as freely as the humour of it would allow — of coming to worry him to death. In reality they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about everything, that is, but Isabel — a topic as to which Ralph always had a thin forefinger96 on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated97 of course by their inevitable98 difference of view — Ralph having amused himself with taking the ground that the genial99 ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli. Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole’s merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither, after the first allusions100, did the two men expatiate101 upon Mrs. Osmond — a theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn’t bear to see a pleasant man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done. There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris. It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making him travel northward102 with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr. Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this, and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in one of those deep, dim chambers103 of Gardencourt where the dark ivy104 would cluster round the edges of the glimmering105 window. There seemed to Isabel in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster106; for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The Countess Gemini arrived from Florence — arrived with her trunks, her dresses, her chatter107, her falsehoods, her frivolity108, the strange, the unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier109, who had been away somewhere — no one, not even Pansy, knew where — reappeared in Rome and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: “What on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?” As if it were any business of hers!
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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applied
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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respite
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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rupture
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discordant
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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superfluous
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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steer
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prow
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metaphor
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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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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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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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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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23
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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29
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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30
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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31
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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32
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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34
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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35
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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36
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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38
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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39
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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40
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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41
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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42
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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45
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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50
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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54
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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72
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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74
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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75
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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77
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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80
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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81
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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82
induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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83
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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84
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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86
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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87
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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88
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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89
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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91
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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92
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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93
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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94
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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95
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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96
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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97
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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98
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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99
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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100
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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101
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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102
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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103
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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104
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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105
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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106
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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107
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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108
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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109
rosier
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| Rosieresite | |
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