Only a few days before, when I was lunching with some friends at Sherry’s, I had seen Jerome Brown come in with several younger men, looking so pleased and prosperous that I exclaimed upon it.
“His affairs,” some one explained, “are looking up. He’s going to marry Cressida Garnet. Nobody believed it at first, but since she confirms it he’s getting all sorts of credit. That woman’s a diamond mine.”
If there was ever a man who needed a diamond mine at hand, immediately convenient, it was Jerome Brown. But as an old friend of Cressida Garnet, I was sorry to hear that mining operations were to be begun again.
I had been away from New York and had not seen Cressida for a year; now I paused on the gangplank to note how very like herself she still was, and with what undiminished zeal3 she went about even the most trifling4 things that pertained5 to her profession. From that distance I could recognize her “carrying” smile, and even what, in Columbus, we used to call “the Garnet look.”
At the foot of the stairway leading up to the boat deck stood two of the factors in Cressida’s destiny. One of them was her sister, Miss Julia; a woman of fifty with a relaxed, mournful face, an ageing skin that browned slowly, like meerchaum, and the unmistakable “look” by which one knew a Garnet. Beside her, pointedly6 ignoring her, smoking a cigarette while he ran over the passenger list with supercilious7 almond eyes, stood a youth in a pink shirt and a green plush hat, holding a French bull-dog on the leash8. This was “Horace,” Cressida’s only son. He, at any rate, had not the Garnet look. He was rich and ruddy, indolent and insolent9, with soft oval cheeks and the blooming complexion10 of twenty-two. There was the beginning of a silky shadow on his upper lip. He seemed like a ripe fruit grown out of a rich soil; “oriental,” his mother called his peculiar11 lusciousness12. His aunt’s restless and aggrieved13 glance kept flecking him from the side, but the two were as motionless as the bouledogue, standing14 there on his bench legs and surveying his travelling basket with loathing15. They were waiting, in constrained16 immobility, for Cressida to descend17 and reanimate them, — will them to do or to be something. Forward, by the rail, I saw the stooped, eager back for which I was unconsciously looking: Miletus Poppas, the Greek Jew, Cressida’s accompanist and shadow. We were all there, I thought with a smile, except Jerome Brown.
The first member of Cressida’s party with whom I had speech was Mr. Poppas. When we were two hours out I came upon him in the act of dropping overboard a steamer cushion made of American flags. Cressida never sailed, I think, that one of these vivid comforts of travel did not reach her at the dock. Poppas recognized me just as the striped object left his hand. He was standing with his arm still extended over the rail, his fingers contemptuously sprung back. “Lest we forget!” he said with a shrug18. “Does Madame Cressida know we are to have the pleasure of your company for this voyage?” He spoke19 deliberate, grammatical English — he despised the American rendering20 of the language — but there was an indescribably foreign quality in his voice, — a something muted; and though he aspirated his “th’s” with such conscientious21 thoroughness, there was always the thud of a “d” in them. Poppas stood before me in a short, tightly buttoned grey coat and cap, exactly the colour of his greyish skin and hair and waxed moustache; a monocle on a very wide black ribbon dangled22 over his chest. As to his age, I could not offer a conjecture23. In the twelve years I had known his thin lupine face behind Cressida’s shoulder, it had not changed. I was used to his cold, supercilious manner, to his alarming, deep-set eyes, — very close together, in colour a yellowish green, and always gleaming with something like defeated fury, as if he were actually on the point of having it out with you, or with the world, at last.
I asked him if Cressida had engagements in London.
“Quite so; the Manchester Festival, some concerts at Queen’s Hall, and the Opera at Covent Garden; a rather special production of the operas of Mozart. That she can still do quite well, — which is not at all, of course, what we might have expected, and only goes to show that our Madame Cressida is now, as always, a charming exception to rules.” Poppas’ tone about his client was consistently patronizing, and he was always trying to draw one into a conspiracy24 of two, based on a mutual25 understanding of her shortcomings.
I approached him on the one subject I could think of which was more personal than his usefulness to Cressida, and asked him whether he still suffered from facial neuralgia as much as he had done in former years, and whether he was therefore dreading26 London, where the climate used to be so bad for him.
“And is still,” he caught me up, “And is still! For me to go to London is martyrdom, chère Madame. In New York it is bad enough, but in London it is the auto27 da fé, nothing less. My nervous system is exotic in any country washed by the Atlantic ocean, and it shivers like a little hairless dog from Mexico. It never relaxes. I think I have told you about my favourite city in the middle of Asia, la sainte Asie, where the rainfall is absolutely nil28, and you are protected on every side by hundreds of metres of warm, dry sand. I was there when I was a child once, and it is still my intention to retire there when I have finished with all this. I would be there now, n-ow-ow,” his voice rose querulously, “if Madame Cressida did not imagine that she needs me, — and her fancies, you know,” he flourished his hands, “one gives in to them. In humouring her caprices you and I have already played some together.”
We were approaching Cressida’s deck chairs, ranged under the open windows of her stateroom. She was already recumbent, swathed in lavender scarfs and wearing purple orchids30 — doubtless from Jerome Brown. At her left, Horace had settled down to a French novel, and Julia Garnet, at her right, was complainingly regarding the grey horizon. On seeing me, Cressida struggled under her fur-lined robes and got to her feet, — which was more than Horace or Miss Julia managed to do. Miss Julia, as I could have foretold31, was not pleased. All the Garnets had an awkward manner with me. Whether it was that I reminded them of things they wished to forget, or whether they thought I esteemed32 Cressida too highly and the rest of them too lightly, I do not know; but my appearance upon their scene always put them greatly on their dignity. After Horace had offered me his chair and Miss Julia had said doubtfully that she thought I was looking rather better than when she last saw me, Cressida took my arm and walked me off toward the stern.
“Do you know, Carrie, I half wondered whether I shouldn’t find you here, or in London, because you always turn up at critical moments in my life.” She pressed my arm confidentially33, and I felt that she was once more wrought34 up to a new purpose. I told her that I had heard some rumour35 of her engagement.
“It’s quite true, and it’s all that it should be,” she reassured36 me. “I’ll tell you about it later, and you’ll see that it’s a real solution. They are against me, of course, — all except Horace. He has been such a comfort.”
Horace’s support, such as it was, could always be had in exchange for his mother’s signature, I suspected. The pale May day had turned bleak37 and chilly38, and we sat down by an open hatchway which emitted warm air from somewhere below. At this close range I studied Cressida’s face, and felt reassured of her unabated vitality39; the old force of will was still there, and with it her characteristic optimism, the old hope of a “solution.”
“You have been in Columbus lately?” she was saying. “No, you needn’t tell me about it,” with a sigh. “Why is it, Caroline, that there is so little of my life I would be willing to live over again? So little that I can even think of without depression. Yet I’ve really not such a bad conscience. It may mean that I still belong to the future more than to the past, do you think?”
My assent40 was not warm enough to fix her attention, and she went on thoughtfully: “Of course, it was a bleak country and a bleak period. But I’ve sometimes wondered whether the bleakness41 may not have been in me, too; for it has certainly followed me. There, that is no way to talk!” she drew herself up from a momentary42 attitude of dejection. “Sea air always lets me down at first. That’s why it’s so good for me in the end.”
“I think Julia always lets you down, too,” I said bluntly. “But perhaps that depression works out in the same way.”
Cressida laughed. “Julia is rather more depressing than Georgie, isn’t she? But it was Julia’s turn. I can’t come alone, and they’ve grown to expect it. They haven’t, either of them, much else to expect.”
At this point the deck steward43 approached us with a blue envelope. “A wireless44 for you, Madame Garnet.”
Cressida put out her hand with impatience45, thanked him graciously, and with every indication of pleasure tore open the blue envelope. “It’s from Jerome Brown,” she said with some confusion, as she folded the paper small and tucked it between the buttons of her close-fitting gown, “Something he forgot to tell me. How long shall you be in London? Good; I want you to meet him. We shall probably be married there as soon as my engagements are over.” She rose. “Now I must write some letters. Keep two places at your table, so that I can slip away from my party and dine with you sometimes.”
I walked with her toward her chair, in which Mr. Poppas was now reclining. He indicated his readiness to rise, but she shook her head and entered the door of her deck suite46. As she passed him, his eye went over her with assurance until it rested upon the folded bit of blue paper in her corsage. He must have seen the original rectangle in the steward’s hand; having found it again, he dropped back between Horace and Miss Julia, whom I think he disliked no more than he did the rest of the world. He liked Julia quite as well as he liked me, and he liked me quite as well as he liked any of the women to whom he would be fitfully agreeable upon the voyage. Once or twice, during each crossing, he did his best and made himself very charming indeed, to keep his hand in, — for the same reason that he kept a dummy47 keyboard in his stateroom, somewhere down in the bowels48 of the boat. He practised all the small economies; paid the minimum rate, and never took a deck chair, because, as Horace was usually in the cardroom, he could sit in Horace’s.
The three of them lay staring at the swell49 which was steadily50 growing heavier. Both men had covered themselves with rugs, after dutifully bundling up Miss Julia. As I walked back and forth51 on the deck, I was struck by their various degrees of inexpressiveness. Opaque52 brown eyes, almond-shaped and only half open; wolfish green eyes, close-set and always doing something, with a crooked53 gleam boring in this direction or in that; watery54 grey eyes, like the thick edges of broken skylight glass: I would have given a great deal to know what was going on behind each pair of them.
These three were sitting there in a row because they were all woven into the pattern of one large and rather splendid life. Each had a bond, and each had a grievance55. If they could have their will, what would they do with the generous, credulous56 creature who nourished them, I wondered? How deep a humiliation57 would each egotism exact? They would scarcely have harmed her in fortune or in person (though I think Miss Julia looked forward to the day when Cressida would “break” and could be mourned over), — but the fire at which she warmed herself, the little secret hope, — the illusion, ridiculous or sublime58, which kept her going, — that they would have stamped out on the instant, with the whole Garnet pack behind them to make extinction59 sure. All, except, perhaps, Miletus Poppas. He was a vulture of the vulture race, and he had the beak60 of one. But I always felt that if ever he had her thus at his mercy, — if ever he came upon the softness that was hidden under so much hardness, the warm credulity under a life so dated and scheduled and “reported” and generally exposed, — he would hold his hand and spare.
The weather grew steadily rougher. Miss Julia at last plucked Poppas by the sleeve and indicated that she wished to be released from her wrappings. When she disappeared, there seemed to be every reason to hope that she might be off the scene for awhile. As Cressida said, if she had not brought Julia, she would have had to bring Georgie, or some other Garnet. Cressida’s family was like that of the unpopular Prince of Wales, of whom, when he died, some wag wrote:
If it had been his brother, Better him than another. If it had been his sister, No one would have missed her.
Miss Julia was dampening enough, but Miss Georgie was aggressive and intrusive61. She was out to prove to the world, and more especially to Ohio, that all the Garnets were as like Cressida as two peas. Both sisters were club-women, social service workers, and directors in musical societies, and they were continually travelling up and down the Middle West to preside at meetings or to deliver addresses. They reminded one of two sombre, bumping electrics, rolling about with no visible means of locomotion62, always running out of power and lying beached in some inconvenient63 spot until they received a check or a suggestion from Cressy. I was only too well acquainted with the strained, anxious expression that the sight of their handwriting brought to Cressida’s face when she ran over her morning mail at breakfast. She usually put their letters by to read “when she was feeling up to it” and hastened to open others which might possibly contain something gracious or pleasant. Sometimes these family unburdenings lay about unread for several days. Any other letters would have got themselves lost, but these bulky epistles, never properly fitted to their envelopes, seemed immune to mischance and unfailingly disgorged to Cressida long explanations as to why her sisters had to do and to have certain things precisely64 upon her account and because she was so much a public personage.
The truth was that all the Garnets, and particularly her two sisters, were consumed by an habitual65, bilious66, unenterprising envy of Cressy. They never forgot that, no matter what she did for them or how far she dragged them about the world with her, she would never take one of them to live with her in her Tenth Street house in New York. They thought that was the thing they most wanted. But what they wanted, in the last analysis, was to be Cressida. For twenty years she had been plunged68 in struggle; fighting for her life at first, then for a beginning, for growth, and at last for eminence69 and perfection; fighting in the dark, and afterward70 in the light, — which, with her bad preparation, and with her uninspired youth already behind her, took even more courage. During those twenty years the Garnets had been comfortable and indolent and vastly self-satisfied; and now they expected Cressida to make them equal sharers in the finer rewards of her struggle. When her brother Buchanan told me he thought Cressida ought “to make herself one of them,” he stated the converse71 of what he meant. They coveted72 the qualities which had made her success, as well as the benefits which came from it. More than her furs or her fame or her fortune, they wanted her personal effectiveness, her brighter glow and stronger will to live.
“Sometimes,” I have heard Cressida say, looking up from a bunch of those sloppily73 written letters, “sometimes I get discouraged.”
For several days the rough weather kept Miss Julia cloistered74 in Cressida’s deck suite with the maid, Luisa, who confided75 to me that the Signorina Garnet was “dificile.” After dinner I usually found Cressida unincumbered, as Horace was always in the cardroom and Mr. Poppas either nursed his neuralgia or went through the exercise of making himself interesting to some one of the young women on board. One evening, the third night out, when the sea was comparatively quiet and the sky was full of broken black clouds, silvered by the moon at their ragged67 edges, Cressida talked to me about Jerome Brown.
I had known each of her former husbands. The first one, Charley Wilton, Horace’s father, was my cousin. He was organist in a church in Columbus, and Cressida married him when she was nineteen. He died of tuberculosis76 two years after Horace was born. Cressida nursed him through a long illness and made the living besides. Her courage during the three years of her first marriage was fine enough to foreshadow her future to any discerning eye, and it had made me feel that she deserved any number of chances at marital77 happiness. There had, of course, been a particular reason for each subsequent experiment, and a sufficiently78 alluring79 promise of success. Her motives80, in the case of Jerome Brown, seemed to me more vague and less convincing than those which she had explained to me on former occasions.
“It’s nothing hasty,” she assured me. “It’s been coming on for several years. He has never pushed me, but he was always there — some one to count on. Even when I used to meet him at the Whitings, while I was still singing at the Metropolitan81, I always felt that he was different from the others; that if I were in straits of any kind, I could call on him. You can’t know what that feeling means to me, Carrie. If you look back, you’ll see it’s something I’ve never had.”
I admitted that, in so far as I knew, she had never been much addicted82 to leaning on people.
“I’ve never had any one to lean on,” she said with a short laugh. Then she went on, quite seriously: “Somehow, my relations with people always become business relations in the end. I suppose it’s because, — except for a sort of professional personality, which I’ve had to get, just as I’ve had to get so many other things, — I’ve not very much that’s personal to give people. I’ve had to give too much else. I’ve had to try too hard for people who wouldn’t try at all.”
“Which,” I put in firmly, “has done them no good, and has robbed the people who really cared about you.”
“By making me grubby, you mean?”
“By making you anxious and distracted so much of the time; empty.”
She nodded mournfully. “Yes, I know. You used to warn me. Well, there’s not one of my brothers and sisters who does not feel that I carried off the family success, just as I might have carried off the family silver, — if there’d been any! They take the view that there were just so many prizes in the bag; I reached in and took them, so there were none left for the others. At my age, that’s a dismal83 truth to waken up to.”
Cressida reached for my hand and held it a moment, as if she needed courage to face the facts in her case. “When one remembers one’s first success; how one hoped to go home like a Christmas tree full of presents — How much one learns in a life-time! That year when Horace was a baby and Charley was dying, and I was touring the West with the Williams band, it was my feeling about my own people that made me go at all. Why I didn’t drop myself into one of those muddy rivers, or turn on the gas in one of those dirty hotel rooms, I don’t know to this day. At twenty-two you must hope for something more than to be able to bury your husband decently, and what I hoped for was to make my family happy. It was the same afterward in Germany. A young woman must live for human people. Horace wasn’t enough. I might have had lovers, of course. I suppose you will say it would have been better if I had.”
Though there seemed no need for me to say anything, I murmured that I thought there were more likely to be limits to the rapacity84 of a lover than to that of a discontented and envious85 family.
“Well,” Cressida gathered herself up, “once I got out from under it all, didn’t I? And perhaps, in a milder way, such a release can come again. You were the first person I told when I ran away with Charley, and for a long while you were the only one who knew about Blasius Bouchalka. That time, at least, I shook the Garnets. I wasn’t distracted or empty. That time I was all there!”
“Yes,” I echoed her, “that time you were all there. It’s the greatest possible satisfaction to remember it.”
“But even that,” she sighed, “was nothing but lawyers and accounts in the end — and a hurt. A hurt that has lasted. I wonder what is the matter with me?”
The matter with Cressida was, that more than any woman I have ever known, she appealed to the acquisitive instinct in men; but this was not easily said, even in the brutal86 frankness of a long friendship.
We would probably have gone further into the Bouchalka chapter of her life, had not Horace appeared and nervously87 asked us if we did not wish to take a turn before we went inside. I pleaded indolence, but Cressida rose and disappeared with him. Later I came upon them, standing at the stern above the huddled88 steerage deck, which was by this time bathed in moonlight, under an almost clear sky. Down there on the silvery floor, little hillocks were scattered89 about under quilts and shawls; family units, presumably, — male, female, and young. Here and there a black shawl sat alone, nodding. They crouched90 submissively under the moonlight as if it were a spell. In one of those hillocks a baby was crying, but the sound was faint and thin, a slender protest which aroused no response. Everything was so still that I could hear snatches of the low talk between my friends. Cressida’s voice was deep and entreating91. She was remonstrating92 with Horace about his losses at bridge, begging him to keep away from the cardroom.
“But what else is there to do on a trip like this, my Lady?” he expostulated, tossing his spark of a cigarette-end overboard. “What is there, now, to do?”
“Oh, Horace!” she murmured, “how can you be so? If I were twenty-two, and a boy, with some one to back me — ”
Horace drew his shoulders together and buttoned his top-coat. “Oh, I’ve not your energy, Mother dear. We make no secret of that. I am as I am. I didn’t ask to be born into this charming world.”
To this gallant93 speech Cressida made no answer. She stood with her hand on the rail and her head bent29 forward, as if she had lost herself in thought. The ends of her scarf, lifted by the breeze, fluttered upward, almost transparent94 in the argent light. Presently she turned away, — as if she had been alone and were leaving only the night sea behind her, — and walked slowly forward; a strong, solitary95 figure on the white deck, the smoke-like scarf twisting and climbing and falling back upon itself in the light over her head. She reached the door of her stateroom and disappeared. Yes, she was a Garnet, but she was also Cressida; and she had done what she had done.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
publicity
|
|
| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
advertising
|
|
| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
trifling
|
|
| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
pertained
|
|
| 关于( pertain的过去式和过去分词 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
pointedly
|
|
| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
supercilious
|
|
| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
leash
|
|
| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
insolent
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
lusciousness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
13
aggrieved
|
|
| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
loathing
|
|
| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
constrained
|
|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
shrug
|
|
| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
rendering
|
|
| n.表现，描写 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
conscientious
|
|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
dangled
|
|
| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
conjecture
|
|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
conspiracy
|
|
| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
dreading
|
|
| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
auto
|
|
| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
nil
|
|
| n.无，全无，零 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
orchids
|
|
| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
foretold
|
|
| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
esteemed
|
|
| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
confidentially
|
|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
rumour
|
|
| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
reassured
|
|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
chilly
|
|
| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
vitality
|
|
| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
bleakness
|
|
| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
steward
|
|
| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
wireless
|
|
| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
suite
|
|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
dummy
|
|
| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
bowels
|
|
| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
swell
|
|
| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
opaque
|
|
| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
crooked
|
|
| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
watery
|
|
| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
grievance
|
|
| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
credulous
|
|
| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
sublime
|
|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
extinction
|
|
| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
beak
|
|
| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
intrusive
|
|
| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
locomotion
|
|
| n.运动，移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
inconvenient
|
|
| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
habitual
|
|
| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
bilious
|
|
| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
ragged
|
|
| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
eminence
|
|
| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
coveted
|
|
| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
sloppily
|
|
| adv.马虎地，草率地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
cloistered
|
|
| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
confided
|
|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
tuberculosis
|
|
| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
marital
|
|
| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
alluring
|
|
| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
motives
|
|
| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
metropolitan
|
|
| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
addicted
|
|
| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
rapacity
|
|
| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
envious
|
|
| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
brutal
|
|
| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
huddled
|
|
| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
scattered
|
|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
crouched
|
|
| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
entreating
|
|
| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
remonstrating
|
|
| v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 )；告诫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
gallant
|
|
| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |