The Archinards had not yet arrived when Odd reached Mrs. Melton’s apartment—one of the most magnificent in the houses that line the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne—and after greeting his hostess, he waited for half-an-hour in a condition of feverish5 restlessness, painfully apparent to himself, before he saw in the sparkling distance Katherine’s smooth dark head, the Captain’s correctly impassive good looks, and Hilda’s loveliness for once in a setting that displayed it. Peter thrilled with a delicious and ridiculous pride as, with a susceptibility as acute as a fond mother’s, he saw—felt, even—the stir, the ripple7 of inevitable8 conquest spread about her entry. The involuntary attention of a concourse of people certainly constitutes homage9, however unconscious of aim be the conqueror10. To Odd, the admiration11, like the scent12 of a bed of heliotrope13 in the turning of a garden path, seemed to fill the very air with sudden perfume. “Her dear little head,” “Her lovely little head,” he was saying to himself as he advanced to meet her. He naturally spoke14 first to Katherine, and received her condolences on his cold, which she feared, by his jaded15 and feverish air, he had not got rid of. Then, turning to Hilda—
“The white satin does,” he said, smiling down at her. Katherine did not depend on beauty, and need fear no comparison even beside her sister. She was talking with her usual quiet gayety to half-a-dozen people already.
“See that Hilda, in her embarras de choix, doesn’t become too much embarrassed,” she said to Peter. “Exercise for her a brotherly discretion16.”
The Captain was talking to Mrs. Melton—a pretty little woman with languid airs. She had lived for years in Paris, and considered herself there a most necessary element of careful conservatism. Her exclusiveness, which she took au grand serieux, highly amused Katherine. Katherine knew her world; it was wider than Mrs. Melton’s. She walked with a kindly17 ignoring of barriers, did not trouble herself at all how people arrived as long as they were there. She was as tolerant of a millionaire parvenu18 as might be a duchess with a political entourage to manipulate; and she found Mrs. Melton’s anxious social self-satisfaction humorous—a fact of which Mrs. Melton was unaware19, although she, like other people, thought Katherine subtly impressive. Mrs. Melton was rather dull too, and a few grievances20 whispered behind her fan in Katherine’s ear en passant—for subject, the unfortunate and eternal nouveau riche—made pleasant gravity difficult; but Katherine did not let Mrs. Melton know that she found her dull and funny.
Hilda for the moment was left alone with Odd, and he seized the opportunity for inscribing21 himself for five waltzes.
“I will be greedy. I wrest22 these from the hungry horde23 I see advancing, led by your father and Mrs. Melton.”
He had not claimed the first waltz, and watched her while she danced it—charmingly and happily as a girl should. She was beautiful, surprisingly beautiful. A loveliness in the carriage of the little head, with its heightened coils of hair, seemed new to Odd. No one else’s hair was done like that, nor grew so about the forehead. The white satin was a trifle too big for her. A lace sash held it loosely to her waist, and floated and curved with the curves of her long flowing skirt. His waltz came, and he would not let his wonder at the significance of his felicity carry him too far into conjecture24.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked, as they joined the eddy25 circling around Mrs. Melton’s ballroom26.
“So much; thanks to you.” Her parted lips smiled, half at him, half at the joy of dancing. “I had almost forgotten how delicious it was.”
“More delicious than the studio, isn’t it?”
“You shall not tempt27 me to disloyalty. How pretty, too! De la Touche could do it—all light and movement and color. I should like to come out of my demi-tints and have a try myself! What pretty blue shadows everywhere with the golden lights. See on the girls’ throats. There is the good of the studio! One sees lovely lights and shadows on ugly heads! Isn’t that worth while?”
Odd’s eyes involuntarily dropped to the blue shadow on Hilda’s throat.
“Everything you do is worth while—from painting to dancing. You dance very well.”
The white fragility of her neck and shoulders, in the generous display of which he recognized the gown’s quondam possessor, gave him a little pang28 of fear. She looked extremely delicate, and the youthfulness of cheek and lip pathetic. That wretched drudgery29! For, even through the happy candor30 of her eyes, he saw a deep fatigue31—the long fatigue of a weary monotony of days. But in neither eyes nor voice was there a tinge32 of the aloofness—the reserve that had formerly33 chilled him. To-night Hilda seemed near once more; almost the little friend of ten years ago.
“You dance well, too, Mr. Odd,” she said.
“I very seldom waltz.”
“In my honor then?”
“Solely in your honor. I haven’t waltzed five times in one evening with one young woman—for ages!”
“You haven’t waltzed five times with me yet. I may wear you out!”
“What an implied reflection on my forty years! Do I seem so old to you, Hilda?”
“No; I don’t think of you as old.”
“But I think of you as young, very young, deliciously young.”
“Deliciously?” she repeated. “That is a fallacy, I think. Youth is sad; doesn’t see things in value; everything is blacker or whiter than reality, so that one is disappointed or desperate all the time.”
“And you, Hilda?”
Her eyes swept his with a sweet, half-playful defiance34.
“Don’t be personal.”
“But you were. And, after the other day—your declaration of contentment.”
“Everything is comparative. I was generalizing. I hate people who talk about themselves,” Hilda added; “it’s the worst kind of immodesty. Material and mental braggarts are far more endurable than the people who go round telling about their souls.”
“Severe, rigid36 child!” Odd laughed, and, after a little pause, laughed again. “You are horribly reserved, Hilda.”
“Very sage37 when one has nothing to show. Silence covers such a multitude of sins. If one is consistently silent, people may even imagine that one isn’t dull,” said Hilda maliciously38.
“You are dull and silent, then?”
“I have few opinions; that is, perhaps, dulness.”
“It may be a very wide cleverness.”
“Yes; it may be. Now, Mr. Odd, the next waltz is yours too, you know. You have quite a cluster here. Let us sit out the next. I should like an ice.”
Odd fetched the ice and sat down beside her on a small sofa in a corner of the ballroom. Katherine passed, dancing; her dark eyes flashed upon them a glance that might have been one of amusement. Odd was conscious of a painful effort in his answering smile.
Hilda’s eyes, as she ate her ice, followed her sister with a fond contemplation.
“Isn’t that dress becoming to her? The shade of deepening, changing rose.”
“Your dress, too, Hilda, is lovely.”
“Do you notice dresses, care about them?”
“I think I do, sometimes; not in detail as a woman would, but in the blended effect of dress and wearer.”
“I love beautiful dresses. I think this dress is beautiful. Have you noticed the line it makes from breast to hem35, that long, unbroken line? I think that line the secret of elegance39. In some gowns one sees one has visions of crushed ribs40, don’t you think?”
Odd listened respectfully, his mouth twisted a little by that same smile that he still felt to be painful. “And is not this lace gathered around the shoulders pretty too?” Hilda turned to him for inspection41.
“You will talk about your clothes, but you will not talk about yourself, Hilda.” Odd had put on his eyeglasses and was obediently studying her gown.
“The lace is mamma’s. Poor mamma; I know she is lonely. It does seem hard to be left alone when other people are enjoying themselves. She has Meredith’s last novel, however. I began it with her. Mr. Odd, I am doing all the talking. You talk now.”
“About Meredith, your dress, or you?”
“About yourself, if you please.”
“It has seemed to me, Hilda, that you were even less interested in me than you were in yourself.”
Hilda looked round at him quickly, and he felt that his eyes held hers with a force which almost compelled her—
“No; I am very much interested in you.” Odd was silent, studying her face with much the same expression that he had studied her gown—the expression of painfully controlled emotion.
“There is nothing comparably interesting in me,” he said; “I have had my story, or at least I have missed my chance to have a story.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean that I might have made a mark in the world and didn’t.”
“And your books?”
“They are as negative as I am.”
“Yet they have helped me to live.” Hilda looked hard at him while she spoke, and a sudden color swept into her face; no confusion, but the emotion of impulsive42 resolution. Odd, however, turned white.
“Helped you to live, Hilda!” he almost stammered43; “my gropings!”
“You may call them gropings, but they led me. Perhaps you were like Virgil to Statius, in Dante. You know? You bore your light behind and lit my path!” She smiled, adding: “I suppose you think you have failed because you have reached no dogmatic absolute conclusion. But you yourself praise noble failure and scorn cheap success.”
“I didn’t even know you read my books.”
“I know your books very well; much better than I know you.”
“Don’t say that. I hope that any worth in me is in them.”
“One would have to survey your life as a whole to be sure of that. Perhaps you do even better than you write.”
“Ah, no, no; I can praise the books by that comparison.” His voice stumbled a little incoherently, and Hilda, rising, said with a smile—
“Shall we dance?”
In the terribly disquieting44 whirl of his thoughts, which shared the dance’s circling propensities45, Odd held fast to one fixed46 kernel47 of desire; he must hear from Hilda’s lips why she had refused Allan Hope.
An uneasy consciousness of Katherine crossed his mind once and again with a dull ache of self-reproach, all the more insistent48 from his realization49 that its cause was not so much the infidelity to Katherine as that Hilda would think him a sorry villain50.
Katherine seemed to be dancing and enjoying herself. She knew that his energy this evening was on Hilda’s account; he had claimed the responsibility for Hilda. Katherine would not consider herself neglected, of that Peter felt sure, relying, with perhaps a display of the dulness she had discovered in him, upon her confidence and common sense. Outwardly, at least, he would never betray that confidence; there was some rather dislocated consolation51 in that.
Hilda was a little breathless when he came to claim her for the second cluster of waltzes. It was near the end of the evening.
“I have been dancing steadily,” she announced, “and twice down to supper! Did you try any of the narrow little sandwiches? So good!”
“And you still don’t grudge52 me my waltzes?”
“I like yours best!” she said, smiling at him as she laid her hand on his shoulder. They took a few turns around the room and then Hilda owned that she was a little tired. They sat down again on the sofa.
“Hilda!” said Odd suddenly, “will you think me very rude if I ask you why you refused Allan Hope?”
Hilda turned a startled glance upon him.
“No; perhaps not,” she answered, though the voice was rather frigid53.
“You don’t think I have a right to ask, do you?”
“Well, the answer is so evident.”
“Is it?” Hilda had looked away at the dancers; she turned her head now half unwillingly54 and glanced at him, smiling.
“I would not have refused him if I had loved him, would I? You know that. It doesn’t seem quite fair, quite kind, to talk of, does it?”
“Not to me even? I have been interested in it for a long time. Katherine told me, and Mary.”
“I don’t know why they should have been so sure,” said Hilda, with some hardness of tone. “I never encouraged him. I avoided him.” She looked at Odd again. “But I am not angry with you; if any one has a right, you have.”
“Thanks; thanks, dear. You understand, you know my interest, my anxiety. It seemed so—happy for both. And you care for no one else?”
“No one else.” Hilda’s eyes rested on his with clear sincerity55.
“Don’t you ever intend to marry, Hilda?” Odd was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, and looking at the floor. There was certainly a tension in his voice, and he felt that Hilda was scanning him with some wonder.
“Does a refusal to take one person imply that? I have made no vows56.”
“I don’t see—“ Odd paused; “I don’t see why you shouldn’t care for Hope.”
“Are you going to plead his cause?” she asked lightly.
“Would it not be for your happiness?” Odd sat upright now, putting on his eyeglasses and looking at her with a certain air of resolution.
“I don’t love him.” Hilda returned the look sweetly and frankly57.
“What do you know of love, you child? Why not have given him a chance, put him on trial? Nothing wins a woman like wooing.”
“How didactic we are becoming. I am afraid I should really get to loathe58 poor Lord Allan if I had given him leave to woo me.”
“I suppose you think him too unindividual, too much of a pattern with other healthy and hearty59 young men. Don’t you know, foolish child, that a good man, a man who would love you as he would, make you the husband he would, is a rarity and very individual?”
Odd found a perverse60 pleasure in his own paternally61 admonishing62 attitude. Hilda’s lightly amused but touched look implied a confidence so charming that he found the attitude sublimely63 courageous64.
“I suppose so,” she said, and she added, “I haven’t one word to say against Lord Allan, except—“ She paused meditatively65.
“Except what?” Odd asked rather breathlessly.
“He doesn’t really need me.”
“Doesn’t need you! Why, the man is desperately66 in love with you!”
“He needs a wife, but he doesn’t need me.”
“You are subtle, Hilda.”
“I don’t think I am that.”
“You are waiting, then, for some one who can satisfy you as to his need of you?”
“I shall only marry that person.”
Hilda jumped up. “But I’m not waiting at all, you know. Dansons maintenant! Your task is nearly over!”
It was very late when Odd gave Hilda up to her last partner, and joined Katherine in a small antechamber, where she was sitting among flowers, talking to an appreciative67 Frenchman. This gentleman, with the ceremonious bow of his race, made away when Miss Archinard’s fiancé appeared, and Odd dropped into the vacated seat with a horrible sinking of the heart. The dull self-reproach was now acute, he felt meanly guilty. Katherine looked at him funnily—very good-humoredly.
“I didn’t know you had it in you to dance so well and so persistently68, Peter. You have done honor to Hilda’s ball.”
“I hope I wasn’t too selfishly monopolizing69.”
“Oh, you had a right to a certain monopoly since, owing to you only, she came,” and Katherine added, smiling still more good-humoredly, “I am not jealous, Peter.”
He turned to look at her. The words, the playful tone in which they were uttered, struck him like a blow. His guilty consciousness of his own feeling gave them a supreme70 nobility. She was not jealous. What a cur he would be if ever he gave her apparent cause for jealousy71. The cause was there; his task must be to keep it hidden.
“But suppose I am?” he said; “you haven’t given me a single dance.”
Katherine’s smile was placid72; she did not say that he had not asked for one. Indeed they had rarely danced together.
“I think of going to England in a day or two, Peter,” she observed. “The Devreuxs have asked me to spend a month with them.”
Peter sat very still.
“A sudden decision, Kathy?”
“No, not so sudden. Our tête-à-tête can’t be prolonged forever.”
“Until our wedding day, you mean? Well, the wedding day must be fixed before you go.”
“I yield. The first part of May.”
“Three months! Let it be April at least, Kathy.”
“No, I am for May.”
“It’s an unlucky month.”
“Oh, we can defy bad luck, can’t we?” Katherine smiled.
“If you go away, I shall,” said Odd, after a moment’s silence.
“Why, I thought you would stay here and look after mamma—and Hilda,” said Katherine slowly, and with a wondering thought for this revealment of poor Peter’s folly73. Peter then intended to heroically sacrifice his infidelity. That he should think she did not see it!
“I am not over this beastly cold yet. A trip through Provence would set me right. I should come back through Touraine just at the season of lilacs. I am afraid I should be useless here in Paris. I see so little of your mother—and Hilda. Arrange that Taylor shall go for her after her lessons.”
“I am afraid that mamma can’t spare Taylor.”
Peter moved impatiently.
“Katherine, may I give you some money? She would take it from you. Persuade her to give up that work. You could do it delicately.”
“As I have told you, you exaggerate my influence. She would suspect the donor74. She would not take the money.”
“I could speak to your father; lend him a sum.”
Katherine flushed.
“It would make him very angry with her if he knew. And the lessons are a fixed sum; only a steady income would be the equivalent.”
“Oh dear!” sighed Peter. He suddenly realized that of late he had talked of little else but Hilda in his conversations with Katherine.
“When do you go to London, dear?” he asked.
“The day after to-morrow.” Katherine, above the waving of her fan, smiled slightly at his change of tone. “Will you miss me, Peter?”
“All the more for being cross with you. It is very wrong of you to play truant75 like this.”
“It will be good for both of us.” Katherine’s voice was playful, and showed no trace of the bitterness she was feeling. “I might get tired of you, Peter, if I allowed myself no interludes. Absence is the best fuel to appreciation76. I shall come back realizing more fully6 than ever your perfection.”
“What a sage little person it is! Sarcastic77 as well! May I write to you very often?”
“As often as you feel like it; but don’t force feeling.”
“May I describe chateaux and churches? And will you read my descriptions if I do?”
“With pleasure—and profit. Let me know, too, how the book gets on. Can I do anything for you at the British Museum?”
It struck Katherine that the change in their relation which she now contemplated78 as very probably definite might well allow of a return to the first phase of their companionship. A letter from Allan Hope which she had received that morning, though satisfactory in many respects, was not quite so from an intellectual standpoint. An intellectual friendship with Peter Odd was a pleasant possession for any woman, and Katherine perhaps, with an excusable malice79, rather anticipated the time when Peter might have regrets, and find in that friendship the solace80 of certain disappointments from which Katherine had almost decided not to withhold81 him.
“I shall try to keep you profitably yoked82, then, even in London, shall I?” said Odd, in reply to an offer more generous than he could have divined. “Discipline is good for a rebellious83 spirit like yours. Don’t be frightened, Kathy. Go and look at the Elgin Marbles if you like. I shall set you no heavier task.”
“They are so profoundly melancholy84 in their cellared respectable abode85, poor dears! I know they would have preferred dropping to pieces under a Greek sky. A cruel kindness to preserve them in an insulting immortality86. The frieze87 especially, stretched round the ugly wall like a butterfly under a glass case!” Odd laughed with more light-heartedness than he had felt for some time. It rejoiced him to feel that he still found Katherine charming. There must certainly be safety in that affectionate admiration.
“I won’t even ask you to harrow your susceptibility by a look at the insulted frieze, then; you must know it well, to enter with such sympathy into its feelings. Only you must write, Katherine. I shall be lonely down there. A daily letter would be none too many.”
“I can’t quite see why you are exiling yourself. Of course, the weather here is nasty just now. I have noticed your cough all the evening. Come and say good-bye to-morrow. I shall be very busy, so fix your hour.”
“Our usual hour? In the morning?”
“You will not see Hilda then.”
“Hilda has had enough of me to-night, I am sure. You will kiss her au revoir for me.”
Odd felt a certain triumph.
Katherine’s departure could be taken as a merciful opportunity for makeshift flight. After a month or two of solitary88 wrestling and wandering, he might find that the dubiously89 directed forces of Providence90 were willing to help one who helped himself.
His mind fastened persistently on the details of the suddenly entertained idea of escape from the madness he felt closing round him. The disclosure of his passion for Hilda stared him in the face. And how face the truth? A man may fight a dishonoring weakness, but how fight the realization that a love founded on highest things, stirring highest emotions in him, had, for the first time, come into his life, and too late? A love as far removed from the wrecking91 passion of his youth as it was from the affectionate rationality of his feeling toward Katherine; and yet, because of that tie, drifted into from a lazy indifference92 and kindness for which he cursed himself, capable of bringing him to a more fearful shipwreck93.
Hilda’s selflessness was rather awful to the man who loved her, and gave her a power of clear perception that made sinking in her eyes more to be dreaded94 than any hurt to himself.
And Peter departed for the South without seeing her again.
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1
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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6
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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8
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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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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15
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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parvenu
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| n.暴发户，新贵 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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inscribing
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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41
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disquieting
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| adj.令人不安的，令人不平静的v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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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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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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admonishing
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| v.劝告( admonish的现在分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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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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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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monopolizing
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| v.垄断( monopolize的现在分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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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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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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wrecking
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| 破坏 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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