It was positive, however, that poor John was afterward19 to remember of this conjunction nothing whatever but the fact of the great man’s looking at him very hard, straight in the eyes, and of his not having himself scrupled20 to do as much, and with a confessed intensity21 of appetite. It was improbable, he was to recognise, that they had, for the few minutes, only stared and grimaced22, like pitted boxers23 or wrestlers; but what had abode24 with him later on, none the less, was just the cherished memory of his not having so lost presence of mind as to fail of feeding on his impression. It was precious and precarious25, that was perhaps all there would be of it; and his subsequent consciousness was quite to cherish this queer view of the silence, neither awkward nor empty nor harsh, but on the contrary quite charged and brimming, that represented for him his use, his unforgettable enjoyment26 in fact, of his opportunity. Had nothing passed in words? Well, no misery27 of murmured “homage,” thank goodness; though something must have been said, certainly, to lead up, as they put it at the theatre, to John’s having asked the head of the profession, before they separated, if he by chance knew who the so radiantly handsome young woman might be, the one who had so lately come in and who wore the pale yellow dress, of the strange tone, and the magnificent pearls. They must have separated soon, it was further to have been noted28; since it was before the advance of the pair, their wonderful dazzling charge upon him, that he had distinctly seen the great man, at a distance again, block out from his sight the harmony of the faded gold and the pearls — to speak only of that — and plant himself there (the mere29 high Atlas-back of renown30 to Berridge now) as for communion with them. He had blocked everything out, to this tune31, effectually; with nothing of the matter left for our friend meanwhile but that, as he had said, the beautiful lady was the Princess. What Princess, or the Princess of what? — our young man had afterward wondered; his companion’s reply having lost itself in the prelude32 of an outburst by another vocalist who had approached the piano.
It was after these things that she so incredibly came to him, attended by her adorer — since he took it for absolute that the young Lord was her adorer, as who indeed mightn’t be? — and scarce waiting, in her bright simplicity34, for any form of introduction. It may thus be said in a word that this was the manner in which she made our hero’s acquaintance, a satisfaction that she on the spot described to him as really wanting of late to her felicity. “I’ve read everything, you know, and ‘The Heart of Gold’ three times”: she put it all immediately on that ground, while the young Lord now smiled, beside her, as if it were quite the sort of thing he had done too; and while, further, the author of the work yielded to the consciousness that whereas in general he had come at last scarce to be able to bear the iteration of those words, which affected35 him as a mere vain vocal33 convulsion, so not a breath of this association now attended them, so such a person as the Princess could make of them what she would.
Unless it was to be really what he would! — this occurred to him in the very thick of the prodigy36, no single shade of possibility of which was less prodigious than any other. It was a declaration, simply, the admirable young woman was treating him to, a profession of “artistic sympathy” — for she was in a moment to use this very term that made for them a large, clear, common ether, an element all uplifted and rare, of which they could equally partake.
If she was Olympian — as in her rich and regular young beauty, that of some divine Greek mask over-painted say by Titian, she more and more appeared to him — this offered air was that of the gods themselves: she might have been, with her long rustle37 across the room, Artemis decorated, hung with pearls, for her worshippers, yet disconcerting them by having, under an impulse just faintly fierce, snatched the cup of gold from Hebe. It was to him, John Berridge, she thus publicly offered it; and it was his over-topping confrere of shortly before who was the worshipper most disconcerted. John had happened to catch, even at its distance, after these friends had joined him, the momentary38 deep, grave estimate, in the great Dramatist’s salient watching eyes, of the Princess’s so singular performance: the touch perhaps this, in the whole business, that made Berridge’s sense of it most sharp. The sense of it as prodigy didn’t in the least entail39 his feeling abject40 — any more, that is, than in the due dazzled degree; for surely there would have been supreme41 wonder in the eagerness of her exchange of mature glory for thin notoriety, hadn’t it still exceeded everything that an Olympian of such race should have found herself bothered, as they said, to “read” at all — and most of all to read three times!
With the turn the matter took as an effect of this meeting, Berridge was more than once to find himself almost ashamed for her — since it seemed never to occur to her to be so for herself: he was jealous of the type where she might have been taken as insolently42 careless of it; his advantage (unless indeed it had been his ruin) being that he could inordinately44 reflect upon it, could wander off thereby45 into kinds of licence of which she was incapable46. He hadn’t, for himself, waited till now to be sure of what he would do were he an Olympian: he would leave his own stuff snugly47 unread, to begin with; that would be a beautiful start for an Olympian career. He should have been as unable to write those works in short as to make anything else of them; and he should have had no more arithmetic for computing48 fingers than any perfect-headed marble Apollo mutilated at the wrists. He should have consented to know but the grand personal adventure on the grand personal basis: nothing short of this, no poor cognisance of confusable, pettifogging things, the sphere of earth-grubbing questions and two-penny issues, would begin to be, on any side, Olympian enough.
Even the great Dramatist, with his tempered and tested steel and his immense “assured” position, even he was not Olympian: the look, full of the torment49 of earth, with which he had seen the Princess turn her back, and for such a purpose, on the prized privilege of his notice, testified sufficiently50 to that. Still, comparatively, it was to be said, the question of a personal relation with an authority so eminent52 on the subject of the passions — to say nothing of the rest of his charm — might have had for an ardent53 young woman (and the Princess was unmistakably ardent) the absolute attraction of romance: unless, again, prodigy of prodigies54, she were looking for her romance very particularly elsewhere. Yet where could she have been looking for it, Berridge was to ask himself with private intensity, in a manner to leave her so at her ease for appearing to offer him everything? — so free to be quite divinely gentle with him, to hover6 there before him in all her mild, bright, smooth sublimity55 and to say: “I should be so very grateful if you’d come to see me.”
There succeeded this a space of time of which he was afterward to lose all account, was never to recover the history; his only coherent view of it being that an interruption, some incident that kept them a while separate, had then taken place, yet that during their separation, of half an hour or whatever, they had still somehow not lost sight of each other, but had found their eyes meeting, in deep communion, all across the great peopled room; meeting and wanting to meet, wanting — it was the most extraordinary thing in the world for the suppression of stages, for confessed precipitate56 intensity — to use together every instant of the hour that might be left them. Yet to use it for what? — unless, like beautiful fabulous57 figures in some old-world legend, for the frankest and almost the crudest avowal58 of the impression they had made on each other. He couldn’t have named, later on, any other person she had during this space been engaged with, any more than he was to remember in the least what he had himself ostensibly done, who had spoken to him, whom he had spoken to, or whether he hadn’t just stood and publicly gaped59 or languished60.
Ah, Olympians were unconventional indeed — that was a part of their high bravery and privilege; but what it also appeared to attest62 in this wondrous63 manner was that they could communicate to their chosen in three minutes, by the mere light of their eyes, the same shining cynicism. He was to wonder of course, tinglingly enough, whether he had really made an ass12 of himself, and there was this amount of evidence for it that there certainly had been a series of moments each one of which glowed with the lucid64 sense that, as she couldn’t like him as much as that either for his acted clap-trap or for his printed verbiage65, what it must come to was that she liked him, and to such a tune, just for himself and quite after no other fashion than that in which every goddess in the calendar had, when you came to look, sooner or later liked some prepossessing young shepherd. The question would thus have been, for him, with a still sharper eventual66 ache, of whether he positively67 had, as an effect of the miracle, been petrified68, before fifty pair of eyes, to the posture69 of a prepossessing shepherd — and would perhaps have left him under the shadow of some such imputable70 fatuity71 if his consciousness hadn’t, at a given moment, cleared up to still stranger things.
The agent of the change was, as quite congruously happened, none other than the shining youth whom he now seemed to himself to have been thinking of for ever so long, for a much longer time than he had ever in his life spent at an evening party, as the young Lord: which personage suddenly stood before him again, holding him up an odd object and smiling, as if in reference to it, with a gladness that at once struck our friend as almost too absurd for belief. The object was incongruous by reason of its being, to a second and less preoccupied72 glance, a book; and what had befallen Berridge within twenty minutes was that they — the Princess and he, that is — had got such millions of miles, or at least such thousands of years, away from those platitudes73. The book, he found himself assuming, could only be his book (it seemed also to have a tawdry red cover); and there came to him memories, dreadfully false notes sounded so straight again by his new acquaintance, of certain altogether different persons who at certain altogether different parties had flourished volumes before him very much with that insinuating75 gesture, that arch expression, and that fell intention. The meaning of these things — of all possible breaks of the charm at such an hour! — was that he should “signature” the ugly thing, and with a characteristic quotation76 or sentiment: that was the way people simpered and squirmed, the way they mouthed and beckoned77, when animated78 by such purposes; and it already, on the spot, almost broke his heart to see such a type as that of the young Lord brought, by the vulgarest of fashions, so low. This state of quick displeasure in Berridge, however, was founded on a deeper question — the question of how in the world he was to remain for himself a prepossessing shepherd if he should consent to come back to these base actualities. It was true that even while this wonderment held him, his aggressor’s perfect good conscience had placed the matter in a slightly different light.
“By an extraordinary chance I’ve found a copy of my friend’s novel on one of the tables here — I see by the inscription79 that she has presented it to Gloriani. So if you’d like to glance at it —!” And the young Lord, in the pride of his association with the eminent thing, held it out to Berridge as artlessly as if it had been a striking natural specimen80 of some sort, a rosy81 round apple grown in his own orchard82, or an exceptional precious stone, to be admired for its weight and lustre83. Berridge accepted the offer mechanically — relieved at the prompt fading of his worst fear, yet feeling in himself a tell-tale facial blankness for the still absolutely anomalous84 character of his friend’s appeal. He was even tempted85 for a moment to lay the volume down without looking at it — only with some extemporised promise to borrow it of their host and take it home, to give himself to it at an easier moment. Then the very expression of his fellow-guests own countenance86 determined87 in him a different and a still more dreadful view; in fact an immediate4 collapse88 of the dream in which he had for the splendid previous space of time been living. The young Lord himself, in his radiant costly89 barbarism, figured far better than John Berridge could do the prepossessing shepherd, the beautiful mythological90 mortal “distinguished” by a goddess; for our hero now saw that his whole manner of dealing91 with his ridiculous tribute was marked exactly by the grand simplicity, the prehistoric92 good faith, as one might call it, of far-off romantic and “plastic” creatures, figures of exquisite93 Arcadian stamp, glorified94 rustics95 like those of the train of peasants in “A Winter’s Tale,” who thought nothing of such treasure-trove, on a Claude Lorrain sea-strand, as a royal infant wrapped in purple: something in that fabulous style of exhibition appearing exactly what his present demonstration96 might have been prompted by. “The Top of the Tree, by Amy Evans” — scarce credible97 words floating before Berridge after he had with an anguish61 of effort dropped his eyes on the importunate98 title-page — represented an object as alien to the careless grace of goddess-haunted Arcady as a washed-up “kodak” from a wrecked99 ship might have been to the appreciation100 of some islander of wholly unvisited seas. Nothing could have been more in the tone of an islander deplorably diverted from his native interests and dignities than the glibness101 with which John’s own child of nature went on. “It’s her pen-name, Amy Evans” — he couldn’t have said it otherwise had he been a blue-chinned penny-a-liner; yet marking it with a disconnectedness of intelligence that kept up all the poetry of his own situation and only crashed into that of other persons. The reference put the author of “The Heart of Gold” quite into his place, but left the speaker absolutely free of Arcady. “Thanks awfully” — Berridge somehow clutched at that, to keep everything from swimming. “Yes, I should like to look at it,” he managed, horribly grimacing102 now, he believed, to say; and there was in fact a strange short interlude after this in which he scarce knew what had become of any one or of anything; in which he only seemed to himself to stand alone in a desolate103 place where even its desolation didn’t save him from having to stare at the greyest of printed pages. Nothing here helped anything else, since the stamped greyness didn’t even in itself make it impossible his eyes should follow such sentences as: “The loveliness of the face, which was that of the glorious period in which Pheidias reigned104 supreme, and which owed its most exquisite note to that shell-like curl of the upper lip which always somehow recalls for us the smile with which windblown Astarte must have risen from the salt sea to which she owed her birth and her terrible moods; or it was too much for all the passionate105 woman in her, and she let herself go, over the flowering land that had been, but was no longer their love, with an effect of blighting106 desolation that might have proceeded from one of the more physical, though not more awful, convulsions of nature.”
He seemed to know later on that other and much more natural things had occurred; as that, for instance, with now at last a definite intermission of the rare music that for a long time past, save at the briefest intervals107, had kept all participants ostensibly attentive108 and motionless, and that in spite of its high quality and the supposed privilege of listening to it he had allowed himself not to catch a note of, there was a great rustling109 and shifting and vociferous110 drop to a lower plane, more marked still with the quick clearance111 of a way to supper and a lively dispersal of most of the guests. Hadn’t he made out, through the queer glare of appearances, though they yet somehow all came to him as confused and unreal, that the Princess was no longer there, wasn’t even only crowded out of his range by the immediate multiplication112 of her court, the obsequious113 court that the change of pitch had at once permitted to close round her; that Gloriani had offered her his arm, in a gallant114 official way, as to the greatest lady present, and that he was left with half a dozen persons more knowing than the others, who had promptly115 taken, singly or in couples, to a closer inspection116 of the fine small scattered117 treasures of the studio?
He himself stood there, rueful and stricken, nursing a silly red-bound book under his arm very much as if he might have been holding on tight to an upright stake, or to the nearest piece of furniture, during some impression of a sharp earthquake-shock or of an attack of dyspeptic dizziness; albeit118 indeed that he wasn’t conscious of this absurd, this instinctive119 nervous clutch till the thing that was to be more wonderful than any yet suddenly flared120 up for him — the sight of the Princess again on the threshold of the room, poised121 there an instant, in her exquisite grace, for recovery of some one or of something, and then, at recognition of him, coming straight to him across the empty place as if he alone, and nobody and nothing else, were what she incredibly wanted. She was there, she was radiantly at him, as if she had known and loved him for ten years — ten years during which, however, she had never quite been able, in spite of undiscouraged attempts, to cure him, as goddesses had to cure shepherds, of his mere mortal shyness.
“Ah no, not that one!” she said at once, with her divine familiarity; for she had in the flash of an eye “spotted” the particular literary production he seemed so very fondly to have possessed122 himself of and against which all the Amy Evans in her, as she would doubtless have put it, clearly wished on the spot to discriminate123. She pulled it away from him; he let it go; he scarce knew what was happening — only made out that she distinguished the right one, the one that should have been shown him, as blue or green or purple, and intimated that her other friend, her fellow-Olympian, as Berridge had thought of him from the first, really did too clumsily bungle124 matters, poor dear, with his officiousness over the red one! She went on really as if she had come for that, some such rectification125, some such eagerness of reunion with dear Mr. Berridge, some talk, after all the tiresome126 music, of questions really urgent; while, thanks to the supreme strangeness of it, the high tide of golden fable127 floated him afresh, and her pretext128 and her plea, the queerness of her offered motive129, melted away after the fashion of the enveloping130 clouds that do their office in epics131 and idylls. “You didn’t perhaps know I’m Amy Evans,” she smiled, “or even perhaps that I write in English — which I love, I assure you, as much as you can yourself do, and which gives one (doesn’t it? for who should know if not you?) the biggest of publics. I ‘just love’ — don’t they say? — your American millions; and all the more that they really take me for Amy Evans, as I’ve just wanted to be taken, to be loved too for myself, don’t you know? — that they haven’t seemed to try at all to ‘go behind’ (don’t you say?) my poor dear little nom de guerre. But it’s the new one, my last, ‘The Velvet132 Glove,’ that I should like you to judge me by — if such a corvee isn’t too horrible for you to think of; though I admit it’s a move straight in the romantic direction — since after all (for I might as well make a clean breast of it) it’s dear old discredited133 romance that I’m most in sympathy with. I’ll send you ‘The Velvet Glove’ to-morrow, if you can find half an hour for it; and then — and then —!” She paused as for the positive bright glory of her meaning.
It could only be so extraordinary, her meaning, whatever it was, that the need in him that would — whatever it was again! — meet it most absolutely formed the syllables134 on his lips as: “Will you be very, very kind to me?”
“Ah ‘kind,’ dear Mr. Berridge? ‘Kind,’” she splendidly laughed, “is nothing to what —!” But she pulled herself up again an instant. “Well, to what I want to be! Just see,” she said, “how I want to be!” It was exactly, he felt, what he couldn’t but see — in spite of books and publics and pen-names, in spite of the really “decadent” perversity135, recalling that of the most irresponsibly insolent43 of the old Romans and Byzantines, that could lead a creature so formed for living and breathing her Romance, and so committed, up to the eyes, to the constant fact of her personal immersion136 in it and genius for it, the dreadful amateurish137 dance of ungrammatically scribbling138 it, with editions and advertisements and reviews and royalties139 and every other futile140 item: since what was more of the deep essence of throbbing141 intercourse142 itself than this very act of her having broken away from people, in the other room, to whom he was as nought143, of her having, with her cr?￠nerie of audacity144 and indifference145, just turned her back on them all as soon as she had begun to miss him? What was more of it than her having forbidden them, by a sufficient curt146 ring of her own supremely147 silver tone, to attempt to check or criticise148 her freedom, than her having looked him up, at his distance, under all the noses he had put out of joint149, so as to let them think whatever they might — not of herself (much she troubled to care!) but of the new champion to be reckoned with, the invincible150 young lion of the day? What was more of it in short than her having perhaps even positively snubbed for him the great mystified Sculptor151 and the great bewildered Dramatist, treated to this queer experience for the first time of their lives?
It all came back again to the really great ease of really great ladies, and to the perfect facility of everything when once they were great enough. That might become the delicious thing to him, he more and more felt, as soon as it should be supremely attested152; it was ground he had ventured on, scenically154, representation-ally, in the artistic sphere, but without ever dreaming he should “realise” it thus in the social. Handsomely, gallantly155 just now, moreover, he didn’t so much as let it occur to him that the social experience would perhaps on some future occasion richly profit further scenic153 efforts; he only lost himself in the consciousness of all she invited him to believe. It took licence, this consciousness, the next moment, for a tremendous further throb, from what she had gone on to say to him in so many words — though indeed the words were nothing and it was all a matter but of the implication that glimmered156 through them: “Do you want very much your supper here?” And then while he felt himself glare, for charmed response, almost to the point of his tears rising with it: “Because if you don’t ——!”
“Because if I don’t —?” She had paused, not from the faintest shade of timidity, but clearly for the pleasure of making him press.
“Why shouldn’t we go together, letting me drive you home?”
“You’ll come home with me?” gasped158 John Berridge while the perspiration159 on his brow might have been the morning dew on a high lawn of Mount Ida.
“No — you had better come with me. That’s what I mean; but I certainly will come to you with pleasure some time if you’ll let me.”
She made no more than that of the most fatuous160 of freedoms, as he felt directly he had spoken that it might have seemed to her; and before he had even time to welcome the relief of not having then himself, for beastly contrition161, to make more of it, she had simply mentioned, with her affectionate ease, that she wanted to get away, that of the bores there she might easily, after a little, have too much, and that if he’d but say the word they’d nip straight out together by an independent door and be sure to find her motor in the court. What word he had found to say, he was afterward to reflect, must have little enough mattered; for he was to have kept, of what then occurred, but a single other impression, that of her great fragrant162 rustle beside him over the rest of the ample room and toward their nearest and friendliest resource, the door by which he had come in and which gave directly upon a staircase. This independent image was just that of the only other of his fellow-guests with whom he had been closely concerned; he had thought of him rather indeed, up to that moment, as the Princess’s fellow-Olympian — but a new momentary vision of him seemed now to qualify it.
The young Lord had reappeared within a minute on the threshold, that of the passage from the supper-room, lately crossed by the Princess herself, and Berridge felt him there, saw him there, wondered about him there, all, for the first minute, without so much as a straight look at him. He would have come to learn the reason of his friend’s extraordinary public demonstration — having more right to his curiosity, or his anxiety or whatever, than any one else; he would be taking in the remarkable163 appearances that thus completed it, and would perhaps be showing quite a different face for them, at the point they had reached, than any that would have hitherto consorted164 with the beautiful security of his own position. So much, on our own young man’s part, for this first flush of a presumption165 that he might have stirred the germs of ire in a celestial166 breast; so much for the moment during which nothing would have induced him to betray, to a possibly rueful member of an old aristocracy, a vulgar elation51 or a tickled167, unaccustomed glee. His inevitable168 second thought was, however, it has to be confessed, another matter, which took a different turn — for, frankly169, all the conscious conqueror170 in him, as Amy Evans would again have said, couldn’t forego a probably supreme consecration171. He treated himself to no prolonged reach of vision, but there was something he nevertheless fully74 measured for five seconds — the sharp truth of the fact, namely, of how the interested observer in the doorway172 must really have felt about him. Rather disconcertingly, hereupon, the sharp truth proved to be that the most amused, quite the most encouraging and the least invidious of smiles graced the young Lord’s handsome countenance — forming, in short, his final contribution to a display of high social candour unprecedented173 in our hero’s experience. No, he wasn’t jealous, didn’t do John Berridge the honour to be, to the extent of the least glimmer157 of a spark of it, but was so happy to see his immortal174 mistress do what she liked that he could positively beam at the odd circumstance of her almost lavishing175 public caresses176 on a gentleman not, after all, of negligible importance.
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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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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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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incision
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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ironic
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civic
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transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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afterward
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scrupled
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intensity
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grimaced
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boxers
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abode
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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enjoyment
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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noted
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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30
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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31
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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32
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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33
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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34
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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35
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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36
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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37
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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38
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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39
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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40
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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41
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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42
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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43
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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44
inordinately
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| adv.无度地，非常地 | |
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45
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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46
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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47
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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48
computing
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| n.计算 | |
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49
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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50
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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51
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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52
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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53
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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54
prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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55
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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56
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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57
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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58
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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59
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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60
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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61
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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62
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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63
wondrous
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|
| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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64
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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65
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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66
eventual
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| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
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67
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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68
petrified
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|
| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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69
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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70
imputable
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| adj.可归罪的，可归咎的，可归因的 | |
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71
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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72
preoccupied
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|
| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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73
platitudes
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|
| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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74
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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75
insinuating
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|
| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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76
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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77
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
animated
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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79
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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80
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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81
rosy
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|
| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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82
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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83
lustre
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|
| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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84
anomalous
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|
| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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85
tempted
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|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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86
countenance
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|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
determined
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|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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88
collapse
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|
| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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89
costly
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|
| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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90
mythological
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|
| adj.神话的 | |
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91
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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92
prehistoric
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|
| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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93
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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94
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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95
rustics
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|
| n.有农村或村民特色的( rustic的名词复数 )；粗野的；不雅的；用粗糙的木材或树枝制作的 | |
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96
demonstration
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|
| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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97
credible
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|
| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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98
importunate
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|
| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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99
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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100
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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101
glibness
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| n.花言巧语；口若悬河 | |
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102
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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103
desolate
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|
| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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104
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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105
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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106
blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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107
intervals
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|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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108
attentive
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|
| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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109
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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110
vociferous
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|
| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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111
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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112
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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113
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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114
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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115
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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116
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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117
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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118
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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119
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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120
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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121
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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122
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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123
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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124
bungle
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| v.搞糟；n.拙劣的工作 | |
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125
rectification
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| n. 改正, 改订, 矫正 | |
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126
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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127
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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128
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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129
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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130
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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131
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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132
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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133
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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134
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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135
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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136
immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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137
amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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138
scribbling
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|
| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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139
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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140
futile
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|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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141
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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142
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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143
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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144
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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145
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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146
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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147
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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148
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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149
joint
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|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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150
invincible
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|
| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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151
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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152
attested
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|
| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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153
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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154
scenically
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155
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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156
glimmered
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|
| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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158
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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159
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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161
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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162
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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163
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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165
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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166
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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168
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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169
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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170
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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172
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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174
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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175
lavishing
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的现在分词 ) | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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