If you should look through the files of old magazines for the first years of the present century you would find, sandwiched in between the stories of Richard Harding Davis and Frank Norris and others long since dead, the work of one Jeffrey Curtain: a novel or two, and perhaps three or four dozen short stories. You could, if you were interested, follow them along until, say, 1908, when they suddenly disappeared.
When you had read them all you would have been quite sure that here were no masterpieces — here were passably amusing stories, a bit out of date now, but doubtless the sort that would then have whiled away a dreary2 half hour in a dental office. The man who did them was of good intelligence, talented, glib3, probably young. In the samples of his work you found there would have been nothing to stir you to more than a faint interest in the whims4 of life — no deep interior laughs, no sense of futility5 or hint of tragedy.
After reading them you would yawn and put the number back in the files, and perhaps, if you were in some library reading-room, you would decide that by way of variety you would look at a newspaper of the period and see whether the Japs had taken Port Arthur. But if by any chance the newspaper you had chosen was the right one and had crackled open at the theatrical7 page, your eyes would have been arrested and held, and for at least a minute you would have forgotten Port Arthur as quickly as you forgot Chateau8 Thierry. For you would, by this fortunate chance, be looking at the portrait of an exquisite9 woman.
Those were tie days of “Florodora” and of sextets, of pinched-in waists and blown-out sleeves, of almost bustles10 and absolute ballet skirts, but here, without doubt, disguised as she might be by the unaccustomed stiffness and old fashion of her costume, was a butterfly of butterflies. Here was the gayety of the period — the soft wine of eyes, the songs that flurried hearts, the toasts and tie bouquets11, the dances and the dinners. Here was a Venus of the hansom, cab, the Gibson girl in her glorious prime. Here was . . .
. . . here was you. Find by looking at the name beneath, one Roxanne Milbank, who had been chorus girl and understudy in “The Daisy Chain,” but who, by reason of an excellent performance when the star was indisposed, had gained a leading part.
You would look again — and wonder. Why you had never heard of her. Why did her name not linger in popular songs and vaudeville12 jokes and cigar bands, and the memory of that gay old uncle of yours along with Lillian Russell and Stella Mayhew and Anna Held? Roxanne Milbank-whither had she gone? What dark trap-door had opened suddenly and swallowed her up? Her name was certainly not in last Sunday’s supplement on the list of actresses married to English noblemen. No doubt she was dead — poor beautiful young lady — and quite forgotten.
I am hoping too much. I am having you stumble on Jeffrey Curtains’s stories and Roxanne Milbank’s picture. It would be incredible that you should find a newspaper item six months later, a single item two inches by four, which informed the public of the marriage, very quietly, of Miss Roxanne Milbank, who had been on tour with “The Daisy Chain,” to Mr. Jeffrey Curtain, the popular author. “Mrs. Curtain,” it added dispassionately, “will retire from the stage.”
It was a marriage of love. He was sufficiently14 spoiled to be charming; she was ingenuous15 enough to be irresistible16. Like two floating logs they met in a head-on rush, caught, and sped along together. Yet had Jeffrey Curtain kept at scrivening for twoscore years he could not have put a quirk17 into one of his stories weirder18 than the quirk that came into his own life. Had Roxanne Milbank played three dozen parts and filled five thousand houses she could never have had a role with more happiness and more despair than were in the fate prepared for Roxanne Curtain.
For a year they lived in hotels, travelled to California, to Alaska, to Florida, to Mexico, loved and quarrelled gently, and gloried in the golden triflings of his wit with her beauty — they were young and gravely passionate13; they demanded everything and then yielded everything again in ecstasies20 of unselfishness and pride. She loved the swift tones of his voice and his frantic21, if unfounded jealousy22. He loved her dark radiance, the white irises23 of her eyes, the warm, lustrous24 enthusiasm of her smile.
“Don’t you like her?” he would demand rather excitedly and shyly. “Isn’t she wonderful? Did you ever see —”
“Yes,” they would answer, grinning. “She’s a wonder. You’re lucky.”
The year passed. They tired of hotels. They bought an old house and twenty acres near the town of Marlowe, half an hour from Chicago; bought a little car, and moved out riotously25 with a pioneering hallucination that would have confounded Balboa.
“Your room will be here!” they cried in turn.
— And then:
“And my room here!”
“And the nursery here when we have children.”
“And we’ll build a sleeping porch — oh, next year.”
They moved out in April. In July Jeffrey’s closest friend, Harry26 Cromwell same to spend a week — they met him at the end of the long lawn and hurried him proudly to the house.
Harry was married also. His wife had had a baby some six months before and was still recuperating27 at her mother’s in New York. Roxanne had gathered from Jeffrey that Harry’s wife was not as attractive as Harry — Jeffrey had met her once and considered her —“shallow.” But Harry had been married nearly two years and was apparantly happy, so Jeffrey guessed that she was probably all right.
“I’m making biscuits,” chattered29 Roxanne gravely. “Can you wife make biscuits? The cook is showing me how. I think every woman should know how to make biscuits. It sounds so utterly30 disarming31. A woman who can make biscuits can surely do no ——”
“You’ll have to come out here and live,” said Jeffrey. “Get a place out in the country like us, for you and Kitty.”
“You don’t know Kitty. She hates the country. She’s got to have her theatres and vaudevilles.”
“Bring her out,” repeated Jeffrey. “We’ll have a colony. There’s an awfully32 nice crowd here already. Bring her out!”
They were at the porch steps now and Roxanne made a brisk gesture toward a dilapidated structure on the right.
“The garage,” she announced. “It will also be Jeffrey’s writing-room within the month. Meanwhile dinner is at seven. Meanwhile to that I will mix a cocktail34.”
The two men ascended36 to the second floor — that is, they ascended half-way, for at the first landing Jeffrey dropped his guest’s suitcase and in a cross between a query37 and a cry exclaimed:
“For God’s sake, Harry, how do you like her?”
“We will go up-stairs,” answered his guest, “and we will shut the door.”
Half an hour later as they were sitting together in the library Roxanne reissued from the kitchen, bearing before her a pan of biscuits. Jeffrey and Harry rose.
“They’re beautiful, dear,” said the husband, intensely.
“Exquisite,” murmured Harry.
Roxanne beamed.
“Taste one. I couldn’t bear to touch them before you’d seen them all and I can’t bear to take them back until I find what they taste like.”
“Like manna, darling.”
Simultaneously38 the two men raised the biscuits to their lips, nibbled39 tentatively. Simultaneously they tried to change the subject. But Roxanne undeceived, set down the pan and seized a biscuit. After a second her comment rang out with lugubrious40 finality:
“Absolutely bum41!”
“Really ——”
“Why, I didn’t notice ——”
Roxanne roared.
“Oh, I’m useless,” she cried laughing. “Turn me out, Jeffrey — I’m a parasite42; I’m no goal ——”
Jeffrey put his arm around her.
“Darling, I’ll eat your biscuits.”
“They’re beautiful, anyway,” insisted Roxanne.
“They’re-they’re decorative43,” suggested Harry.
Jeffrey took him up wildly.
“That’s the word. They’re decorative; they’re masterpieces. We’ll use them.”
He rushed to the kitchen and returned with a hammer and a handful of nails.
“We’ll use them, by golly, Roxanne! We’ll make a frieze44 out of them.”
“Don’t!” wailed45 Roxanne. “Our beautiful house.”
“Never mind. We’re going to have the library repapered in October. Don’t you remember?”
“Well ——”
Bang! The first biscuit was impaled46 to the wall, where it quivered for a moment like a live thing.
Bang! . . .
When Roxanne returned, with a second round of cocktails47 the biscuits were in a perpendicular48 row, twelve of them, like a collection of primitive49 spear-heads.
“Roxanne,” exclaimed Jeffrey, “you’re an artist! Cook? — nonsense! You shall illustrate50 my books!”
During dinner the twilight51 faltered52 into dusk, and later it was a starry53 dark outside, filled and permeated54 with the frail55 gorgeousness of Roxanne’s white dress and her tremulous, low laugh.
— Such a little girl she is, thought Harry. Not as old as Kitty.
He compared the two. Kitty — nervous without being sensitive, temperamental without temperament56, a woman who seemed to flit and never light — and Roxanne, who was as young as spring night, and summed up in her own adolescent laughter.
— A good match for Jeffrey, he thought again. Two very young people, the sort who’ll stay very young until they suddenly find themselves old.
Harry thought these things between his constant thoughts about Kitty, He was depressed58 about Kitty. It seemed to him that she was well enough to come back to Chicago and bring his little son. He was thinking vaguely59 of Kitty when he said good-night to his friend’s wife and his friend at the foot of the stairs.
“You’re our first real house guest,” called Roxanne after him. “Aren’t you thrilled and proud?”
When he was out of sight around the stair corner she turned to Jeffrey, who was standing60 beside her resting his hand on the end of the banister.
“Are you tired, my dearest?”
Jeffrey rubbed the centre of his forehead with his fingers.
“A little. How did you know?”
“Oh, how could I help knowing about you?”
“It’s a headache,” he said moodily61. “Splitting. I’ll take some aspirin62.”
She reached over and snapped out the light, and with his arm tight about her waist they walked up the stairs together.
II
Harry’s week passed. They drove about the dreaming lanes or idled in cheerful inanity63 upon lake or lawn. In the evening Roxanne, sitting inside, played to them while the ashes whitened on the glowing ends of their cigars. Then came a telegram from Kitty saying that she wanted Harry to come East and get her, so Roxanne and Jeffrey were left alone in that privacy of which they never seemed to tire.
“Alone” thrilled them again. They wandered about the house, each feeling intimately the presence of the other; they sat on the same side of the table like honeymooners; they were intensely absorbed, intensely happy.
The town of Marlowe, though a comparatively old settlement, had only recently acquired a “society.” Five or six years before, alarmed at the smoky swelling64 of Chicago, two or three young married couples, “bungalow people,” had moved out; their friends had followed. The Jeffrey Curtains found an already formed “set” prepared to welcome: them; a country club, ballroom65, and golf links yawned for them, and there were bridge parties, and poker66 parties, and parties where they drank beer, and parties where they drank nothing at all.
It was at a poker party that they found themselves a week after Harry’s departure. There were two tables, and a good proportion of the young wives were smoking and shouting their bets, and being very daringly mannish for those days.
Roxanne had left the game early and taken to perambulation; she wandered into the pantry and found herself some grape juice — beer gave her a headache — and then passed from table to table, looking over shoulders at the hands, keeping an eye on Jeffrey and being pleasantly unexcited and content. Jeffrey, with intense concentration, was raising a pile of chips of all colors, and Roxanne knew by the deepened wrinkle between his eyes that he was interested. She liked to see him interested in small things.
She crossed over quietly and sat down on the arm of his chair.
She sat there five minutes, listening to the sharp intermittent67 comments of the men and the chatter28 of the women, which rose from the table like soft smoke — and yet scarcely hearing either. Then quite innocently she reached out her hand, intending to place it on Jeffrey’s shoulder — as it touched him he started of a sudden, gave a short grunt68, and, sweeping69 back his arm furiously, caught her a glancing blow on her elbow.
There was a general gasp70. Roxanne regained71 her balance, gave a little cry, and rose quickly to her feet. It had been the greatest shock of her life. This, from Jeffrey, the heart of kindness, of consideration — this instinctively72 brutal73 gesture.
The gasp became a silence. A dozen eyes were turned on Jeffrey, who looked up as though seeing Roxanne for the first time. An expression of bewilderment settled on his face.
“Why — Roxanne ——” he said haltingly.
Into a dozen minds entered a quick suspicion, a rumor74 of scandal. Could it be that behind the scenes with this couple, apparently75 so in love, lurked76 some curious antipathy77? Why else this streak78 of fire, across such a cloudless heaven?
“Jeffrey!”— Roxanne’s voice was pleading — startled and horrified79, she yet knew that it was a mistake. Not once did it occur to her to blame him or to resent it. Her word was a trembling supplication80 —“Tell me, Jeffrey,” it said, “tell Roxanne, your own Roxanne.”
“Why, Roxanne —” began Jeffrey again. The bewildered look changed to pain. He was clearly as startled as she. “I didn’t intend that,” he went on; “you startled me. You — I felt as if some one were attacking me. I— how — why, how idiotic81!”
“Jeffrey!” Again the word was a prayer, incense82 offered up to a high God through this new and unfathomable darkness.
They were both on their feet, they were saying good-by, faltering83, apologizing, explaining. There was no attempt to pass it off easily. That way lay sacrilege. Jeffrey had not been feeling well, they said. He had become nervous. Back of both their minds was the unexplained horror of that blow — the marvel84 that there had been for an instant something between them — his anger and her fear — and now to both a sorrow, momentary85, no doubt, but to be bridged at once, at once, while there was yet time. Was that swift water lashing86 under their feet — the fierce glint of some uncharted chasm87?
Out in their car under the harvest moon he talked brokenly. It was just — incomprehensible to him, he said. He had been thinking of the poker game — absorbed — and the touch on his shoulder had seemed like an attack. An attack! He clung to that word, flung it up as a shield. He had hated what touched him. With the impact of his hand it had gone, that — nervousness. That was all he knew.
Both their eyes filled with tears and they whispered love there under the broad night as the serene88 streets of Marlowe sped by. Later, when they went to bed, they were quite calm. Jeffrey was to take a week off all work — was simply to loll, and sleep, and go on long walks until this nervousness left him. When they had decided89 this safety settled down upon Roxanne. The pillows underhead became soft and friendly; the bed on which they lay seemed wide, and white, and sturdy beneath the radiance that streamed in at the window.
Five days later, in the first cool of late afternoon, Jeffrey picked up an oak chair and sent it crashing through his own front window. Then he lay down on the couch like a child, weeping piteously and begging to die. A blood clot90 the size of a marble had broken his brain.
III
There is a sort of waking nightmare that sets in sometimes when one has missed a sleep or two, a feeling that comes with extreme fatigue91 and a new sun, that the quality of the life around has changed. It is a fully33 articulate conviction that somehow the existence one is then leading is a branch shoot of life and is related to life only as a moving picture or a mirror — that the people, and streets, and houses are only projections92 from a very dim and chaotic93 past. It was in such a state that Roxanne found herself during the first months of Jeffrey’s illness. She slept only when she was utterly exhausted94; she awoke under a cloud. The long, sober-voiced consultations96, the faint aura of medicine in the halls, the sudden tiptoeing in a house that had echoed to many cheerful footsteps, and, most of ail35, Jeffrey’s white face amid the pillows of the bed they had shared — these things subdued97 her and made her indelibly older. The doctors held out hope, but that was all. A long rest, they said, and quiet. So responsibility came to Roxanne. It was she who paid the bills, pored over his bank-book, corresponded with his publishers. She was in the kitchen constantly. She learned from the nurse how to prepare his meals and after the first month took complete charge of the sick-room. She had had to let the nurse go for reasons of economy. One of the two colored girls left at the same time. Roxanne was realizing that they had been living from short story to short story.
The most frequent visitor was Harry Cromwell. He had been shocked and depressed by the news, and though his wife was now living with him in Chicago he found time to come out several times a month. Roxanne found his sympathy welcome — there was some quality of suffering in the man, some inherent pitifulness that made her comfortable when he was near. Roxanne’s nature had suddenly deepened. She felt sometimes that with Jeffrey she was losing her children also, those children that now most of all she needed and should have had.
It was six months after Jeffrey’s collapse98 and when the nightmare had faded, leaving not the old world but a new one, grayer and colder, that she wait to see Harry’s wife. Finding herself in Chicago with an extra hour before train time, she decided out of courtesy to call.
As she stepped inside the door she had an immediate99 impression that the apartment was very like some place she had seen before — and almost instantly she remembered a round-the-corner bakery of her childhood, a bakery full of rows and rows of pink frosted cakes — a stuffy100 pink, pink as a food, pink triumphant101, vulgar, and odious102.
And this apartment was like that. It was pink. It smelled pink!
Mrs. Cromwell, attired103 in a wrapper of pink and black, opened the door. Her hair was yellow, heightened, Roxanne imagined by a dash of peroxide in the rinsing104 water every week. Her eyes were a thin waxen blue — she was pretty and too consciously graceful105. Her cordiality was strident and intimate, hostility106 melted so quickly to hospitality that it seemed they were both merely in the face and voice — never touching107 nor touched by the deep core of egotism beneath.
But to Roxanne these things were secondary; her eyes were caught and held in uncanny fascination108 by the wrapper. It was vilely109 unclean. From its lowest hem1 up four inches it was sheerly dirty with the blue dust of the floor; for the next three inches it was gray — then it shaded off into its natural color, which, was — pink. It was dirty at the sleeves, too, and at the collar — and when the woman turned to lead the way into the parlor110, Roxanne was sure that her neck was dirty.
A one-sided rattle111 of conversation began. Mrs. Cromwell became explicit112 about her likes and dislikes, her head, her stomach, her teeth, her apartment — avoiding with a sort of insolent113 meticulousness114 any inclusion of Roxanne with life, as if presuming that Roxanne, having been dealt a blow, wished life to be carefully skirted.
Roxanne smiled. That kimono! That neck!
After five minutes a little boy toddled115 into the parlor — a dirty little boy clad in dirty pink rompers. His face was smudgy — Roxanne wanted to take him into her lap and wipe his nose; other parts in the of his head needed attention, his tiny shoes were kicked out at the toes. Unspeakable!
“What a darling little boy!” exclaimed Roxanne, smiling radiantly. “Come here to me.”
Mrs. Cromwell looked coldly at her son.
“He will get dirty. Look at that face!” She held her head on one side and regarded it critically.
“Isn’t he a darling?“ repeated Roxanne.
“Look at his rompers,” frowned Mrs. Cromwell.
“He needs a change, don’t you, George?”
George stared at her curiously116. To his mind the word rompers connotated a garment extraneously117 smeared118, as this one.
“I tried to make him look respectable this morning,” complained Mrs. Cromwell as one whose patience had been sorely tried, “and I found he didn’t have any more rompers — so rather than have him go round without any I put him back in those — and his face —”
“How many pairs has he?” Roxanne’s voice was pleasantly curious, “How many feather fans have you?” she might have asked.
“Oh — ” Mrs. Cromwell considered, wrinkling her pretty brow. “Five, I think. Plenty, I know.”
“You can get them for fifty cents a pair.”
Mrs. Cromwell’s eyes showed surprise — and the faintest superiority. The price of rompers!
“Can you really? I had no idea. He ought to have plenty, but I haven’t had a minute all week to send the laundry out.” Then, dismissing the subject as irrelevant119 —“I must show you some things —”
They rose and Roxanne followed her past an open bathroom door whose garment-littered floor showed indeed that the laundry hadn’t been sent out for some time, into another room that was, so to speak, the quintessence of pinkness. This was Mrs. Cromwell’s room.
Here the Hostess opened a closet door and displayed before’ Roxanne’s eyes an amazing collection of lingerie.
There were dozens of filmy marvels120 of lace and silk, all clean, unruffled, seemingly not yet touched. On hangers121 beside them were three new evening dresses.
“I have some beautiful things,” said Mrs. Cromwell, “but not much of a chance to wear them. Harry doesn’t care about going out.” Spite crept into her voice. “He’s perfectly122 content to let me play nursemaid and housekeeper123 all day and loving wife in the evening.”
Roxanne smiled again.
“You’ve got some beautiful clothes here.”
“Yes, I have. Let me show you ——”
“Beautiful,” repeated Roxanne, interrupting, “but I’ll have to run if I’m going to catch my train.”
She felt that her hands were trembling. She wanted to put them on this woman and shake her — shake her. She wanted her locked up somewhere and set to scrubbing floors.
“Beautiful,” she repeated, “and I just came in for a moment.”
“Well, I’m sorry Harry isn’t here.”
They moved toward the door.
“— and, oh,” said Roxanne with an effort — yet her voice was still gentle and her lips were smiling —“I think it’s Argile’s where you can get those rompers. Good-by.”
It was not until she had reached the station and bought her ticket to Marlowe that Roxanne realized it was the first five minutes in six months that her mind had been off Jeffrey.
IV
A week later Harry appeared at Marlowe, arrived unexpectedly at five o’clock, and coming up the walk sank into a porch chair in a state of exhaustion124. Roxanne herself had had a busy day and was worn out. The doctors were coming at five-thirty, bringing a celebrated125 nerve specialist from New York. She was excited and thoroughly126 depressed, but Harry’s eyes made her sit down beside him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, Roxanne,” he denied. “I came to see how Jeff was doing. Don’t you bother about me.”
“Harry,” insisted Roxanne, “there’s something the matter.”
“Nothing,” he repeated. “How’s Jeff?”
Anxiety darkened her face.
“He’s a little worse, Harry. Doctor Jewett has come on from New York. They thought he could tell me something definite. He’s going to try and find whether this paralysis127 has anything to do with the original blood clot.”
Harry rose.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said jerkily. “I didn’t know you expected a consultation95. I wouldn’t have come. I thought I’d just rock on your porch for an hour —”
“Sit down,” she commanded.
Harry hesitated.
“Sit down, Harry, dear boy.” Her kindness flooded out now — enveloped128 him. “I know there’s something the matter. You’re white as a sheet. I’m going to get you a cool bottle of beer.”
All at once he collapsed129 into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
“I can’t make her happy,” he said slowly. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried. This morning we had some words about breakfast — I’d been getting my breakfast down town — and — well, just after I went to the office she left the house, went East to her mother’s with George and a suitcase full of lace underwear.”
“Harry!”
“And I don’t know —-”
There was a crunch130 on the gravel19, a car turning into the drive. Roxanne uttered a little cry.
“It’s Doctor Jewett.”
“Oh, I’ll —-”
“You’ll wait, won’t you?” she interrupted abstractedly. He saw that his problem had already died on the troubled surface of her mind.
There was an embarrassing minute of vague, elided introductions and then Harry followed the party inside and watched them disappear up the stairs. He went into the library and sat down on the big sofa.
For an hour he watched the sun creep up the patterned folds of the chintz curtains. In the deep quiet a trapped wasp131 buzzing on the inside of the window pane132 assumed the proportions of a clamor. From time to time another buzzing drifted down from up-stairs, resembling several more larger wasps133 caught on larger window-panes. He heard low footfalls, the clink of bottles, the clamor of pouring water.
What had he and Roxanne done that life should deal these crashing blows to them? Up-stairs there was taking place a living inquest on the soul of his friend; he was sitting here in a quiet room listening to the plaint of a wasp, just as when he was a boy he had been compelled by a strict aunt to sit hour-long on a chair and atone134 for some misbehavior. But who had put him here? What ferocious135 aunt had leaned out of the sky to make him atone for — what?
About Kitty he felt a great hopelessness. She was too expensive — that was the irremediable difficulty. Suddenly he hated her. He wanted to throw her down and kick at her — to tell her she was a cheat and a leech136 — that she was dirty. Moreover, she must give him his boy.
He rose and began pacing up and down the room. Simultaneously he heard some one begin walking along the hallway up-stairs in exact time with him. He found himself wondering if they would walk in time until the person reached the end of the hall.
Kitty had gone to her mother. God help her, what a mother to go to! He tried to imagine the meeting: the abused wife collapsing137 upon the mother’s breast. He could not. That Kitty was capable of any deep grief was unbelievable. He had gradually grown to think of her as something unapproachable and callous138. She would get a divorce, of course, and eventually she would marry again. He began to consider this. Whom would she marry? He laughed bitterly, stopped; a picture flashed before him — of Kitty’s arms around some man whose face he could not see, of Kitty’s lips pressed close to other lips in what was surely: passion.
“God!” he cried aloud. “God! God! God!”
Then the pictures came thick and fast. The Kitty of this morning faded; the soiled kimono rolled up and disappeared; the pouts139, and rages, and tears all were washed away. Again she was Kitty Carr — Kitty Carr with yellow hair and great baby eyes. Ah, she had loved him, she had loved him.
After a while he perceived that something was amiss with him, something that had nothing to do with Kitty or Jeff, something of a different genre140. Amazingly it burst on him at last; he was hungry. Simple enough! He would go into the kitchen in a moment and ask the colored cook for a sandwich. After that he must go back to the city.
He paused at the wall, jerked at something round, and, fingering it absently, put it to his mouth and tasted it as a baby tastes a bright toy. His teeth closed on it — Ah!
She’d left that damn kimono, that dirty pink kimono. She might have had the decency141 to take it with her, he thought. It would hang in the house like the corpse142 of their sick alliance. He would try to throw it away, but he would never be able to bring himself to move it. It would be like Kitty, soft and pliable143, withal impervious144. You couldn’t move Kitty; you couldn’t reach Kitty. There was nothing there to reach. He understood that perfectly — he had understood it all along.
He reached to the wall for another biscuit and with an effort pulled it out, nail and all. He carefully removed the nail from the centre, wondering idly if he had eaten the nail with the first biscuit. Preposterous145! He would have remembered — it was a huge nail. He felt his stomach. He must be very hungry. He considered — remembered — yesterday he had had no dinner. It was the girl’s day out and Kitty had lain in her room eating chocolate drops. She had said she felt “smothery” and couldn’t bear having him near her. He had given George a bath and put him to bed, and then lain down on the couch intending to rest a minute before getting his own dinner. There he had fallen asleep and awakened146 about eleven, to find that there was nothing in the ice-box except a spoonful of potato salad. This he had eaten, together with some chocolate drops that he found on Kitty’s bureau. This morning he had breakfasted hurriedly down town before going to the office. But at noon, beginning to worry about Kitty, he had decided to go home and take her out to lunch. After that there had been the note on his pillow. The pile of lingerie in the closet was gone — and she had left instructions for sending her trunk.
He had never been so hungry, he thought.
At five o’clock, when the visiting nurse tiptoed down-stairs, he was sitting on the sofa staring at the carpet.
“Mr. Cromwell?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, Mrs. Curtain won’t be able to see you at dinner. She’s not well She told me to tell you that the cook will fix you something and that there’s a spare bedroom.”
“She’s sick, you say?”
“She’s lying down in her room. The consultation is just over.”
“Did they — did they decide anything?”
“Yes,” said the nurse softly. “Doctor Jewett says there’s no hope. Mr. Curtain may live indefinitely, but he’ll never see again or move again or think. He’ll just breathe.”
“Just breathe?”
“Yes.”
For the first time the nurse noted147 that beside the writing-desk where she remembered that she had seen a line of a dozen curious round objects she had vaguely imagined to be some exotic form of decoration, there was now only one. Where the others had been, there was now a series of little nail-holes.
Harry followed her glance dazedly148 and then rose to his feet.
“I don’t believe I’ll stay. I believe there’s a train.”
She nodded. Harry picked up his hat.
“Good-by,” she said pleasantly.
“Good-by,” he answered, as though talking to himself and, evidently moved by some involuntary necessity, he paused on his way to the door and she saw him pluck the last object from the wall and drop it into his pocket.
Then he opened the screen door and, descending149 the porch steps, passed out of her sight.
V
After a while the coat of clean white paint on the Jeffrey Curtain house made a definite compromise with the suns of many Julys and showed its good faith by turning gray. It scaled — huge peelings of very brittle150 old paint leaned over backward like aged6 men practising grotesque151 gymnastics and finally dropped to a moldy152 death in the overgrown grass beneath. The paint on the front pillars became streaky; the white ball was knocked off the left-hand door-post; the green blinds darkened, then lost all pretense153 of color.
It began to be a house that was avoided by the tender-minded — some church bought a lot diagonally opposite for a graveyard154, and this, combined with “the place where Mrs. Curtain stays with that living corpse,” was enough to throw a ghostly aura over that quarter of the road. Not that she was left alone. Men and women came to see her, met her down town, where she went to do her marketing155, brought her home in their cars — and came in for a moment to talk and to rest, in the glamour156 that still played in her smile. But men who did not know her no longer followed her with admiring glances in the street; a diaphanous157 veil had come down over her beauty, destroying its vividness, yet bringing neither wrinkles nor fat.
She acquired a character in the village — a group of little stories were told of her: how when the country was frozen over one winter so that no wagons158 nor automobiles159 could travel, she taught herself to skate so that she could make quick time to the grocer and druggist, and not leave Jeffrey alone for long. It was said that every night since his paralysis she slept in a small bed beside his bed, holding his hand.
Jeffrey Curtain was spoken of as though he were already dead. As the years dropped by those who had known him died or moved away — there were but half a dozen of the old crowd who had drunk cocktails together, called each other’s wives by their first names, and thought that Jeff was about the wittiest160 and most talented fellow that Marlowe had ever known. How, to the casual visitor, he was merely the reason that Mrs. Curtain excused herself sometimes and hurried upstairs; he was a groan161 or a sharp cry borne to the silent parlor on the heavy air of a Sunday afternoon.
He could not move; he was stone blind, dumb and totally unconscious. All day he lay in his bed, except for a shift to his wheel-chair every morning while she straightened the room. His paralysis was creeping slowly toward his heart. At first-for the first year — Roxanne had received the faintest answering pressure sometimes when she held his hand — then it had gone, ceased one evening and never come back, and through two nights Roxanne lay wide-eyed, staring into the dark and wondering what had gone, what fraction of his soul had taken flight, what last grain of comprehension those shattered broken nerves still carried to the brain.
After that hope died. Had it not been for her unceasing care the last spark would have gone long before. Every morning she shaved and bathed him, shifted him with her own hands from bed to chair and back to bed. She was in his room constantly, bearing medicine, straightening a pillow, talking to him almost as one talks to a nearly human dog, without hope of response or appreciation162, but with the dim persuasion163 of habit, a prayer when faith has gone.
Not a few people, one celebrated nerve specialist among them, gave her a plain impression that it was futile164 to exercise so much care, that if Jeffrey had been conscious he would have wished to die, that if his spirit were hovering165 in some wider air it would agree to no such sacrifice from her, it would fret166 only for the prison of its body to give it full release.
“But you see,” she replied, shaking her head gently, “when I married Jeffrey it was — until I ceased to love him.”
“But,” was protested, in effect, “you can’t love that.”
“I can love what it once was. What else is there for me to do?”
The specialist shrugged167 his shoulders and went away to say that Mrs. Curtain was a remarkable168 woman and just about as sweet as an angel — but, he added, it was a terrible pity.
“There must be some man, or a dozen, just crazy to take care of her. . . . ”
Casually169 — there were. Here and there some one began in hope — and ended in reverence170. There was no love in the woman except, strangely enough, for life, for the people in the world, from the tramp to whom she gave food she could ill afford to the butcher who sold her a cheap cut of steak across the meaty board. The other phase was sealed up somewhere in that expressionless mummy who lay with his face turned ever toward the light as mechanically as a compass needle and waited dumbly for the last wave to wash over his heart.
After eleven years he died in the middle of a May night, when the scent57 of the syringa hung upon the window-sill and a breeze wafted171 in the shrillings of the frogs and cicadas outside. Roxanne awoke at two, and realized with a start she was alone in the house at last.
VI
After that she sat on her weather-beaten porch through many afternoons, gazing down across the fields that undulated in a slow descent to the white and green town. She was wondering what she would do with her life. She was thirty-six — handsome, strong, and free. The years had eaten up Jeffrey’s insurance; she had reluctantly parted with the acres to right and left of her, and had even placed a small mortgage on the house.
With her husband’s death had come a great physical restlessness. She missed having to care for him in the morning, she missed her rush to town, and the brief and therefore accentuated172 neighborly meetings in the butcher’s and grocer’s; she missed the cooking for two, the preparation of delicate liquid food for him. One day, consumed with energy, she went out and spaded up the whole garden, a thing that had not been done for years.
And she was alone at night in the room that had seen the glory of her marriage and then the pain. To meet Jeff again she went back in spirit to that wonderful year, that intense, passionate absorption and companionship, rather than looked forward to a problematical meeting hereafter; she awoke often to lie and wish for that presence beside her — inanimate yet breathing — still Jeff.
One afternoon six months after his death she was sitting on the porch, in a black dress which took away the faintest suggestion of plumpness from her figure. It was Indian summer — golden brown all about her; a hush173 broken by the sighing of leaves; westward174 a four o’clock sun dripping streaks175 of red and yellow over a flaming sky. Most of the birds had gone — only a sparrow that had built itself a nest on the cornice of a pillar kept up an intermittent cheeping varied176 by occasional fluttering sallies overhead. Roxanne moved her chair to where she could watch him and her mind idled drowsily177 on the bosom178 of the afternoon.
Harry Cromwell was coming out from Chicago to dinner. Since his divorce over eight years before he had been a frequent visitor. They had kept up what amounted to a tradition between them: when he arrived they would go to look at Jeff; Harry would sit down on the edge of the bed and in a hearty179 voice ask:
“Well, Jeff, old man, how do you feel to-day?”
Roxanne, standing beside, would look intently at Jeff, dreaming that some shadowy recognition of this former friend had passed across that broken mind — but the head, pale, carven, would only move slowly in its sole gesture toward the light as if something behind the blind eyes were groping for another light long since gone out.
These visits stretched over eight years — at Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and on many a Sunday Harry had arrived, paid his call on Jeff, and then talked for a long while with Roxanne on the porch. He was devoted180 to her. He made no pretense of hiding, no attempt to deepen, this relation. She was his best friend as the mass of flesh on the bed there had been his best friend. She was peace, she was rest; she was the past. Of his own tragedy she alone knew.
He had been at the funeral, but since then the company for which he worked had shifted him to the East and only a business trip had brought him to the vicinity of Chicago. Roxanne had written him to come when he could — after a night in the city he had caught a train out.
They shook hands and he helped her move two rockers together.
“How’s George?”
“He’s fine, Roxanne. Seems to like school.”
“Of course it was the only thing to do, to send him.”
“Of course —-”
“You miss him horribly, Harry?”
“Yes — I do miss him. He’s a funny boy —-”
He talked a lot about George. Roxanne was interested. Harry must bring him out on his next vacation. She had only seen him once in her life — a child in dirty rompers.
She left him with the newspaper while she prepared dinner — she had four chops to-night and some late vegetables from her own garden. She put it all on and then called him, and sitting down together they continued their talk about George.
“If I had a child —” she would say.
Afterward181, Harry having given her what slender advice he could about investments, they walked through the garden, pausing here and there to recognize what had once been a cement bench or where the tennis court had lain. . . .
“Do you remember —”
Then they were off on a flood of reminiscences: the day they had taken all the snap-shots and Jeff had been photographed astride the calf182; and the sketch183 Harry had made of Jeff and Roxanne, lying sprawled184 in the grass, their heads almost touching. There was to have been a covered lattice connecting the barn-studio with the house, so that Jeff could get there on wet days — the lattice had been started, but nothing remained except a broken triangular185 piece that still adhered to the house and resembled a battered186 chicken coop.
“And those mint juleps!”
“And Jeff’s note-book! Do you remember how we’d laugh, Harry, when we’d get it out of his pocket and read aloud a page of material. And how frantic he used to get?”
“Wild! He was such a kid about his writing.”
They were both silent a moment, and then Harry said:
“We were to have a place out here, too. Do you remember? We were to buy the adjoining twenty acres. And the parties we were going to have!”
Again there was a pause, broken this time by a low question from Roxanne.
“Do you ever hear of her, Harry?”
“Why — yes,” he admitted placidly187. “She’s in Seattle. She’s married again to a man named Horton, a sort of lumber188 king. He’s a great deal older than she is, I believe.”
“And she’s behaving?”
“Yes — that is, I’ve heard so. She has everything, you see. Nothing much to do except dress up for this fellow at dinner-time.”
“I see.”
Without effort he changed the subject.
“Are you going to keep the house?”
“I think so,” she said, nodding. “I’ve lived here so long, Harry, it’d seem terrible to move. I thought of trained nursing, but of course that’d mean leaving. I’ve about decided to be a boarding-house lady.”
“Live in one?”
“No. Keep one. Is there such an anomaly as a boarding-house lady? Anyway I’d have a negress and keep about eight people in the summer and two or three, if I can get them, in the winter. Of course I’ll have to have the house repainted and gone over inside.”
Harry considered.
“Roxanne, why — naturally you know best what you can do, but it does seem a shock, Roxanne. You came here as a bride.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s why I don’t mind remaining here as a boarding-house lady.”
“I remember a certain batch189 of biscuits.”
“Oh, those biscuits,” she cried. “Still, from all I heard about the way you devoured190 them, they couldn’t have been so bad. I was so low that day, yet somehow I laughed when the nurse told me about those biscuits.”
“I noticed that the twelve nail-holes are still in the library wall where Jeff drove them.”
“Yes.”
It was getting very dark now, a crispness settled in the air; a little gust191 of wind sent down a last spray of leaves. Roxanne shivered slightly.
“We’d better go in.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s late. I’ve got to be leaving. I go East tomorrow.”
“Must you?”
They lingered for a moment just below the stoop, watching a moon that seemed full of snow float out of the distance where the lake lay. Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the gas and close the shatters, and he would go down the path and on to the village. To these two life had come quickly and gone, leaving not bitterness, but pity; not disillusion192, but only pain. There was already enough moonlight when they shook hands for each to see the gathered kindness in the other’s eyes.
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1
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bustles
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| 热闹( bustle的名词复数 )； （女裙后部的）衬垫； 撑架 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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13
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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14
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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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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quirk
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| n.奇事，巧合；古怪的举动 | |
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weirder
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| 怪诞的( weird的比较级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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20
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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21
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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24
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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25
riotously
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| adv.骚动地，暴乱地 | |
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26
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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recuperating
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| v.恢复（健康、体力等），复原( recuperate的现在分词 ) | |
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28
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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29
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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30
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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31
disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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32
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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33
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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34
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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35
ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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36
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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39
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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40
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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41
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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42
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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43
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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44
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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45
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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48
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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49
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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50
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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51
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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52
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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53
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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54
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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55
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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56
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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57
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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58
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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59
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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60
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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61
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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62
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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63
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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64
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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65
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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66
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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67
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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68
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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69
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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70
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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71
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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72
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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73
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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74
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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75
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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76
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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78
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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79
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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80
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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81
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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82
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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83
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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84
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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85
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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86
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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87
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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88
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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89
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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90
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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91
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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92
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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93
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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94
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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96
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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97
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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98
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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99
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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100
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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101
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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102
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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103
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
rinsing
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| n.清水，残渣v.漂洗( rinse的现在分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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105
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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106
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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107
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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108
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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109
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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110
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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111
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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112
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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113
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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114
meticulousness
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| 谨小慎微 | |
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115
toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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116
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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117
extraneously
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| 外部的； 外来的； 无关的； 不相干的 | |
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118
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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119
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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120
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121
hangers
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| n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 )；挂耳 | |
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122
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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123
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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124
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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125
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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126
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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127
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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128
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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130
crunch
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| n.关键时刻；艰难局面；v.发出碎裂声 | |
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131
wasp
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| n.黄蜂，蚂蜂 | |
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132
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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133
wasps
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| 黄蜂( wasp的名词复数 )； 胡蜂； 易动怒的人； 刻毒的人 | |
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134
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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135
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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136
leech
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| n.水蛭，吸血鬼，榨取他人利益的人；vt.以水蛭吸血；vi.依附于别人 | |
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137
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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138
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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139
pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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141
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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142
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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143
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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144
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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145
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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146
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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147
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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148
dazedly
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| 头昏眼花地，眼花缭乱地，茫然地 | |
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149
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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150
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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151
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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152
moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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153
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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154
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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155
marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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156
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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157
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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158
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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159
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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160
wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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161
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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162
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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163
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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164
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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165
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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166
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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167
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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168
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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169
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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170
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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171
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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173
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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174
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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175
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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176
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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177
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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178
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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179
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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180
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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181
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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182
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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183
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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184
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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185
triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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186
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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187
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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188
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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189
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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190
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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191
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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192
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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