The four women who were neighbours on the Ridge1 were coming back from a meeting of the Vittoria Colonna Club, picking their way in gala attire2 over the puddles3 left by a shower, with the aid of the two parallel see-sawing boards that made the suburban4 sidewalk. Mrs. Stone, who had spoken, was tall and large-featured; she wore a startlingly wide, high-plumed hat that seemed to have no connection with her head, rearing into strange shapes with the wind that blew from the sea.
“Perhaps she’s glad to have him out of the house,” suggested the fair, prettily6 garbed7 little Mrs. Spicer, who talked very fast. “Not that he’s dissipated at all, I don’t mean that,[80] but I think he’s one of those horrid8 domineering men you’d hate to have around. I don’t believe he ever gives her a cent of money—he is always so well-dressed, but she hasn’t had a new thing since she came here a year ago. I’d like to see Ernest Spicer treat me that way!”
“Mrs. Ranney says she likes him to take a walk after dinner; that he’s used to it,” interpolated the handsome, brown-eyed Mrs. Laurence, with a characteristic lift of her white chin. “He often asks her to go with him.”
“Oh, yes, so she says!” Mrs. Stone made a clutch for her hat. “Of course she acts satisfied; you can’t tell anything by that. She’s a dear little woman, but I don’t believe there’s much to her; he’s a great deal above her as far as brains go, that’s evident. Keep over this side, Mrs. Spicer, that maple9 is just dripping. But there’s very little warmth or cordiality in Mrs. Ranney as far as I can see; she doesn’t respond as you’d think she would. I ran over the other day when she happened to be out and Ann let me see her preserve-closet. When I spoke5 to her the next day about the number of jars she had, she almost made me feel as if I had been intrusive10. Some people have that unvarying manner, always pleasant but nothing[81] more. It wears on me, I know, and I shouldn’t wonder if it did on Mr. Ranney; I think he feels a lack in her.”
“Oh, it’s such a great subject!” said little Mrs. Spicer with earnest volubility, “it’s such a great subject, that of being attractive to one’s husband. Miss Liftus spoke so feelingly about it the other day at the Club, she says that women are so engrossed11 in their own affairs that they neglect to adapt themselves to the husband’s life; she thinks intelligent co?peration in business matters should be the key-note. It’s a lovely idea; I know a woman who is in her husband’s office, and they enjoy it so much, but”—Mrs. Spicer paused wistfully—“it’s very hard to help a man when he’s in stocks, like Ernest Spicer; I can not seem to remember quite what it is when he’s on a margin12; I’ve had it explained to me so many times I am ashamed to ask him any more; I seem to understand it just for a minute, and then it goes. I don’t know what’s the reason, but Ernest never wants to talk about business with me.”
“Don’t you think husbands are very different?” asked Mrs. Budd with a slow distinctness, as if she were reading from a primer; her large, unwavering blue eyes pinned your butterfly attention fast in spite of involuntary writhings. “I know my husband[82] and Mr. Ranney are very different, they like such different things for breakfast. I am very particular about Mr. Budd’s meals, and he depends so much on his breakfast. He always begins on——”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” interrupted Mrs. Stone impatiently, she knew Mr. Budd’s ménu by heart. “You can adapt and adapt and they’ll never know it, but they do know when they’re comfortable. Nobody can say that Mr. Stone isn’t comfortable in his own house. When I see a man like Mr. Ranney leaving his home every evening you may be sure there’s a screw loose somewhere. That little woman is making a great mistake, but it’s the kind of thing you’d find it difficult to speak about.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t speak about it for the world!” cried Mrs. Laurence in horror. “As Mrs. Budd says very truly, people are so different.” Yet she found herself wondering afterwards. She was sure that the Ranneys were fond of each other in a way, though she wouldn’t have cared for the way. On what hinge hung Mr. Ranney’s neglect of his wife? A lack in her, as Mrs. Stone had said, selfishness on his part—coldness on hers? Mrs. Laurence herself didn’t need to discuss her attraction for Mr. Laurence—in their case it was something inherent, not an[83] accident of adjustment; it interpenetrated every condition of life. She had put a blue bow in her hair when she dressed, because she had a theory that a woman should look her nicest for her husband, but as a matter of fact she knew that Will thought her beautiful in anything she wore.
Mrs. Ranney always looked nice, there could be no two opinions on that. She was a slight, very young woman, with a heart-shaped, childish face, that wore an expression of gentle, matronly dignity, repelling13 to familiarity. She had serious, flower-blue eyes, and quantities of waving, chestnut-brown hair coiled back so tightly from a broad, low forehead that you hardly realized at first that when it was let down it formed a beautiful, shimmering14 cloak around her that nearly touched the floor. Her whole personality was intensely feminine. In any demand of the day her simple gowns became her, yet were never too fine for the work her busy fingers found to do, for Mrs. Ranney was a housewife and a sewer15 of garments; she even helped vegetables as well as flowers to grow with a quiet inborn16 capability17 that showed in whatever she undertook. She was known to be tender-hearted; the suffering of others seemed to hurt her very flesh. When that little bruiser, Herbert Ranney,[84] fell and bumped his head, Mrs. Ranney would fly white and breathless from the house, and clasp him to her breast in a wild effort to fight off this thing that was attacking her child. She couldn’t stand it that a child should suffer.
Yet she had, at unexpected moments, a roguish sense of humour that set her serious blue eyes dancing mischievously18; when she got laughing, as had happened, half inaudibly, so that she was helpless to stop herself, she was as provocatively19 charming as a lovely child. Her husband had been once heard to state that he had never expected to marry, having lived until the age of thirty-six contentedly20 a bachelor, but that when he met “that rascal21 there,” she bowled him over on the spot. It certainly was a fact that, though she was so hard to get acquainted with, every man admired Mrs. Ranney.
Women, as a rule, did not care much for Mr. Ranney, perhaps, because he used towards them a gallant22 deference23 so evidently given them as a sex that it piqued24 by ignoring any personal claim to his attention. In appearance he was large and heavily built, smooth-shaven, with fine intellectual features, and hair and brows of blue black; his square chin was almost aggressively assertive25. A[85] man of semi-nautical tastes, he had at times almost a quarter-deck manner alike to barking dogs, poaching cows and trivial or unauthorized approach from his fellows. With the men who were his friends he was reputed to be a charming companion, witty26, genial27, and whole-hearted; the wives took the fact on hearsay28, with some suspicion. Mrs. Laurence felt a distinct sense of resentment29 as, sitting on her piazza30 after dinner she saw him coming up the steps, natty31 and immaculate in his blue flannels32, pipe in hand—he was actually going to leave his wife alone on the eve of her departure. He doffed33 the peaked, gold-banded cap of his boating club.
“Good-evening, Mrs. Laurence. Is Laurence anywhere around?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, he’s never far off when I’m here,” returned Mrs. Laurence incautiously, with what she felt was almost too much meaning for politeness; she saw Mr. Ranney’s left eyebrow34 go up a little with quizzical effect; it made her feel hot. “Your wife leaves to-morrow, I believe. How is she to-night after all her packing?”
“Mrs. Ranney is quite well, I think,” said Mr. Ranney in a tone that in spite of its apparent politeness placed a wedge between himself and his personal affairs, though Mrs. Laurence still persevered35.
[86]
“You will miss her dreadfully after she goes.”
“Oh, Minda will look after me,” said Mr. Ranney coolly. Minda was a capable old coloured woman who worked for the neighbourhood. “Hello, Laurence!” His voice changed to one of good fellowship. “Want to walk down with me and take a look at Harker’s boat?”
“No, I think I’d better not,” said Mr. Laurence lingeringly, his long figure coming into view in the semi-darkness of the summer evening. He really did not care to go, “the boys” bored him; an uncut magazine, with his wife for audience had been pleasantly ahead of him after the work of the day; yet such is the power of attraction from man to man, so much greater than that from woman to woman, that he almost felt as if he wanted to be Ranney’s companion if Ranney wanted him. It was the Call of the Wild. Past experience warned him clear of those mistakenly jocular words, “my wife won’t let me”—he put his hand caressingly36 on the back of her chair as he said: “I don’t think I’ll leave Anna this evening, we’re finishing a serial37 together.”
“Oh, very well,” responded Mr. Ranney. He put on his cap as he went down the steps again, lit his pipe, and walked off with that[87] air of jaunty38 and masterful freedom that in its way was an offense39 to the marital40 traditions of the street; it subtly discredited41 his wife, it seemed to undermine the generous, dual42 obligations of a home. And to-night——
“Pig!” said Mrs. Laurence, with an indignation that hurled43 the adjective after him like a stone. “If you didn’t consider me any more than that, Will—— Wait a moment.” She ran impulsively44 over to the next house, quickly forestalling45 the invitation she saw on Mrs. Ranney’s lips, as the latter came to the door in her white gown, a book in her hand.
“No, I thank you, I can’t come in—Mr. Laurence is waiting for me at home. How tired you look! Won’t you come over and sit with us a while? We’d love so much to have you—and I’ll make some lemonade. We feel that we won’t see anything of you for so long.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Mrs. Ranney. She looked surprised. “You’re very kind, but I think I’ll stay here and rest, if you don’t mind; I thought I’d just read a little before I went to bed; you see I have everything packed, and we don’t go until after lunch to-morrow.” She seemed to cast around for something more to say. “I read a good deal in the evenings when Mr. Ranney is out; I haven’t any time during the day.”
[88]
“It takes a great deal of time to keep up with the magazines,” sympathized Mrs. Laurence.
“I don’t know much about the magazines—Mr. Ranney doesn’t care for them. I’ve been reading the Bible through this year, I always intended to when I had a chance,” said Mrs. Ranney simply. “I found it very interesting. Mr. Ranney thinks a good deal of Homer, too; I’ve just finished the ‘Odyssey.’ Won’t you come in?”
“No, no, I can’t,” returned Mrs. Laurence hastily. “Is that the ‘Iliad’ you have there?”
“No,” said Mrs. Ranney. Her eyes gleamed dancingly with sudden mischief46; she leaned forward with roguish defiance47. “I’ll tell you what this is—it’s the ‘Thompson Street Poker48 Club!’” She relapsed into one of her lovely, helpless fits of half-inaudible laughter in which Mrs. Laurence joined perforce, and the two women held on to each other for mutual49 support, in feminine fashion.
Mrs. Ranney went away the next day at one o’clock, trim and pretty in her blue travelling suit; the women who flocked to bid her good-bye were profuse50 in offers of caring for Mr. Ranney, but she only thanked them with gentle unresponsiveness, and said that Minda would look after him quite well.
[89]
It was strange what a difference her departure seemed to make at once in the aspect of the little house; a shadow had fallen over it, a visible grayness of desolation touched it, mistlike; the embowering vines drooped51 like the adjuncts of a cemetery52; there was a curious deadness about the very hang of the curtains, one could see from without, and the half-lowered shades. The very fact of the front doors being closed set the seal of strangeness upon it. A spirit, so vitally sweet, so informing that even inanimate objects reflected it, had departed and left only the cold and empty shell behind, not alone to the intimate heart, but to even the casual observer.
“Really, I hate to look over there,” confided53 Mrs. Spicer to Mrs. Stone. “Minda came into our kitchen a while ago, she said she could hardly stay in the place, she felt just as if Mrs. Ranney and the children were dead. I’m sorry she felt that way. I had the most peculiar54 feeling myself when I saw her go. Forebodings are so—— Well, of course, you don’t believe in them, but you don’t like them. I’ve just taken some of my nerve tonic55. I can hardly blame Mr. Ranney if he stays out till all hours now.”
The watching neighbourhood could hardly believe it when eight o’clock struck—half-past[90] eight—and no Mr. Ranney walked jauntily56 down the street, immaculately attired57, with his gold-banded yachting cap on the side of his head. He was known to have come home to his dinner, and afterwards the smoke of his pipe had risen from the verandah. Laurence, urged thereto by his wife, lounged finally up to the door-step to find Ranney sitting there in a disreputable pongee coat, with an old, gray felt basin on his head, smoking, with his shoulders hunched58 forward and his eyes fixed59 sombrely before him. He only nodded at Laurence’s greeting, and made room on the steps beside him.
“There’s a chair up there, if you want it.”
“No, this does well enough,” said Laurence. “How is the election going on?”
“The election?” Mr. Ranney’s eyes sought for a connecting clue. “Oh, yes, of course, the Club election. I don’t know how it’s getting on, I don’t care a hang how it goes. Did you see the weather report to-night, Laurence? They say there’s a storm brewing60 up the coast, where my wife’s gone. Those steamers are nothing but rotten old tubs; it’s only a question when they’ll go to Davy Jones if a storm hits them. The Peerless foundered61 three years back, you remember. When I think of that girl and her two babies out there to-night in that old[91] Patriot62, with nothing but a plank63 between them and the bottom—I tell you I’ll be glad to get a wire to-morrow night and know they’re all right. I’ve gone all to pieces thinking of it; lost my nerve completely.”
“Couldn’t they have gone by rail?” asked Mr. Laurence practically.
“Oh, yes, they could, but—they’d have to stop off on the way, and then—— Well, I wanted her to, but she thought it took too much money.”
“But if you insisted on her taking it?”
“Insisted on her taking it! Why, man alive, she has it all, that’s the trouble; I hand all the funds over to that rascal, else we’d never have a penny. Oh, there’s always plenty for me when I want it, but she won’t spend it on herself. I can’t make her. But I’ll get even with her some day, you see if I don’t. I’ll plunge64 her into extravagance. What’s that shutter65 slamming for? I tell you I don’t like the way the wind is rising. When I think of that girl and her two babies——”
“Why don’t you come over on our piazza and sit awhile?” suggested the visitor; to keep rolling over and over on a wheel of marital sympathy embarrassed him.
“No, I thank you, I rather think I’ll turn in early,” said Ranney, rising as the other[92] had done. Mr. Laurence hurried home to his wife, childishly eager to startle her with his piece of news. Ranney was going to bed at nine-of-the-clock.
“Well, I’m glad he’s missed her for one evening,” she retorted viciously. “It won’t last, though.”
But the next night when she happened to stroll over to the dividing fence in the half gloom, she discerned a figure sitting on the steps. He rose and came slowly forward, as she spoke, removing the old felt basin from his head perfunctorily.
“It looks very lonely over here without Mrs. Ranney and the children,” she said.
“Yes, it does,” answered Mr. Ranney. He knocked his pipe ruminatively66 on the top rail. “I didn’t realize before what a helpless being a man is without his wife; I never can remember where she keeps the clean towels.”
“I suppose she felt that she needed the change,” suggested Mrs. Laurence, a little stiffly.
“Oh, I persuaded her to go. She didn’t want to leave me, but a girl has to see her family sometimes; it’s only right.” He took a long breath. “It’s only right. When the letter came I said she ought to go, I said: ‘Jean, I can get along; your place this summer[93] is with your father and mother.’ She’s only been home once since I took her away—her family don’t like it very much. I had a hard time to get the scamp—regular stern-chase; but a man thinks a good bit more of a girl when he has to work to get her.”
“Yes, indeed,” responded Mrs. Laurence, though she didn’t think so at all—she adored the dear knowledge that she and Will had loved within five minutes by the watch. And to marry a woman and never care like this until she was gone! The thought gave her a shiver, as she confided later to her own husband, with her hand in his. Suppose Mr. Ranney’s appreciation67 of his little lonely wife had come too late?
Hereafter, night after night, the wondering Ridge beheld68 the deserted69 husband, disreputably attired, sitting upon his piazza steps or pacing up and down the narrow walk, keeping guard like a faithful dog who has been left to watch. Every evening, some man, urged thereto by his wife, strolled over to keep him company, though the rambling70 conversation always harked back to Mrs. Ranney through every masculine theme. The street grew to feel a distinct proprietorship71 that gave a sense of daily responsibility, and it grew even stronger, when, as time went on, he became gradually taciturn and[94] moody72, with a manner that said plainly that he preferred his own company to that of any friends, however well-meaning.
“Well, I’m glad Mrs. Ranney is coming home next week,” said Mrs. Spicer feelingly, as she and Mrs. Laurence stopped on a street corner in the village for a heart-to-heart talk. “I don’t know what would become of that poor man if she stayed away much longer. How much we will have to tell her!”
“Minda says he hardly eats a thing,” said Mrs. Laurence.
“He ate a little of the pudding I sent over last night. His devotion is really beautiful, but I don’t quite like his state of mind, it makes me anxious, and his appearance is so——” Mrs. Spicer paused uncomfortably. “I wish he’d shave! Ernest Spicer says he hates to be seen in the street with him.”
“Well, she’ll be home soon,” said Mrs. Laurence.
That was a fearsome night indeed, and one long to be remembered, the night before Mrs. Ranney was expected home. A wild September gale73 sent the deluge74 of rain aslant75 through the darkness, swirling76 it over lawns and among the trees into a river-torrent that carried all before it. It was a shrieking77 gale that tore up the houses with maniac78 fingers, wresting79 off shutters80 and chimney tops, dragging[95] down trees in its giant fury, howling and whining81 between the shrieks82 like a forest of spectral83 wolves rushing ever faster and faster upon their prey84. The rain beat in through window-casing and foundation, front doors flew open wide at the hand of the tempest. The steeple of the church came crashing down; the orphan85 asylum86 was unroofed; the affrighted fancy soared into realms of terror with the far-clanging sound of the fire-bell, caught and lost again amid the clamour of the storm.
No one slept on the Ridge that night; mothers sat by the bedside of their little children, fathers patrolled the house to see that timbers held, and the fire was kept low. There was not a household near the Ranneys’ in which some member had not said awesomely87 to another:
“And she is out on the ocean!” Imagination pictured the husband (as indeed Minda described him afterwards), walking up and down, up and down, up and down, with savage88, miserable89 eyes, all night long, desperately90 fighting with agonized91 thoughts.
But, with the first sullen92 rays of the morning light he was gone. The tempest had abated93 into a fog-filled, engulfing94 rain, that washed all the landscape into a dirty yellow. The street on the Ridge was flooded from end[96] to end, so that a canoe might paddle down it; but the women who lived on the same side of the way ventured with rain-coats and overshoes into each others’ houses to compare notes of the night, and to commune tearfully on the news of the morning papers. It was rumoured95 that the Patriot had foundered with all on board. “That girl with her two babies”—suppose she could never know. All that day men and women stood in line by the offices of the Nor-Coast Steamship96 Company, waiting, waiting, waiting for the word that meant life, or the losing of it. The “extras” with scare-lines about the Patriot with letters a foot long, were thrust before the eyes, or called in the ears of that waiting throng97 that thinned and fluctuated and filled up again. The extras even reached the Ridge. But at five o’clock Mr. Laurence brought home word that the Patriot’s passengers had been transferred from the sinking steamer to the ship of another line, and were expected in by seven.
It was something after ten when the travellers arrived in one of the station cabs. The dwellers98 in the different houses had been excitedly on the lookout99 ever since dinner, congregating100 in Mrs. Laurence’s drawing-room, the women overflowing101 with excited sentiment, and the men, excited too, discussing[97] the different aspects of the disaster. Minda had been overwhelmed with offers of help, and numberless dishes sent over to her for the refreshment102 of the wayfarers—jellies, creamed chicken, biscuit and layer cake, and many instructions given.
“Be sure and have the coffee just ready to put on,” Mrs. Stone had directed, in the very kitchen itself. “Mr. Ranney will feel the need of it as well as Mrs. Ranney after all the strain he has been through; and be sure and keep the two kettles boiling. I have sent for my rubber water-bags, as well as Mrs. Spicer’s, so that in case of chill or collapse103 we may have enough. One cannot tell what the effect of all that terrible exposure may have been. People have had their arms and legs frozen off in a shipwreck,” said Mrs. Stone, with a slight confusion as to the time of year.
The house was alight and welcoming as the carriage, its lamps leering mistily104 through the fog, lurched to a halt in the splashing flood by the curb105; half a dozen hands were reached out to carry the sleeping children, and the luggage, and help the travellers.
“Why, how kind of you all to be here!” said Mrs. Ranney’s sweet, low voice, in gentle surprise. She looked younger than one remembered as they all crowded into the little drawing-room; though her beautiful hair[98] was slightly dishevelled under her hat, and her face was pale, her brow was as serene106 as ever.
“Oh, we’re so glad to have you back again,” cried Mrs. Spicer, with hysterical107 inflection, embracing the newcomer. “I don’t know what Mr. Ranney would have done if you’d stayed away another day!”
“Oh, no trouble about me,” disclaimed108 Mr. Ranney loftily. He deposited a bundle of shawls in the centre of the room as he spoke and took them up again restlessly. “Where do you want these put, Jean?—I told Mrs. Ranney that I could have got along without her just as well as not for another two weeks, but she wanted to get home.”
“Yes, I thought I’d better,” assented109 Mrs. Ranney.
“You’ve been through so much,” said Mrs. Laurence pitifully. Her hand and Mrs. Ranney’s gripped, unseen. “To be in that storm on that sinking ship, with those two babies—I can’t begin to tell you how we’ve felt about it; how anxious——” her voice broke.
“Now, now, now, a little blow like that amounts to nothing,” said Mr. Ranney, with irritating contemptuousness. He had the offensive quarter-deck manner. “The passengers were transferred from one steamer to another simply for convenience in transportation.[99] There was not the slightest danger at any time; nothing in the world to be excited about!”
“No indeed,” corroborated110 Mrs. Ranney. She followed the group of women who hovered111 towards the kitchen a moment later, her large, flower-blue eyes bent112 earnestly upon them. “What is it you were just saying, Mrs. Spicer? No, I don’t think you’d better undress the children. I’ll just let them sleep as they are, after slipping off their shoes; they’re so tired. Mr. Ranney and Minda will carry them up-stairs. Please, Mrs. Stone, don’t get any coffee for us—it’s just as kind—I appreciate all the trouble you’ve taken, but we had dinner at the Astor House before we came out; we couldn’t eat a thing now. And would you mind not saying anything more about the voyage? My husband doesn’t like to talk about it. I think a good night’s rest is what we all need.”
“Well, it’s evident they’ve no more use for us,” said Mrs. Stone with a sigh of acquiescence113 as the sympathizers stood once more without the portals; the position was felt to be symbolic114, yet after the first bewildered drop from exaltation there was only a faint offense left. Mrs. Stone voiced the general sentiment as she continued:
“There’s one thing certain, Mr. Ranney[100] will never forget these last six weeks; I don’t care how he talks, he can’t keep his eyes off her face. He has found out what his wife is, at last.”
So deep was this feeling of certainty, that almost an electric, shuddering115 wave of horror passed over the Ridge the next evening when Mr. Ranney, natty and immaculate, his gold-banded yachting cap on the side of his head, pipe in hand, swung jauntily out of his front gate into the broad, white moonlight that lay along the street. Only Mrs. Laurence, from the contradictory116 evidence of her own deep love, had a sudden, sweet, half-smile-and-tearful divination117, that he hadn’t had the heart for freedom before, with his wife away. Her dear presence now was so pervasive118 that the whole town seemed like home to him because she was in it.
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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spoke
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| 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 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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provocatively
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contentedly
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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28
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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29
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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30
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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31
natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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32
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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33
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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35
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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37
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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38
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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39
offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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40
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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41
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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42
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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43
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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44
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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45
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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46
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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47
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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48
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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49
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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50
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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51
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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53
confided
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| 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） | |
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54
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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55
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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57
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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60
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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63
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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65
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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ruminatively
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| adv.沉思默想地，反复思考地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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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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69
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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71
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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72
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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73
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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74
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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75
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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76
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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77
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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78
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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79
wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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80
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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81
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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82
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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84
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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85
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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86
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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87
awesomely
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| 赫然 | |
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88
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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89
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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91
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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engulfing
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| adj.吞噬的v.吞没，包住( engulf的现在分词 ) | |
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95
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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96
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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97
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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98
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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99
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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100
congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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101
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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102
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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103
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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104
mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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105
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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106
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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107
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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108
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
corroborated
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的过去式 ) | |
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111
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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112
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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113
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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114
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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115
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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116
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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117
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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118
pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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