She came face to face with beauty and art made a part of daily life. She thought she had never seen color, or flowers, or even a real sky, until now. An existence unimaginably rich, vistas4 that receded5 into an almost fabled6 past, opened and spread before her glamourously. The vividness of her impressions, her reaction to this new phase of experience, the whole-souled ardor8 with which she flung herself into the study of Italian, her eagerness to know more, her delight in the fine old house in which they had set up their household gods, amused and charmed Mrs. Vandervelde. She felt as if she were teaching and training an unspoiled, delighted, and delightful9 child, and contact with this fresh and eager spirit stimulated10 her own.
Many of her former school friends, girls belonging to fine Florentine families, some now noble matrons, mothers of families, one or two great conventual superioresses, still resided in the city, and these welcomed their beloved Marcia delightedly. There were, too, the American and English colonies, and a coterie11 of well-known artists. Marcia Vandervelde was a born hostess, a center around which the brightest and cleverest naturally revolved12. She changed the large, drafty rooms of the old palace into charming reflections of her own personality. A woman of wide sympathies and cultivated tastes, she delighted in the clever cosmopolitan13 society that gathered in her drawing-room; and it was in this opalescent14 social sea that she launched young Mrs. Champneys.
Mrs. Champneys was at first but a mild success, a sort of pale luminosity reflected from the more dominant15 Mrs. Vandervelde. But it so happened, that a gifted young Italian lost his heart at sight to her red hair and green eyes, and discovering that she had no heart of her own—at least, none for him—he wrote, in a sort of frenzy16 of inspiration, a very fine sonnet17 sequence narrating18 his hapless passion. The poet had been as extravagantly19 assertive20 as poets in love usually are, and the sonnets21 were really notable; so the young man was swept into a gust22 of fame; all Italy read his verse and sympathized with him. The object of a popular poet's romantic and unfortunate love is always the object of curiosity and interest, as Anne Champneys discovered to her surprise and annoyance23.
"He was such a little idiot!" she told Marcia Vandervelde, disgustedly. "Always sighing and rolling his eyes, and looking at one like a sick calf,—more than once I was tempted24 to catch him by the shoulders and shake him!"
"He's a poet, my child," said Mrs. Vandervelde, mischievously25, "and you're the lady in the case. It's been the making of him, and it hasn't done you any harm: you'll be a legend in your own lifetime."
Marcia was quite right. The poet's love clung to Anne like an intangible perfume, and a halo of romance encircled her red head. The Florentines discovered that she was beautiful; the English and Americans, cooler in judgment26, found her charming. And a noted27 German artist came along and declared that he had found in her his ideal Undine.
Mrs. Peter remained unchanged and unimpressed. She shrugged28 indifferent shoulders; she wasn't particularly interested in herself as the object of poetic29 adoration30.
She was, however, immensely interested in the beauty and romance of Florence. The street crowds, so vivacious31, so good-humored, the vivid Florentine faces, enchanted32 her. More astonishing than storied buildings, or even imperishable art, were the figures that moved across the red-and-gold background of the city's history,—figures like Dante, Lorenzo the Magnificent, and that great prior of San Marco whose "soul went out in fire." Curiously33 enough, it was Savonarola who made the most profound impression upon her. It seemed to her that the immortal34 monk35 still dominated Florence, and when she saw his old worn crucifix in his cell at San Marco, something awoke in her spirit,—a sense of religious values. Religion, then, was not a mere36 fixed37 convention, subscribed38 to as a sort of proof of conservatism and respectability; religion was really a fixed reality, an eternal power. She read everything that she could lay her hands on covering the history of Fra Girolamo. Then she bought a picture of his red Indian-like visage, and hung it up in her room. The titanic39 reformer remained, a shadowy but very deep power, in the background of her consciousness, and it was this long-dead preacher who taught her to pray. He won her profoundest reverence40 and faith, because he had been true, he had sealed his faith with his life; she felt that she could trust him. His honesty appealed to her own.
It was such curious phases as this of the girl's unfolding character, that made her a never-failing source of interest to Marcia Vandervelde. Under her superimposed, surface indifference42, Marcia reflected, Anne had a deep strain of pure unworldliness, vast possibilities. Give Anne an ideal, once arouse her enthusiasm, and she was capable of tossing aside the world for it. Marcia was vastly interested, too, in the serene43 detachment of the girl's attitude toward all those with whom she came in contact. One might evoke44 interest, sympathy, compassion45, even a quiet friendliness46, but her heart remained quiet, aloof47, secure from invasion. Handsome young men who fell in love with her—and there were several such—seemed unable to stir any emotion in her, except perhaps, an impatient resentment48. Marcia, of course, knew nothing of Glenn Mitchell. But Anne Champneys remembered him poignantly49. She had learned her lesson.
They had been some six or eight months in Florence when Mr. Berkeley Hayden put in his appearance, somewhat to Mrs. Vandervelde's surprise. She had not expected this! She studied her old friend speculatively50. H'm! She remembered the pale face of the young Italian poet whose sad sonnets all Italy was reading with delight. Then she looked at the red-headed source of those sonnets,—and she had no doubt as to the cause of Mr. Hayden's appearance in Florence at this time,—and wondered a bit. The situation gave a fillip to her imagination; it was piquant51. One wondered how it would end.
Peter Champneys? Marcia scented52 disruption, where that impalpable relationship was concerned. She was ignorant as to Anne's real feelings and intentions in regard to her absentee husband. Anne never mentioned him. She bore his name, she held herself rigidly53 aloof from all lovers; herein one saw her sole concessions54 to the tie binding55 her. Marcia didn't see how it was possible that the two should avoid hating each other; the mere fact that they had been arbitrarily forced upon each other by the imperious will of old Chadwick, would inevitably56 militate against any hope of future affection between them. And now here was Berkeley Hayden, quite as imperious as Chadwick Champneys had ever been, and who was quite as successful in getting what he wanted.
Anne had welcomed Mr. Hayden gladly. She was honestly delighted to see him. Florence had taught her, signally, the depths of her own lack of culture, and this biting knowledge increased her respect for Mr. Berkeley Hayden. Marcia was immensely clever, charmingly cultivated, a woman of the world in the best sense, but Anne's native shrewdness told her that Marcia's knowledge was not equal to Hayden's. His culture was surer and deeper. He was more than a mere amateur; he knew. He stood apart, in her mind, and just a little higher than anybody else. She turned to him eagerly, and there was established between them, almost unconsciously, the most potent57, perfect, and dangerous of all relationships, because it is the most beautiful and natural,—that, in which the man is the teacher and the woman the pupil.
Hayden saw her, too, to greater advantage, here under this Florentine sky, against the background of perhaps the most beautiful city in the world. She glowed, splendidly young and vivid. She did not laugh often, but when she did, it was like a peal41 of music; it came straight from her heart and went direct to yours. It was as catching58 as fire, as exhilarating as the chime of sleigh-bells on a frosty Thanksgiving morning, as clear and true as a redbird's whistle; and it had tucked away in it a funny, throaty chuckle59 so irresistibly60 infectious that suspicious old St. Anthony himself, would have joined in accord with it, had he heard its silver echo in his wilderness61. Berkeley Hayden's immortal soul stood on the tiptoe of ecstasy62 when Anne Champneys laughed.
She no longer thought of herself as Nancy Simms; she knew herself now as Anne Champneys, a newer and better personality dominating that old, unhappy, ignorant self. If at times the man glimpsed that other shadowy self of hers, it was part of her mysterious appeal, her enthralling63, baffling charm. It invested her with a shade of inscrutable, prescient sorrow, as of old unhappy far-off things. He hadn't the faintest idea of Nancy Simms, a creature utterly64 foreign to his experience. And because she did not love him, Anne Champneys never spoke65 of that old self, never confided66 in him. He did not know her as she had been, he only knew her as she was now. That, however, fully67 satisfied his critical taste. The marvel68 of her alabaster69 skin, fleckless and flawless, the glory of her glittering red hair, the sea-depths of her cool, gray-green eyes, the reserve of her expression, the virginal curve of her lip, enchanted him. He liked the tall, slender strength of her, the lightness of her step, her grace when she danced, her spirited pose when she rode. Here was the woman, the one woman, to bear his name, to be the mistress of his house. She was the only woman he had ever really wished to marry. And she was nominally70 married to Peter Champneys.
Hayden was honorable. Had hers been a real marriage, had she been a happy wife, he would have respected the tie that bound her, and gone his way. But the situation was exceptional. She wasn't really a wife at all, and like Mrs. Vandervelde, he could see in such a marriage nothing but a cause for mutual71 disgust and dislike. Well, then, if he loved her, and Peter Champneys didn't, he certainly was not working Peter Champneys any harm in winning away from him a wife he didn't want. Why should he stand aside and let her go, for such a shadow as that ceremony had been? The Champneys money? That meant nothing weighed in the balance with his desire. He could give her as much, and more, than she would forego. Mrs. Berkeley Hayden would eclipse Mrs. Peter Champneys.
Deliberately72, then, but delicately, after his fashion, Hayden set himself to win Anne Champneys. He felt that his passion for her gave him the right. He meant to make her happy. She could have her marriage annulled73. Then she would become Mrs. Berkeley Hayden. Even the fact that he really knew very little about her did not trouble him. He coveted74 her, and he meant to have her.
He read the young Italian's sonnets, which she had inspired, and they made him thoughtful. He could readily understand the depths of feeling such a woman could arouse. Had she no heart, as the Italian lamented75? He wondered. It came to him that she was, in truth, detached, sufficient to herself, an ungregarious creature moving solitarily76 in a mysterious world all her own. What did she think? What did she feel? He didn't know. He was allowed to see certain aspects of her intelligence, and her quickness of perception, the delicacy77 of her fancy, her childlike and morning freshness, and a pungently78 shrewd Americanism that flashed out at odd and unexpected moments, never failed to delight him. But her deeper thoughts, her real feelings, her heart, remained sealed and closed to him.
He saw half-pleasedly, half-jealously the interest she aroused in other men. Nothing but her almost unbelievable indifference held his jealousy79 in check. He reflected with satisfaction that she was on a friendlier footing with him than with any other man of her acquaintance, that she had a more instant welcome for him than for any other, and for which cause he was cordially hated by several otherwise amiable80 gentlemen. And then he waxed gloomy, remembering how emotionless, how impersonal81, that friendship really was. At times he laughed at himself wryly82, recalling the passionate83 friendship other women had lavished84 upon him, and how wearisome it had been to him, how he had wished to escape it. If but a modicum85 of that passion had been bestowed86 upon him by this girl, how changed the world would be for him!
And in the meantime Anne Champneys liked him serenely87, was grateful to him, aware that his intellect was as a key that was unlocking her own; welcomed him openly and was maddeningly respectful to him. This made him rage. What did she think he was, anyhow? An old professor, an antiquarian, an arch?ologist? She might as well consider him an antediluvian88 at once!
"Marcia," he said to Mrs. Vandervelde one evening, "I want you to tell me all you know about this Champneys business. Just exactly how does the affair stand?" Anne had been carried off by some American friends, the smart throng89 that had filled Mrs. Vandervelde's rooms had gone, and Hayden and his hostess had the big, softly lighted drawing-room to themselves. At his query90 Mrs. Vandervelde turned in her chair, shading her eyes with her hand the better to observe him.
"Why, you know as much as I do, Berkeley! You know how and why the marriage was contracted, and what hinges upon it," said she, cautiously.
He made an impatient gesture. "I want to know what she's going to do. Surely she isn't going to allow herself to be bound by that old lunatic's will, is she?"
"He wasn't an old lunatic; he was an old genius. Jason had an almost superstitious91 reverence for his judgment. Somehow, his plans always managed to come out all right,—in the end. Even when they seemed wild, they came out all right. They're still coming out all right."
"And you think this insane marriage is likely to come out all right in the end, too?" he asked sharply.
"I don't know. Stranger things have happened. Why shouldn't this?"
"Why should it? That fellow Champneys—"
"Is said to be a great painter. At least, he is certainly a very successful one. Whether or not he can make good as Anne Champneys's husband remains92 to be seen." Mrs. Vandervelde was not above the innate93 feminine cattiness. Hayden rose abruptly94 and began to pace the room. He was vaguely95 aware that he had been astrally scratched across the nose.
"And you think a girl like Anne will be willing to play patient Griselda?" he asked, scornfully.
"I don't know. You think she shouldn't?"
"I think she shouldn't. I tell you frankly96 he doesn't deserve it."
"Oh, as for that!" said Mrs. Vandervelde, airily.
Hayden paused in his restless walk, and looked at her earnestly.
"Berkeley," said she, changing her light tone, "am I to understand that you are—really in earnest?"
"I am so much in earnest," he replied, deliberately, "that I do not mind telling you, Marcia, that I want this girl. More, I mean to have her, if I can make her care for me."
She considered this carefully. He had never known what it meant to have his wishes thwarted97, and now he would move heaven and earth to win Anne Champneys. Well, but!—She liked Hayden, and she didn't think, all things considered, that Anne Champneys could do better, if she wished to have her marriage to Peter annulled, than to marry Berkeley. But how would Jason consider such a move? Jason had been greatly attached to old Mr. Champneys. Indeed, his connection with that astute98 old wizard had just about doubled their income. Jason wouldn't be likely to look with friendly eyes upon this bringing to naught99, what he knew had been Champneys's fondest scheme. She said, after a pause:
"Does Anne know?"
"Who knows what Anne knows? But on the face of it, I should say she doesn't. At least, she doesn't appear to. I have been very—circumspect," said he, moodily100. And he added angrily: "She seems to regard me as a sort of cicerone, a perambulating, vocal101 Baedeker!"
Mrs. Vandervelde smiled openly. "It is your surest hold upon her. I shouldn't cavil102 at it, if I were you. To Anne you are the sum total of human knowledge. Your dictum is the last word to be said about anything."
But Berkeley still looked sulky. The idea of being what Sydney Smith said Macaulay was—a book in breeches—didn't appeal to him at all.
"What would you advise me to do?" he asked, after a pause.
She said reflectively: "Let her alone for a while, Berkeley. If her liking103 for you grows naturally into affection,—and it may, you know,—that would be best. If you try to force it, you may drive her from you altogether. I tell you frankly, she is not in the least interested in any man as a lover, so far as I can judge."
He was forced to admit the truth of this. She wasn't. She seemed to dislike any faintest sign of loverliness from any man toward her. Hayden had observed her icy attitude toward the painter who had fancied he found in her his ideal Undine, and who showed too openly his desire to help her gain a soul for herself. The idea that she might look at him as she had looked at the painter was highly unpleasant to him. He asked again:
"But what am I to do?"
"Nothing," said Mrs. Vandervelde, succinctly104.
"But suppose she falls in love with somebody else."
"She is more likely to fall in love with you, I should imagine, if you keep quiet for a while and allow her to do so. Just remain her guide, philosopher, and friend, can't you?"
The clever, cosmopolitan Mr. Berkeley Hayden tugged105 at his short mustache and looked astonishingly like a sulky school-boy.
"Well, if you think that's the best thing I can do—" he began.
"I know it is," said she. And she reflected that even the cleverest man, when he is really in love, is something of a fool.
Here Anne herself came in and the three dined together, a statuesque maid in a yellow bodice and a purple skirt waiting on them. Agata's "Si?" was like a flute-note, and the two women loved to see her moving about their rooms. It was like having Hebe wait on them.
Anne turned to Hayden eagerly. She wished his opinion of a piece of tapestry106 an antiquarian in the Via Ricasoli wished to sell her. Would he go and look at it with her? And there was an old lamp she fancied but of the genuineness of which she wasn't sure. And she added, dropping her voice, that she'd gotten a copy of one of Fra Girolamo Savonarola's sermons, beautifully done on vellum, evidently by some loving monkish107 follower108 of his. Didn't he want to see it? She looked at him eagerly. Mrs. Vandervelde, catching his eye, smiled.
Hayden played his part beautifully, concealing109 the tumult110 of his feelings under the polished surface of the serene manner that Anne so greatly admired. He made himself indispensable; he gave her his best, unstintedly, and Hayden at his best was inimitable. Marcia Vandervelde regarded him with new respect and admiration111. Berkeley was really wonderful!
When he took his departure, Anne Champneys felt that the glamour7 of Florence had departed with him. It was as if the sunshine had been withdrawn112, along with that polished presence, that gem-like mind. She missed him to an extent that astonished her. She thought that even Giotto's Campanile looked bleak113, the day Berkeley Hayden left.
"I'm going to miss you hideously," she told him truthfully.
"I hope so," he said guardedly. He did not wish to show too plainly how overjoyed he was at that admission. "And I'm going to hope you'll find me necessary in New York. I'm looking forward to seeing you in New York, you know. I have two new pictures I want you to see."
Her face brightened. "Your being there will make me glad to go back to New York," she said happily. And Hayden had to resist a wild impulse to shout, to catch her in his arms. He went away with hope in his heart.
But Mrs. Vandervelde, watching her closely, thought she was too open in her regret. N-no, Anne wasn't in love with Hayden—yet. She picked up her studies, to which he had given impetus114, with too hearty115 a zest116. And when he wrote her amusing, witty117, delightful letters, she was too willing to have Marcia read them.
They remained in Italy six months or so more; and then one day Anne returned from a picnic, and said to Marcia abruptly:
"Would you mind if I asked you to leave Florence,—if I should want to go home?"
Marcia said quietly: "No. If you wish to go, we will go. Are you tired of Italy?"
Anne Champneys looked at her with wide eyes. For a moment she hesitated, then ran to Marcia, and clung to her with her head against her friend's shoulder.
"You're so good to me—and I care so much for you,—I'll tell you the truth," she said in a whisper. "I—I heard something to-day, Marcia,—he's coming to Rome—soon. And of course he'll come here, too."
"He?—Who?"
"Peter Champneys," said Peter's wife, and literally118 shook in her shoes. Her clasp tightened119. Marcia put her arms around her, and felt, to her surprise, that Anne was frightened.
"You are sure?"
"Yes. I heard it accidentally, but I am sure. You know how pretty the Arno is at the spot where we picnicked. We strolled about, and I—didn't want to talk to anybody, so I slipped away by myself. There were a couple of English artists painting near by, and just as I came up I overheard what they were saying. Marcia,—they were talking about—him. They said he'd been called to Rome to paint somebody's picture,—the pope's, maybe,—and they'd probably see him here, later. They seemed to be—friends of his, from the way they spoke." She shivered. "Italy isn't big enough to hold us two!" she said, desperately120. "Marcia, I can't—run the risk of meeting Peter Champneys. Not until I have to. I—I've got to get away!" Her voice broke.
"All right, dear. We'll go," said Marcia, soothingly121. "Jason's about finished his work in Brazil, and he'll be back in New York by this. Do you want to go directly home?"
"Yes," said Anne Champneys. "Italy's a very little place compared with America. Let's go back to America, Marcia."
Mrs. Vandervelde stroked the red head. It seemed to her that fate was playing into Mr. Berkeley Hayden's hands.
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1
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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assertive
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| adj.果断的，自信的，有冲劲的 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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annoyance
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tempted
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mischievously
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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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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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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45
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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46
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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48
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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49
poignantly
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speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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51
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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52
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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53
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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54
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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55
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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58
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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59
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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61
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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62
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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63
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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65
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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66
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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
solitarily
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| adv.独自一人地，寂寞地 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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pungently
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| adv.苦痛地，尖锐地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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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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84
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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86
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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88
antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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89
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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92
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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98
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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99
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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102
cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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103
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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104
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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105
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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107
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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108
follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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109
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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110
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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111
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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112
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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113
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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114
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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115
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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116
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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117
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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118
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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119
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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120
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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121
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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