Ambrose Meyrick’s adventure was certainly of the fantastic order. His fame had long been established on a sure footing with his uncle and with everybody else, and Mr. Horbury had congratulated him with genuine enthusiasm on his work in the examinations — the Summer term was drawing to a close. Mr. Horbury was Ambrose’s trustee, and he made no difficulty about signing a really handsome cheque for his nephew’s holiday expenses and outfit1. “There,” he said “you ought to be able to do pretty well on that. Where do you think of going?”
Ambrose said that he had thought of North Devon, of tramping over Exmoor, visiting the Doone country, and perhaps of working down to Dartmoor.
“You couldn’t do better. You ought to try your hand at fishing: wonderful sport in some of those streams. It mightn’t come off at first, but with your eye and sense of distance you’ll soon make a fine angler. If you do have a turn at the trout2, get hold of some local man and make him give you a wrinkle or two. It’s no good getting your flies from town. Now, when I was fishing in Hampshire ——”
Mr. Horbury went on; but the devil of gaiety had already dictated3 a wonderful scheme to Ambrose, and that night he informed Nelly Foran that she must alter her plans; she was to come with him to France instead of spending a fortnight at Blackpool. He carried out this mad device with an ingenuity4 that poor Mr. Palmer would certainly have called “diabolical.” In the first place, there was to be a week in London — for Nelly must have some clothes; and this week began as an experience of high delight. It was not devoid5 of terror, for masters might be abroad, and Ambrose did not wish to leave Lupton for some time. However, they neither saw nor were seen. Arriving at St. Pancras, the luggage was left in the station, and Ambrose, who had studied the map of London, stood for a while on the pavement outside Scott’s great masterpiece of architecture and considered the situation with grave yet humorous deliberation. Nelly proved herself admirably worthy6 of the adventure; its monstrous7 audacity8 appealed to her, and she was in a state of perpetual subdued9 laughter for some days after their arrival. Meyrick looked about him and found that the Euston Road, being squalid and noisy, offered few attractions; and with sudden resolution he took the girl by the arm and steered10 into the heart of Bloomsbury. In this charmingly central and yet retired11 quarter they found rooms in a quiet byway which, oddly enough, looked on a green field; and under the pleasant style of Mr. and Mr. Lupton they partook of tea while the luggage was fetched by somebody — probably a husband — who came with a shock of red, untidy hair from the dark bowels12 of the basement. They screamed with mirth over the meal. Mr. Horbury had faults, but he kept a good table for himself, his boys and his servants; and the exotic, quaint13 flavour of the “bread” and “butter” seemed to these two young idiots exquisitely14 funny. And the queer, faint, close smell, too, of the whole house — it rushed out at one when the hall door was opened: it was heavy, and worth its weight in gold.
“I never know,” Ambrose used to say afterwards, “whether to laugh or cry when I have been away for some time from town, and come back and smell that wonderful old London aroma15. I don’t believe it’s so strong or so rare as it used to be; I have been disappointed once or twice in houses in quite shabby streets. It was there, of course, but — well, if it were a vintage wine I should say it was a second growth of a very poor year — Margaux, no doubt, but a Margaux of one of those very indifferent years in the early ‘seventies. Or it may be like the smell of grease-paints; one doesn’t notice it after a month or two. But I don’t think it is.
“Still,” he would go on, “I value what I can smell of it. It brings back to me that afternoon, that hot, choking afternoon of ever so many years ago. It was really tremendously hot — ninety-two degrees, I think I saw in the paper the next day — and when we got out at St. Pancras the wind came at one like a furnace blast. There was no sun visible; the sky was bleary — a sort of sickly, smoky yellow, and the burning wind came in gusts16, and the dust hissed17 and rattled18 on the pavement. Do you know what a low public-house smells like in London on a hot afternoon? Do you know what London bitter tastes like on such a day — the publican being evidently careful of his clients’ health, and aware of the folly20 of drinking cold beverages21 during a period of extreme heat? I do. Nelly, poor dear, had warm lemonade, and I had warm beer — warm chemicals, I mean. But the odour! Why doesn’t some scientific man stop wasting his time over a lot of useless rubbish and discover a way of bottling the odour of the past?
“Ah! but if he did so, in a phial of rare crystal with a stopper as secure as the seal of Solimaun ben Daoud would I preserve one most precious scent22, inscribing23 on the seal, within a perfect pentagram, the mystic legend ‘No. 15, Little Russell Row.’”
The cat had come in with the tea-tray. He was a black cat, not very large, with a decent roundness of feature, and yet with a suggestion of sinewy24 skinniness about him — the Skinniness of the wastrel25, not of the poor starveling. His bright green eyes had, as Ambrose observed, the wisdom of Egypt; on his tomb should be inscribed26 “The Justified27 in Sekht.” He walked solemnly in front of the landlady28, his body describing strange curves, his tail waving in the air, and his ears put back with an expression of intense cunning. He seemed delighted at “the let,” and when Nelly stroked his back he gave a loud shriek29 of joy and made known his willingness to take a little refreshment30.
They laughed so heartily31 over their tea that when the landlady came in to clear the things away they were still bubbling over with aimless merriment.
“I likes to see young people ‘appy,” she said pleasantly, and readily provided a latchkey in case they cared to come in rather late. She told them a good deal of her life: she had kept lodgings32 in Judd Street, near King’s Cross — a nasty, noisy street, she called it — and she seemed to think the inhabitants a low lot. She had to do with all sorts, some good some bad, and the business wasn’t what it had been in her mother’s day.
They sat a little while on the sofa, hand in hand still consumed with the jest of their being there at all, and imagining grotesque33 entrances of Mr. Horbury or Dr. Chesson. Then they went out to wander about the streets, to see London easily, merrily, without bothering the Monument, or the British Museum, or Madame Tussaud’s — finally, to get something to eat, they didn’t know when or where or how, and they didn’t in the least care! There was one “sight” they were not successful in avoiding: they had not journeyed far before the great portal of the British Museum confronted them, grandiose34 and gloomy. So, by the sober way of Great Russell Street, they made their way into Tottenham Court Road and, finally, into Oxford35 Street. The shops were bright and splendid, the pavement was crowded with a hurrying multitude, as it seemed to the country folk, though it was the dullest season of the year. It was a great impression — decidedly London was a wonderful place. Already Ambrose felt a curious sense of being at home in it; it was not beautiful, but it was on the immense scale; it did something more than vomit36 stinks37 into the air, poison into the water and rows of workmen’s houses on the land. They wandered on, and then they had the fancy that they would like to explore the regions to the south; it was so impossible, as Ambrose said, to know where they would find themselves eventually. He carefully lost himself within a few minutes of Oxford Street. A few turnings to right and then to left; the navigation of strange alleys39 soon left them in the most satisfactory condition of bewilderment; the distinctions of the mariner’s compass, its pedantry40 of east and west, north and south, were annihilated41 and had ceased to be; it was an adventure in a trackless desert, in the Australian bush, but on safer ground and in an infinitely42 more entertaining scene. At first they had passed through dark streets, Georgian and Augustan ways, gloomy enough, and half deserted43; there were grave houses, with many stories of windows, now reduced to printing offices, to pickle44 warehouses45, to odd crafts such as those of the metal assayer46, the crucible47 maker48, the engraver49 of seals, the fabricator of Boule. But how wonderful it was to see the actual place where those things were done! Ambrose had read of such arts, but had always thought of them as existing in a vague void — if some of them even existed at all in those days: but there in the windows were actual crucibles50, strange-looking curvilinear pots of grey-yellowish ware19, the veritable instruments of the Magnum Opus, inventions of Arabia. He was no longer astonished when a little farther he saw a harpsichord51, which had only been a name to him, a beautiful looking thing, richly inlaid, with its date — 1780 — inscribed on a card above it. It was now utterly52 wonderland: he could very likely buy armour53 round the corner; and he had scarcely formed the thought when a very fine sixteenth-century suit, richly damascened, rose up before him, handsomely displayed between two black jacks54. These were the comparatively silent streets; but they turned a corner, and what a change! All the roadway, not the pavement only, seemed full of a strolling, chatting, laughing mob of people: the women were bareheaded, and one heard nothing but the roll of the French “r,” torrents55 of sonorous56 sound trolled out with the music of happy song. The papers in the shops were all French, ensigns on every side proclaimed “Vins Fins,” “Beaune Supérieur”: the tobacconists kept their tobacco in square blue, yellow and brown packets; “Charcuterie” made a brave and appetising show. And here was a “Café Restaurant: au chateau57 de Chinon.” The name was enough; they could not dine elsewhere, and Ambrose felt that he was honouring the memory of the great Rabelais.
It was probably not a very good dinner. It was infinitely better than the Soho dinner of these days, for the Quarter had hardly begun to yield to the attack of Art, Intellect and the Suburbs which, between them, have since destroyed the character and unction of many a good cook-shop. Ambrose only remembered two dishes; the pieds de porc grillés and the salad. The former he thought both amusing and delicious, and the latter was strangely and artfully compounded of many herbs, of little vinegar, of abundant Proven?al oil, with the chapon, or crust rubbed with garlic, reposing58 at the bottom of the bowl after Madame had “tormented” the ingredients — the salad was a dish from Fairyland. There be no such salads now in all the land of Soho.
“Let me celebrate, above all, the little red wine,” says Ambrose in a brief dithyrambic note. “Not in any mortal vineyard did its father grape ripen59; it was not nourished by the warmth of the visible sun, nor were the rains that made it swell60 common waters from the skies above us. Not even in the Chinonnais, sacred earth though that be, was the press made that caused its juices to be poured into the cuve, nor was the humming of its fermentation heard in any of the good cellars of the lower Touraine. But in that region which Keats celebrates when he sings the ‘Mermaid Tavern61’ was this juice engendered62 — the vineyard lay low down in the south, among the starry63 plains where is the Terra Turonensis Celestis, that unimaginable country which Rabelais beheld64 in his vision where mighty65 Gargantua drinks from inexhaustible vats66 eternally, where Pantagruel is athirst for evermore, though he be satisfied continually. There, in the land of the Crowned Immortal67 Tosspots was that wine of ours vintaged, red with the rays of the Dog-star, made magical by the influence of Venus, fertilised by the happy aspect of Mercury. O rare, superabundant and most excellent juice, fruit of all fortunate stars, by thee were we translated, exalted68 into the fellowship of that Tavern of which the old poet writes: Mihi est propositum in Taberna mori!”
There were few English people in the Chateau de Chinon — indeed, it is doubtful whether there was more than one — the ménage Lupton excepted. This one compatriot happened to be a rather remarkable69 man — it was Carrol. He was not in the vanguard of anything; he knew no journalists and belonged to no clubs; he was not even acquainted in the most distant manner with a single person who could be called really influential70 or successful. He was an obscure literary worker, who published an odd volume every five or six years: now and then he got notices, when there was no press of important stuff in the offices, and sometimes a kindly71 reviewer predicted that he would come out all right in time, though he had still much to learn. About a year before he died, an intelligent reading public was told that one or two things of his were rather good; then, on his death, it was definitely discovered that the five volumes of verse occupied absolutely unique ground, that a supreme72 poet had been taken from us, a poet who had raised the English language into a fourth dimension of melody and magic. The intelligent reading public read him no more than they ever did, but they buy him in edition after edition, from large quarto to post octavo; they buy him put up into little decorated boxes; they buy him on Japanese vellum; they buy him illustrated73 by six different artists; they discuss no end of articles about him; they write their names in the Carrol Birthday Book; they set up the Carrol Calendar in their boudoirs; they have quotations74 from him in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral; they sing him in the famous Carrol Cycle of Song; and, last and best of all, a brilliant American playwright75 is talking even now of dramatising him. The Carrol Club, of course, is ancient history. Its membership is confined to the ranks of intellect and art; it invites to its dinners foreign princes, bankers, major-generals and other persons of distinction — all of whom, of course, are intensely interested in the master’s book; and the record and praise of the Club are in all the papers. It is a pity that Carrol is dead. He would not have sworn: he would have grinned.
Even then, though he was not glorious, he was observant, and he left a brief note, a sort of thumb-nail sketch76, of his impressions that night at the Chateau de Chinon.
“I was sitting in my old corner,” he says, “wondering why the devil I wrote so badly on the whole, and what the devil I was going to do with the subject that I had tackled. The dinner was not so bad at the old Chateau in those days, though now they say the plate-glass is the best dish in the establishment. I liked the old place; it was dingy77 and low down and rather disreputable, I fancy, and the company was miscellaneous French with a dash of Italian. Nearly all of us knew each other, and there were regulars who sat in the same seat night after night. I liked it all. I liked the coarse tablecloths78 and the black-handled knives and the lead spoons and the damp, adhesive79 salt, and the coarse, strong, black pepper that one helped with a fork handle. Then there was Madame sitting on high, and I never saw an uglier woman nor a more good-natured. I was getting through my roast fowl80 and salad that evening, when two wonderful people came in, obviously from fairyland! I saw they had never been in such a place in all their lives before — I don’t believe either of them had set foot in London until that day, and their wonder and delight and enjoyment81 of it all were so enormous that I had another helping82 of food and an extra half-bottle of wine. I enjoyed them, too, in their way, but I could see that their fowl and their wine were not a bit the same as mine. I once knew the restaurant they were really dining at — Grand Café de Paradis — some such name as that. He was an extraordinary looking chap, quite young, I should fancy, black hair, dark skin, and such burning eyes! I don’t know why, but I felt he was a bit out of his setting, and I kept thinking how I should like to see him in a monk’s robe. Madame was different. She was a lovely girl with amazing copper83 hair; dressed rather badly — of the people, I should imagine. But what a gaiety she had! I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but one had to smile with sheer joy at the sight of her face — it positively84 danced with mirth, and a good musician could have set it to music, I am sure. There was something a little queer — too pronounced, perhaps — about the lower part of her face. Perhaps it would have been an odd tune85, but I know I should have liked to hear it!”
Ambrose lit a black Caporal cigarette — he had bought a packet on his way. He saw an enticing86 bottle, of rotund form, paying its visits to some neighbouring tables, and the happy fools made the acquaintance of Benedictine.
“Oh, yes, it is all very well,” Ambrose has been heard to say on being offered this agreeable and aromatic87 liqueur, “it’s nice enough, I daresay. But you should have tasted the real stuff. I got it at a little cafe in Soho some years ago — the Chateau de Chinon. No, it’s no good going there now, it’s quite different. All the walls are plate-glass and gold; the head waiter is called Ma?tre d’h?tel, and I am told it’s quite the thing, both in southern and northern suburbs, to make up dinner parties at the Chateau — everything most correct, evening dress, fans, opera cloaks, ‘Hide-seek’ champagne88, and stalls afterwards. One gets a glimpse of Bohemian life that way, and everybody says it’s been such a queer evening, but quite amusing, too. But you can’t get the real Benedictine there now.
“Where can you get it? Ah! I wish I knew. I never come across it. The bottle looks just the same, but it’s quite a different flavour. The phylloxera may be responsible, of course, but I don’t think it is. Perhaps the bottle that went round the table that night was like the powder in Jekyll and Hyde— its properties were the result of some strange accident. At all events, they were quite magical.”
The two adventurers went forth89 into the maze90 of streets and lost themselves again. Heaven knows where they went, by what ways they wandered, as with wide-gleaming eyes, arm locked in arm, they gazed on an enchanted91 scene which they knew must be London and nothing else — what else could it be? Indeed, now and again, Ambrose thought he recognized certain features and monuments and public places of which he had read; but still! That wine of the Chateau was, by all mundane92 reckonings, of the smallest, and one little glass of Benedictine with coffee could not disturb the weakest head: yet was it London, after all?
What they saw was, doubtless, the common world of the streets and squares, the gay ways and the dull, the broad, ringing, lighted roads and the dark, echoing passages; yet they saw it all as one sees a mystery play, through a veil. But the veil before their eyes was a transmuting93 vision, and its substance was shot as if it were samite, with wonderful and admirable golden ornaments94. In the Eastern Tales, people find themselves thus suddenly transported into an unknown magical territory, with cities that are altogether things of marvel95 and enchantment96, whose walls are pure gold, lighted by the shining of incomparable jewels; and Ambrose declared later that never till that evening had he realized the extraordinary and absolute truth to nature of the Arabian Nights. Those who were present on a certain occasion will not soon forget his rejoinder to “a gentleman in the company” who said that for truth to nature he went to George Eliot.
“I was speaking of men and women, Sir,” was the answer, “not of lice.”
The gentleman in question, who was quite an influential man — some whisper that he was an editor — was naturally very much annoyed.
Still, Ambrose maintained his position. He would even affirm that for crude realism the Eastern Tales were absolutely unique.
“Of course,” he said, “I take realism to mean absolute and essential truthfulness97 of description, as opposed to merely conventional treatment. Zola is a realist, not — as the imbeciles suppose — because he described — well, rather minutely — many unpleasant sights and sounds and smells and emotions, but because he was a poet, a seer; because, in spite of his pseudo-philosophies, his cheap materialisms, he saw the true heart, the reality of things. Take La Terre; do you think it is ‘realistic’ because it describes minutely, and probably faithfully, the event of a cow calving? Not in the least; the local vet98. who was called in could probably do all that as well, or better. It is ‘realist’ because it goes behind all the brutalities, all the piggeries and inhumanities, of those frightful99 people, and shows us the strange, mad, transcendent passion that lay behind all those things — the wild desire for the land — a longing100 that burned, that devoured101, that inflamed102, that drove men to hell and death as would a passion for a goddess who might never be attained103. Remember how ‘La Beauce’ is personified, how the earth swells104 and quickens before one, how every clod and morsel105 of the soil cries for its service and its sacrifice and its victims — I call that realism.
“The Arabian Nights is also profoundly realistic, though both the subject-matter and the method of treatment — the technique — are very different from the subject-matter and the technique of Zola. Of course, there may be people who think that if you describe a pigsty106 well you are a ‘realist,’ and if you describe an altar well you are ‘romantic.’ . . . I do not know that the mental processes of Crétins form a very interesting subject for discussion.”
One may surmise107, if one will, that the sudden violence of the change was a sufficient cause of exaltation. That detestable Lupton left behind; no town, but a collection of stink38 and poison factories and slave quarters; that more detestable school, more ridiculous than the Academy of Lagado; that most detestable routine, games, lessons and the Doctor’s sermons — the transition was tremendous to the freedom of fabled108 London, of the unknown streets and unending multitudes.
Ambrose said he hesitated to talk of that walk, lest he should be thought an aimless liar109. They strolled for hours seeing the most wonderful things, the most wonderful people; but he declared that the case was similar to that of the Benedictine — he could never discover again the regions that he had perambulated. Somewhere, he said, close to the Chateau de Chinon there must be a passage which had since been blocked up. By it was the entrance to Fairyland.
When at last they found Little Russell Row, the black cat was awaiting them with an expression which was pleased and pious110, too; he had devoured the greater portion of that quarter-pound of dubious111 butter. Ambrose smoked black cigarettes in bed till the packet was finished.
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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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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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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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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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steered
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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beverages
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scent
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inscribing
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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lodgings
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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stinks
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| v.散发出恶臭( stink的第三人称单数 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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43
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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44
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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45
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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46
assayer
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| n.试金者，分析专家 | |
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47
crucible
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| n.坩锅，严酷的考验 | |
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48
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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49
engraver
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| n.雕刻师，雕工 | |
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50
crucibles
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| n.坩埚，严酷的考验（ crucible的名词复数 ） | |
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51
harpsichord
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| n.键琴（钢琴前身） | |
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52
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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53
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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54
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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55
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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56
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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57
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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58
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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59
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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60
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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61
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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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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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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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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quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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76
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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77
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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tablecloths
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| n.桌布，台布( tablecloth的名词复数 ) | |
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adhesive
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| n.粘合剂；adj.可粘着的，粘性的 | |
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80
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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81
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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82
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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83
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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85
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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87
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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88
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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89
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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90
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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91
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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transmuting
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的现在分词 ) | |
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94
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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96
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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97
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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98
vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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99
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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100
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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101
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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102
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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104
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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105
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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106
pigsty
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| n.猪圈，脏房间 | |
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107
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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108
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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109
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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110
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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111
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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