This is a curious thing to consider. But before (stimulated by my own experiences and the representations of many fellow-travellers of every uncommercial and commercial degree) I consider it further, I must utter a passing word of wonder concerning high winds.
I wonder why metropolitan2 gales3 always blow so hard at Walworth. I cannot imagine what Walworth has done, to bring such windy punishment upon itself, as I never fail to find recorded in the newspapers when the wind has blown at all hard. Brixton seems to have something on its conscience; Peckham suffers more than a virtuous4 Peckham might be supposed to deserve; the howling neighbourhood of Deptford figures largely in the accounts of the ingenious gentlemen who are out in every wind that blows, and to whom it is an ill high wind that blows no good; but, there can hardly be any Walworth left by this time. It must surely be blown away. I have read of more chimney-stacks and house-copings coming down with terrific smashes at Walworth, and of more sacred edifices5 being nearly (not quite) blown out to sea from the same accursed locality, than I have read of practised thieves with the appearance and manners of gentlemen — a popular phenomenon which never existed on earth out of fiction and a police report. Again: I wonder why people are always blown into the Surrey Canal, and into no other piece of water! Why do people get up early and go out in groups, to be blown into the Surrey Canal? Do they say to one another, ‘Welcome death, so that we get into the newspapers’? Even that would be an insufficient6 explanation, because even then they might sometimes put themselves in the way of being blown into the Regent’s Canal, instead of always saddling Surrey for the field. Some nameless policeman, too, is constantly, on the slightest provocation7, getting himself blown into this same Surrey Canal. Will SIR RICHARD MAYNE see to it, and restrain that weak-minded and feeble-bodied constable8?
To resume the consideration of the curious question of Refreshment9. I am a Briton, and, as such, I am aware that I never will be a slave — and yet I have latent suspicion that there must be some slavery of wrong custom in this matter.
I travel by railroad. I start from home at seven or eight in the morning, after breakfasting hurriedly. What with skimming over the open landscape, what with mining in the damp bowels10 of the earth, what with banging, booming and shrieking11 the scores of miles away, I am hungry when I arrive at the ‘Refreshment’ station where I am expected. Please to observe, expected. I have said, I am hungry; perhaps I might say, with greater point and force, that I am to some extent exhausted12, and that I need — in the expressive13 French sense of the word — to be restored. What is provided for my restoration? The apartment that is to restore me is a wind-trap, cunningly set to inveigle14 all the draughts15 in that country-side, and to communicate a special intensity16 and velocity17 to them as they rotate in two hurricanes: one, about my wretched head: one, about my wretched legs. The training of the young ladies behind the counter who are to restore me, has been from their infancy18 directed to the assumption of a defiant19 dramatic show that I am NOT expected. It is in vain for me to represent to them by my humble20 and conciliatory manners, that I wish to be liberal. It is in vain for me to represent to myself, for the encouragement of my sinking soul, that the young ladies have a pecuniary21 interest in my arrival. Neither my reason nor my feelings can make head against the cold glazed22 glare of eye with which I am assured that I am not expected, and not wanted. The solitary23 man among the bottles would sometimes take pity on me, if he dared, but he is powerless against the rights and mights of Woman. (Of the page I make no account, for, he is a boy, and therefore the natural enemy of Creation.) Chilling fast, in the deadly tornadoes24 to which my upper and lower extremities25 are exposed, and subdued26 by the moral disadvantage at which I stand, I turn my disconsolate27 eyes on the refreshments28 that are to restore me. I find that I must either scald my throat by insanely ladling into it, against time and for no wager29, brown hot water stiffened30 with flour; or I must make myself flaky and sick with Banbury cake; or, I must stuff into my delicate organisation31, a currant pincushion which I know will swell32 into immeasurable dimensions when it has got there; or, I must extort33 from an iron-bound quarry34, with a fork, as if I were farming an inhospitable soil, some glutinous35 lumps of gristle and grease, called pork-pie. While thus forlornly occupied, I find that the depressing banquet on the table is, in every phase of its profoundly unsatisfactory character, so like the banquet at the meanest and shabbiest of evening parties, that I begin to think I must have ‘brought down’ to supper, the old lady unknown, blue with cold, who is setting her teeth on edge with a cool orange at my elbow — that the pastrycook who has compounded for the company on the lowest terms per head, is a fraudulent bankrupt, redeeming37 his contract with the stale stock from his window — that, for some unexplained reason, the family giving the party have become my mortal foes38, and have given it on purpose to affront39 me. Or, I fancy that I am ‘breaking up’ again, at the evening conversazione at school, charged two-and-sixpence in the half-year’s bill; or breaking down again at that celebrated40 evening party given at Mrs. Bogles’s boarding-house when I was a boarder there, on which occasion Mrs. Bogles was taken in execution by a branch of the legal profession who got in as the harp41, and was removed (with the keys and subscribed42 capital) to a place of durance, half an hour prior to the commencement of the festivities.
Take another case.
Mr. Grazinglands, of the Midland Counties, came to London by railroad one morning last week, accompanied by the amiable43 and fascinating Mrs. Grazinglands. Mr. G. is a gentleman of a comfortable property, and had a little business to transact1 at the Bank of England, which required the concurrence44 and signature of Mrs. G. Their business disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Grazinglands viewed the Royal Exchange, and the exterior45 of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The spirits of Mrs. Grazinglands then gradually beginning to flag, Mr. Grazinglands (who is the tenderest of husbands) remarked with sympathy, ‘Arabella’, my dear, ‘fear you are faint.’ Mrs. Grazing-lands replied, ‘Alexander, I am rather faint; but don’t mind me, I shall be better presently.’ Touched by the feminine meekness46 of this answer, Mr. Grazinglands looked in at a pastrycook’s window, hesitating as to the expediency47 of lunching at that establishment. He beheld48 nothing to eat, but butter in various forms, slightly charged with jam, and languidly frizzling over tepid49 water. Two ancient turtle-shells, on which was inscribed50 the legend, ‘SOUPS,’ decorated a glass partition within, enclosing a stuffy51 alcove52, from which a ghastly mockery of a marriage-breakfast spread on a rickety table, warned the terrified traveller. An oblong box of stale and broken pastry36 at reduced prices, mounted on a stool, ornamented53 the doorway54; and two high chairs that looked as if they were performing on stilts55, embellished56 the counter. Over the whole, a young lady presided, whose gloomy haughtiness57 as she surveyed the street, announced a deep-seated grievance58 against society, and an implacable determination to be avenged59. From a beetle-haunted kitchen below this institution, fumes60 arose, suggestive of a class of soup which Mr. Grazinglands knew, from painful experience, enfeebles the mind, distends61 the stomach, forces itself into the complexion62, and tries to ooze63 out at the eyes. As he decided64 against entering, and turned away, Mrs. Grazinglands becoming perceptibly weaker, repeated, ‘I am rather faint, Alexander, but don’t mind me.’ Urged to new efforts by these words of resignation, Mr. Grazinglands looked in at a cold and floury baker’s shop, where utilitarian65 buns unrelieved by a currant, consorted66 with hard biscuits, a stone filter of cold water, a hard pale clock, and a hard little old woman with flaxen hair, of an undeveloped-farinaceous aspect, as if she had been fed upon seeds. He might have entered even here, but for the timely remembrance coming upon him that Jairing’s was but round the corner.
Now, Jairing’s being an hotel for families and gentlemen, in high repute among the midland counties, Mr. Grazinglands plucked up a great spirit when he told Mrs. Grazinglands she should have a chop there. That lady, likewise felt that she was going to see Life. Arriving on that gay and festive67 scene, they found the second waiter, in a flabby undress, cleaning the windows of the empty coffee-room; and the first waiter, denuded68 of his white tie, making up his cruets behind the Post-Office Directory. The latter (who took them in hand) was greatly put out by their patronage69, and showed his mind to be troubled by a sense of the pressing necessity of instantly smuggling70 Mrs. Grazinglands into the obscurest corner of the building. This slighted lady (who is the pride of her division of the county) was immediately conveyed, by several dark passages, and up and down several steps, into a penitential apartment at the back of the house, where five invalided71 old plate-warmers leaned up against one another under a discarded old melancholy72 sideboard, and where the wintry leaves of all the dining-tables in the house lay thick. Also, a sofa, of incomprehensible form regarded from any sofane point of view, murmured ‘Bed;’ while an air of mingled73 fluffiness74 and heeltaps, added, ‘Second Waiter’s.’ Secreted75 in this dismal76 hold, objects of a mysterious distrust and suspicion, Mr. Grazinglands and his charming partner waited twenty minutes for the smoke (for it never came to a fire), twenty-five minutes for the sherry, half an hour for the tablecloth77, forty minutes for the knives and forks, three-quarters of an hour for the chops, and an hour for the potatoes. On settling the little bill — which was not much more than the day’s pay of a Lieutenant78 in the navy — Mr. Grazinglands took heart to remonstrate79 against the general quality and cost of his reception. To whom the waiter replied, substantially, that Jairing’s made it a merit to have accepted him on any terms: ‘for,’ added the waiter (unmistakably coughing at Mrs. Grazinglands, the pride of her division of the county), ‘when indiwiduals is not staying in the ‘Ouse, their favours is not as a rule looked upon as making it worth Mr. Jairing’s while; nor is it, indeed, a style of business Mr. Jairing wishes.’ Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Grazinglands passed out of Jairing’s hotel for Families and Gentlemen, in a state of the greatest depression, scorned by the bar; and did not recover their self-respect for several days.
Or take another case. Take your own case.
You are going off by railway, from any Terminus. You have twenty minutes for dinner, before you go. You want your dinner, and like Dr. Johnson, Sir, you like to dine. You present to your mind, a picture of the refreshment-table at that terminus. The conventional shabby evening-party supper — accepted as the model for all termini and all refreshment stations, because it is the last repast known to this state of existence of which any human creature would partake, but in the direst extremity80 — sickens your contemplation, and your words are these: ‘I cannot dine on stale sponge-cakes that turn to sand in the mouth. I cannot dine on shining brown patties, composed of unknown animals within, and offering to my view the device of an indigestible star-fish in leaden pie-crust without. I cannot dine on a sandwich that has long been pining under an exhausted receiver. I cannot dine on barley-sugar. I cannot dine on Toffee.’ You repair to the nearest hotel, and arrive, agitated81, in the coffee-room.
It is a most astonishing fact that the waiter is very cold to you. Account for it how you may, smooth it over how you will, you cannot deny that he is cold to you. He is not glad to see you, he does not want you, he would much rather you hadn’t come. He opposes to your flushed condition, an immovable composure. As if this were not enough, another waiter, born, as it would seem, expressly to look at you in this passage of your life, stands at a little distance, with his napkin under his arm and his hands folded, looking at you with all his might. You impress on your waiter that you have ten minutes for dinner, and he proposes that you shall begin with a bit of fish which will be ready in twenty. That proposal declined, he suggests — as a neat originality82 — ‘a weal or mutton cutlet.’ You close with either cutlet, any cutlet, anything. He goes, leisurely83, behind a door and calls down some unseen shaft84. A ventriloquial dialogue ensues, tending finally to the effect that weal only, is available on the spur of the moment. You anxiously call out, ‘Veal, then!’ Your waiter having settled that point, returns to array your tablecloth, with a table napkin folded cocked-hat-wise (slowly, for something out of window engages his eye), a white wine-glass, a green wine-glass, a blue finger-glass, a tumbler, and a powerful field battery of fourteen casters with nothing in them; or at all events — which is enough for your purpose — with nothing in them that will come out. All this time, the other waiter looks at you — with an air of mental comparison and curiosity, now, as if it had occurred to him that you are rather like his brother. Half your time gone, and nothing come but the jug85 of ale and the bread, you implore86 your waiter to ‘see after that cutlet, waiter; pray do!’ He cannot go at once, for he is carrying in seventeen pounds of American cheese for you to finish with, and a small Landed Estate of celery and water-cresses. The other waiter changes his leg, and takes a new view of you, doubtfully, now, as if he had rejected the resemblance to his brother, and had begun to think you more like his aunt or his grandmother. Again you beseech87 your waiter with pathetic indignation, to ‘see after that cutlet!’ He steps out to see after it, and by-and-by, when you are going away without it, comes back with it. Even then, he will not take the sham88 silver cover off, without a pause for a flourish, and a look at the musty cutlet as if he were surprised to see it — which cannot possibly be the case, he must have seen it so often before. A sort of fur has been produced upon its surface by the cook’s art, and in a sham silver vessel89 staggering on two feet instead of three, is a cutaneous kind of sauce of brown pimples90 and pickled cucumber. You order the bill, but your waiter cannot bring your bill yet, because he is bringing, instead, three flinty-hearted potatoes and two grim head of broccoli91, like the occasional ornaments92 on area railings, badly boiled. You know that you will never come to this pass, any more than to the cheese and celery, and you imperatively94 demand your bill; but, it takes time to get, even when gone for, because your waiter has to communicate with a lady who lives behind a sash-window in a corner, and who appears to have to refer to several Ledgers95 before she can make it out — as if you had been staying there a year. You become distracted to get away, and the other waiter, once more changing his leg, still looks at you — but suspiciously, now, as if you had begun to remind him of the party who took the great-coats last winter. Your bill at last brought and paid, at the rate of sixpence a mouthful, your waiter reproachfully reminds you that ‘attendance is not charged for a single meal,’ and you have to search in all your pockets for sixpence more. He has a worse opinion of you than ever, when you have given it to him, and lets you out into the street with the air of one saying to himself, as you cannot again doubt he is, ‘I hope we shall never see YOU here again!’
Or, take any other of the numerous travelling instances in which, with more time at your disposal, you are, have been, or may be, equally ill served. Take the old-established Bull’s Head with its old-established knife-boxes on its old-established sideboards, its old-established flue under its old-established four-post bedsteads in its old-established airless rooms, its old-established frouziness up-stairs and down-stairs, its old-established cookery, and its old-established principles of plunder96. Count up your injuries, in its side-dishes of ailing93 sweetbreads in white poultices, of apothecaries’ powders in rice for curry97, of pale stewed98 bits of calf99 ineffectually relying for an adventitious100 interest on forcemeat balls. You have had experience of the old-established Bull’s Head stringy fowls101, with lower extremities like wooden legs, sticking up out of the dish; of its cannibalic boiled mutton, gushing102 horribly among its capers103, when carved; of its little dishes of pastry — roofs of spermaceti ointment104, erected105 over half an apple or four gooseberries. Well for you if you have yet forgotten the old-established Bull’s Head fruity port: whose reputation was gained solely106 by the old-established price the Bull’s Head put upon it, and by the old-established air with which the Bull’s Head set the glasses and D’Oyleys on, and held that Liquid Gout to the three-and-sixpenny wax-candle, as if its old-established colour hadn’t come from the dyer’s.
Or lastly, take to finish with, two cases that we all know, every day.
We all know the new hotel near the station, where it is always gusty107, going up the lane which is always muddy, where we are sure to arrive at night, and where we make the gas start awfully108 when we open the front door. We all know the flooring of the passages and staircases that is too new, and the walls that are too new, and the house that is haunted by the ghost of mortar109. We all know the doors that have cracked, and the cracked shutters110 through which we get a glimpse of the disconsolate moon. We all know the new people, who have come to keep the new hotel, and who wish they had never come, and who (inevitable result) wish WE had never come. We all know how much too scant111 and smooth and bright the new furniture is, and how it has never settled down, and cannot fit itself into right places, and will get into wrong places. We all know how the gas, being lighted, shows maps of Damp upon the walls. We all know how the ghost of mortar passes into our sandwich, stirs our negus, goes up to bed with us, ascends112 the pale bedroom chimney, and prevents the smoke from following. We all know how a leg of our chair comes off at breakfast in the morning, and how the dejected waiter attributes the accident to a general greenness pervading113 the establishment, and informs us, in reply to a local inquiry114, that he is thankful to say he is an entire stranger in that part of the country and is going back to his own connexion on Saturday.
We all know, on the other hand, the great station hotel belonging to the company of proprietors115, which has suddenly sprung up in the back outskirts116 of any place we like to name, and where we look out of our palatial117 windows at little back yards and gardens, old summer-houses, fowl-houses, pigeon-traps, and pigsties118. We all know this hotel in which we can get anything we want, after its kind, for money; but where nobody is glad to see us, or sorry to see us, or minds (our bill paid) whether we come or go, or how, or when, or why, or cares about us. We all know this hotel, where we have no individuality, but put ourselves into the general post, as it were, and are sorted and disposed of according to our division. We all know that we can get on very well indeed at such a place, but still not perfectly119 well; and this may be, because the place is largely wholesale120, and there is a lingering personal retail121 interest within us that asks to be satisfied.
To sum up. My uncommercial travelling has not yet brought me to the conclusion that we are close to perfection in these matters. And just as I do not believe that the end of the world will ever be near at hand, so long as any of the very tiresome122 and arrogant123 people who constantly predict that catastrophe124 are left in it, so, I shall have small faith in the Hotel Millennium125, while any of the uncomfortable superstitions126 I have glanced at remain in existence.
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1
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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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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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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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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velocity
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| n.速度，速率 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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solitary
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tornadoes
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extremities
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subdued
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disconsolate
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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organisation
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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extort
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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glutinous
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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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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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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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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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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55
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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56
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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57
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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58
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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59
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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60
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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61
distends
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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63
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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65
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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consorted
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| v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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denuded
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| adj.[医]变光的，裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 )；剥光覆盖物 | |
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69
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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71
invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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72
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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73
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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fluffiness
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| [医]柔软，蓬松，绒毛状 | |
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secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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76
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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78
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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82
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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83
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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84
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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85
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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86
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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pimples
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| n.丘疹，粉刺，小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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broccoli
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| n.绿菜花，花椰菜 | |
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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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93
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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99
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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adventitious
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| adj.偶然的 | |
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101
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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103
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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104
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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105
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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106
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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107
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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108
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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109
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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110
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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111
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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112
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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114
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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115
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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116
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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117
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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118
pigsties
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| n.猪圈，脏房间( pigsty的名词复数 ) | |
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119
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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120
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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121
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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122
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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123
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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124
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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125
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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126
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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