Peter Champneys was packing up for a summer's work on the coast when he received Vandervelde's letter, advising him that Mrs. Champneys had instituted proceedings1 to have her marriage annulled2. The attorney added that by this action on Anne's part the entire Champneys estate reverted3 to him, Peter Champneys, with the exception of fifty thousand dollars especially allotted4 to Anne by Chadwick Champneys's will. Vandervelde took it for granted there would be no opposition5 from Peter. He hoped his client would find it possible to visit America shortly, there being certain details he should see to in person.
Opposition? Peter's sensation was one of overwhelming relief. This was lifting from his spirit the weight of an intolerable burden: he felt profoundly grateful to that red-haired woman who had had the courage to take her fate in her own hands, forego great wealth, and sever6 a bond that threatened to become an iron yoke7. He couldn't but respect her for that; he determined8 that she shouldn't be too great a loser. He thought she should have half the estate, at the very least.
He had never had the commercial mind. He had never asked that the allowance settled upon him by his uncle should be increased. As his own earnings9 far outstripped10 his modest needs, that allowance had been used to allay11 those desperate cases of want always confronting the kindly12 in a great city. The Champneys estate back there in America had bulked rather negligently13 in his mind, obscured and darkened by the formidable figure of the wife who went with it. She had loomed15 so hugely in the foreground that other considerations had been eclipsed. And now this ogress, moved thereto God knew why, had of a sudden opened her hand and set him free!
That strenuous16 and struggling childhood of his, whose inner life and aspirations17 had been so secret and so isolated18, had taken the edge off his gregariousness19. He did not continuously feel the herd-necessity to rub shoulders with others. The creative mind is essentially20 isolated. Peter loved his fellows with a quiet, tolerant affection, but he remained as it were to himself, standing21 a little apart. His heart was like a deep, still, hidden pool, in which a few stars only have room to shine.
A successful man, he had been romantically adored by many idle women and angled for by many an interested one. At times he had lightly lent himself to those amiable22 French arrangements of good comradeship which end naturally and without bitterness, leaving both parties with a satisfied sense of having received very good measure. He had never been able to deceive himself that he loved. He had loved Denise, but there had been in his affection for her more of compassion23 than passion, as Denise herself had known. She remained in his memory like a perfume. That had been his one serious liaison24. But the woman he could really love with his fullest powers, and to whom he could give his best, had not yet appeared.
Mrs. Hemingway had been troubled by his celibacy25. She had persisted in her desire to have him marry young, his wife being some one of her girl friends. She wished to see Peter set up an establishment, which would presently center around a nursery full of adorable babies who would bring with them that tender and innocent happiness young children alone are able to confer. To dispel26 these pleasant day-dreams of hers, Peter had found it necessary to tell her of his American marriage.
Mrs. Hemingway was astonished, a little chagrined27, but not hopeless. He should bring his young wife to Paris. To make her understand that marriage as it really was, to explain his own attitude toward it, Peter made a swift and frightfully accurate little sketch29 of Nancy Simms as she had appeared to him that memorable30 morning.
His friend was appalled31. It took Peter some time to explain his uncle to Mrs. Hemingway. At the best, she thought, he had been insane. Not even the fact that Peter was co-heir to the Champneys fortune consoled her for what she considered a block to his happiness, a blight33 upon his life. The more she thought about that marriage, the more she disliked it; and as the time approached for Peter literally34 to sacrifice himself upon the altar, Mrs. Hemingway grew more and more perturbed35, though she wasn't so troubled about it as Emma Campbell was. Emma's terror of "dat gal36" had grown with the years. Neither of them ventured to question Peter, but Emma Campbell began to have frequent spells of "wrastlin' wid de sperit," and her long, lugubrious37 "speretuals" were dismal38 enough to set one's teeth on edge. She would howl piercingly:
"Befo' dis time anothuh yeah,
I ma-ay be gone,
Een some ole lone-some graveyahd,
O Lawd, ho-ow long?"
She had left the high Montmartre cottage and had come down to keep house for Peter, his being a very simple menage. Oddly, the denizens39 of the Quartier didn't faze her in the least. She chuckled41 over them, an old negro woman's sinful chuckle40. She made no slightest attempt to conquer the French language, which she didn't in the least admire. She learned the equivalents for a few phrases of her own,—"I hongry," "How much?" "Gimme dat," and "Mistuh Peter gone out," and on this slight foundation she managed to keep a fairly firm footing. The frequenters of Peter's studio were delighted with Emma Campbell; they recognized her artistic42 availability, and she and her black cat were borrowed liberally.
As a rule, she was willing to lend herself to art, and was a patient model, until one rash young man took it into his head, that he must have Emma Campbell as a favorite old attendant upon the Queen of Sheba he proposed to paint. He was a very earnest young German, that painter, speaking fairly good English. Emma had liked him more than most; but her faith received a blow from which it never recovered. That young man wished to paint her au naturel—her, Emma Campbell, who had been a member in good standing of the Young Sons and Daughters of Zion, the Children of Mary Magdalen, and the Burying Society of the Sons and Daughters of the Rising Star in the Bonds of Love! In the altogether! Emma Campbell gasped44 like a hooked fish. She made a nozzle of her mouth and protruded45 her eyes. She said ominously46:
"I bawn nekked, but I ain't had nuttin' to do wid dat. Dat de fust en de last time I show up wid mah rind out o' doors. I been livin' in clo'es evuh sence, en I 'speck47 to die in clo'es."
The artist, who wanted Emma in his picture, tried to make her understand. He reasoned with her manfully:
"Ach, silly nigger-woman! Clothes, clothes! What are clothes! See, now: you are the Queen of Sheba's old slave. Your large black feet and legs are bare, a glittering amulet48 swings between your withered50 breasts of an old African, you wear heavy bracelets51 and anklets, around your lean flanks is a little, thin striped apron52, and you hold in your hand the great fan of peacock feathers! Magnificent! You are the queen's old slave, imbecile!"
"Is I? Boy, is you evuh hear tell o' Mistuh Abe Linkum? Aftuh Gin'ral Sherman bun down de big house smack53 en smoove, en tote off all de cow en mule49 en hawg en t'ing, en dem Yankees tief all de fowl54, en we-all run lak rabbit, Mistuh Linkum done sen' word we 's free. En jus' lak Mistuh Linkum say, hit 's so; aftuh us git shet o' Gin'ral Sherman, we 's free. All dat time I been a-wearin' clo'es, en now you come en tarrygate me, sayin' I got to stan' up in de nekked rind en wave fedders 'cause I in slaveryment? You bes' ain't let Mistuh Peter Champneys hear you talkin' lak dat!"
The bewildered and baffled young man raved55 in three languages, but Emma Campbell flatly refused either to be in "slaveryment" or in the "nekked rind." Visions of herself being caught and painted bare-legged, with a trifling56 little dab14 of an apron tied around her waist even as one ties a bit of ribbon around the cat's neck, and of this scandal being ferreted out by the deacons, sisters, and brethren, of the Mount Zion Baptist Church in Riverton, South Carolina, haunted her and made her projeck darkly. When she ventured to voice her opinion to Mist' Peter, he clapped her on the back and grinned. Emma Campbell began to look with a jaundiced eye upon art and the votaries57 of art.
She was relieved when Peter decided58 to spend the summer on the coast; she was a coast woman herself, and she longed for the smell of the sea. And then, to add to her joy, had come this last, astonishing news: "dat gal" was going to divorce Mist' Peter! That incomprehensible marriage would be done away with, that grim, red-headed dragoness would go out of their lives! Emma's speretuals took a more hopeful trend; and Peter whistled while he worked.
He had written Vandervelde that he couldn't forego his summer's work, but would probably be in New York that autumn. In the meantime, let Vandervelde look after his interests as usual and see to it that Mrs. Champneys was more adequately and liberally provided for. He forgot to inquire as to the real value of his possessions. He did say to himself soberly:
"Jingo! This thing sounds like money—as if I were a mighty59 rich man! I'll have to do something about this!"
But he wasn't overly upset, or even very greatly interested. His real concern had never been money; it had been, like Rousseau's and Millet's, to make the manifestation60 of life his first thought, to make a man really breathe, a tree really vegitate.
And so he went to the coast, as happy as a school-boy on a holiday. The sea fascinated him, and the faces of the men who go down to the sea in ships. It was going to be the happiest and most fruitful summer he had known for years. He bade the Hemingways a gay farewell. Mrs. Hemingway, he noted61, looked at him speculatively62. Her matrimonial plans for him had revived.
He worked gloriously. He ate like a school-boy, and slept like one, dreamlessly. What was happening in the outside world didn't interest him; what he had to do was to catch a little of the immortal63 and yet shifting loveliness of the world and imprison64 it on a piece of canvas. He didn't get any of the newspapers. When he smoked at night with his friend the curé, a gentle, philosophic65 old priest who had known a generation of painter-folk and loved this painter with a fatherly affection, he heard passing bits of world gossip. The priest took several papers, and liked to talk over with his artist friend what he had read. It was the priest, pale and perturbed, who told him that war was upon the world. Peter didn't believe it. In his heart he thought that the fear of war with her great neighbor had become a monomania with the French.
"It will be a bad war, the worst war the world has ever known. We shall suffer frightfully: but in the end we shall win," said the curé, walking up and down before his cottage. He fingered his beads66 as he spoke67.
France began to mobilize. And then Peter Champneys realized that the French fear hadn't been so much a monomania as a foreknowledge. The thing stunned68 him. He wished to protest, to cry out against the monstrousness69 of what was happening. But his voice was a reed in a hurricane; he was a straw in a gigantic whirlpool. He felt his helplessness acutely.
He couldn't work any more; he couldn't sleep; he couldn't eat. There is a France that artists love more than they may ever love any woman. Peter Champneys knew that France. Nobody hated and loathed70 war more than he, born and raised in a land, and among a people, stripped and darkened by it. And that had been but a drop in the bucket, compared with what was now threatening France. He couldn't idly stand by and see that happen! He thought of all that France had given him, all that France meant to him. The faces of all those comrades of the Quartier rose before him; and gently, wistfully appealing, the sweet face of little lost Denise. He packed his paintings finished and unfinished, and went to tell his friend the curé farewell, bending his pagan knees to receive the old man's blessing71. The curé, too, was part of that which is the spirit of France.
They were enlisting72 in the Quartier. Peter was one of very many. When the preliminaries were passed and he had put on the uniform of a private soldier of the republic, he felt rather a fool. He wasn't in the least enthusiastic. There was a thing to be done, and he meant to help in its accomplishment73; but he wasn't going to shout over it or pretend that he liked doing it.
When he went to tell Mrs. Hemingway good-by, just before his regiment74 left, she put her arms around him and kissed him. She was going to stay in Paris, and Emma Campbell would stay in her house. Emma Campbell had been very silent. She had acute and very unpleasant recollections of one war. She didn't understand what this one was about, but she didn't like it. And when she saw Peter in uniform, saying good-by, going away to get himself killed, maybe, she broke into a whimper:
"Oh, Miss Maria! Oh, Miss Maria! Look at we-all chile! Oh, my Gawd, Miss Maria, we-all 's chile 's gwine to de war!"
Peter put his arm around her shoulder. His face twitched75. Emma said in a low voice: "I help Miss Maria wean 'im, en he bit me on de knuckles76 wid 'is fust toofs. Nevuh had no trouble wid 'im, 'cept to dust 'is britches wunst in a w'ile. Ah, Lawd! I sho did love dat chile! Use to rake chips for de wash-pot fire, en sit roun' en wait for ole Emma Campbell to fix 'is sweet 'taters for 'im. Me en Miss Maria's chile. En now he soldier en gwine to de war! Me en 'im far fum home, en he gwine to de war!" She threw her white apron over her head. Emma hated to have anybody see her cry.
So Peter Champneys went to the war, along with the other artists of France, and was made use of in many curious ways. Presently he was taken out of his squad77, and set at other work where the quick and sure eye, and deft78, trained hand, of the painter were needed.
He saw unbelievable, unimaginable things, things so unspeakable that his soul seemed to die within him. The word glory made him shudder79. There was a duty to do, and he did it to the best of his ability, without noise, without fear. Wherever he looked around him, other men were doing the same thing. Every now and then, after some particularly nightmarish experiences, he would be called out—he himself questioned why—and kissed on both cheeks, and a medal or so would be pinned upon him. He accepted it all politiely, apathetically80; it was all a part of the game. And the game itself seemed never-ending. It went on and on, and on.
It seemed to him that he wasn't Peter Champneys the artist any more, the lover of beauty, the man who was to rebuild the house of his forebears, and for whom a great fortune was waiting over there in America. He was just a soul in torment81, living his bit of hell, hating it with a cold impatience82, an incurable83 anger. One thing only kept him from losing all hope for mankind: at times he had piercing, blinding glimpses of the soul of plain men laid bare. With torment, a humanity larger even than his art was born in him.
At the end of the third year a sniper got him. He was wounded so badly that at first it was thought a leg would have to be amputated. But even in that hideous84 welter of the nations, Peter Champneys wasn't unknown. Overburdened and busy as they were, doctors and nurses fought for the life of the American artist. He came to to hear a poilu in his ward28 praising the saints that it was his hand and not the painter's that had gone, and another say philosophically85 that if one of two had to be blinded, he was glad M. Champneys's eyes had been saved.
"You will see for us, Monsieur," said he cheerfully. And in his heart Peter swore to himself that he would. He would see for the plain people, the common people of God.
As soon as he was able to be moved, the Hemingways and Emma Campbell came and took him home. Now, a spirit like his cannot see and hear and know such things as Peter had been experiencing for three years, without showing signs of the conflict. Peter had changed physically86 as well as spiritually. His face had paled to an ivory tone, the features had a cameo sharpness and purity of outline; cheeks and chin were covered with a heavy, jet-black beard,—as if his countenance87 were in morning for its lost boyishness. And out of this thin, quiet, black-haired, black-bearded face looked a pair of golden eyes of an almost intolerable clarity. Don Pedro Mrs. Hemingway called him laughingly, and El Conquistador. Secretly, she was immensely proud of him.
Peter didn't recuperate88 as quickly and completely as had been hoped. He was weary with an almost hopeless weariness, and Mrs. Hemingway, who watched him with the affection of an older sister, was worried about his condition. She didn't like his apathy89. He was as gentle, as considerate, and even more exquisitely90 sympathetic than of old. But in all things that concerned himself, he was quietly disinterested91. She and Hemingway had several long talks. Then Hemingway began to get busy. Presently he suggested, that it might be a very good idea if Peter should go over to America for a while, and look after those interests to which he hadn't given a thought since he had put on a uniform. After all, Hemingway reminded him, his uncle had placed considerable trust in him. It was only fair now that Chadwick Champneys's wishes should come in for at least a little attention, wasn't it?
Peter pondered this idea, and found it just. Besides, he wasn't unwilling92 to go back to America now that he didn't have to face that girl. He wondered, vaguely93, what had become of her. Had she found happiness for herself? He hoped so. Yes, he'd rather like to see New York again. He couldn't be of any further use here now, and he couldn't do his own work, for all inspiration seemed to have left him. He felt empty, arid94, useless.
He might just as well act upon Hemingway's suggestion, and find out how things were over there. And after he'd seen Vandervelde, he'd go down south and visit that tiny brown house on the cove43, and the River Swamp, and Neptune's old cabin, and the cemetery95 alongside the Riverton Road. It seemed to him that he smelled the warm, salt-water odors of the coast country again, saw the gray moss96 swaying in the river breeze, heard a mocking-bird break into sudden song. A homesick longing97 for Carolina came upon him. Oh, for the flat coast country, the marsh98 between blue water and blue sky, the swamp bays in flower, a Red Admiral fluttering above a thistle in a corner of an old worm-fence!
Emma Campbell discovered this homesick longing in herself, too. Emma was hideously99 afraid of the passage across, but she was willing to risk it, just to get "over home" once more. She thought of herself sitting in her place in Mount Zion Church, with ole Br'er Shadrach Timmons liftin' up de tune32, fat Sist' Mindy Sawyer fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan and swaying back and forth100 in time to the speretual, and busybody Deacon Williams rolling his eye to see that nobody took too long a swallow out of the communion cup he passed around. She thought of possum parties, with accompaniments of sweet 'taters and possum gravy101. Her lip trembled, tears rolled down her black cheeks. She had been living in the midst of air raids, her ears had been stunned with the roar of Big Bertha. Now she nevuh wanted to hear nuttin' louder dan bull-frawg in de river so long as she lived. She was sorry to leave Mrs. Hemingway, for whom she had acquired a great affection. And she had one real grief: Satan had gone to the heaven of black cats, so she couldn't take him back to Carolina. She wouldn't replace the dear, funny, cuddly102 beastie with a French cat. French cats were amiable animals, very nice in their way, but they weren't, they couldn't be, "we-all's folks" as the Carolina cat had been.
Hemingway arranged everything. And so one morning, Peter Champneys walking with a stick, and old Emma Campbell, stiffly erect103 and rustling104 in a black silk frock that Mrs. Hemingway had bought for her, turned their faces to America once more.
Vandervelde, who met them in response to Hemingway's cable, knew Emma Campbell at sight, but failed to recognize in the tall, distinguished105, very foreign-looking gentleman, the gangling106 Peter Champneys he had seen married to Nancy Simms. He kept staring at Peter, and the corners of his mouth curled more than usual. And he liked him, with the instantaneous liking107 of one large-natured man for another. Vandervelde had never approved of the annulment108 of the Champneys marriage, although Marcia did. Not even the fact that Anne was going to marry Berkeley Hayden, had been able to convince Vandervelde that the bringing to naught109 of Chadwick Champneys's plans could be right. And looking at Peter Champneys now, he was more than ever convinced that a mistake had been made. That little gutter-girl, Gracie, had been right about Peter Champneys; and Anne had been wrong.
Vandervelde asked, presently, if Peter wished to see the reporters. Once they scented110 him, they would be clamoring at his heels. And then Peter learned to his surprise and annoyance111 that he was something of a hero and very much of a celebrity112. His expression made Vandervelde chuckle. But, the attorney demanded, could a famous artist, a man who for distinguished and unusual service had been decorated by two governments, the heir to the Champneys millions, and one of the figures of a social romance, hope to hide his light under a bushel basket? Nothing doing! He was a figure of international importance, a lion whom the public wanted to hear roar.
Peter shuddered113. The thought of being interviewed by one of those New York super-reporters made him feel limp. Couldn't they understand he didn't want to talk? Didn't they understand that those who had really seen, those who knew, weren't doing any talking? Why,—they couldn't! As for himself, his nerves were rasped raw. Luckily, Vandervelde understood.
He asked Vandervelde a few perfunctory questions, and learned that things were very much all right. He signed certain papers presented to him. Then he asked abruptly114 if Mrs. Champneys had been as liberally provided for as she should have been, and learned that Mrs. Champneys had flatly refused to accept a penny more than the actual amount given her by Chadwick Champneys's will. Vandervelde added, after a moment, that he thought Mrs. Champneys intended to remarry. At that Peter looked somewhat surprised. He thought him a bold man who of his own free will ordained115 to marry Nancy Simms Champneys! He murmured, politely, that he hoped she would be happy, but failed to ask the name of his successor. What was Hecuba to him or he to Hecuba?
He was in Vandervelde's office, then, and the telephone began to ring. Three several times Vandervelde answered the questions where, when, how might the reporter at the other end of the wire get in touch with Mr. Peter Champneys. Had he really returned to New York? Been decorated several times, hadn't he? What was his latest picture? What were his present and future plans? Could Mr. Vandervelde give any information? In each case Mr. Vandervelde said he couldn't. He hung up the receiver and looked at the celebrity, who seemed gloomy.
The lawyer was a tower of strength. He started Emma Campbell, who didn't want to linger in New York, on her way to Riverton. Emma wanted to get home as fast as the fastest train could carry her. But Peter didn't want to go back to Riverton—yet. And then Vandervelde made a suggestion which rather pleased Peter. Why not go to a little place he knew, a quiet and very beautiful place on the Maine coast? Very few people knew of its existence. Vandervelde had stumbled upon it on a motor trip a few years before, and he was rather jealous of his discovery. The people were sturdy, independent Maine folk, the climate and scenery unsurpassed; Peter would be well looked after by the old lady to whom Vandervelde would recommend him. And to make perfectly116 sure that he'd be undisturbed, to drop more completely out of the world and find the rest he needed, why not call himself, say, Mr. Jones, or Mr. Smith, letting Peter Champneys the artist hide for a while behind that homely117 disguise? Vandervelde almost stammered118 in his eagerness. His eyes shone, his face flushed. He leaned across his desk, watching Peter with a curious intensity119.
Peter liked the idea of the Maine coast. Sea and forest, open spaces, quietude; plain folk going about their own business, letting him go about his. Long days to loaf through, in which to reorganize his existence in accordance with his newer values. Isolation120 was the balm his spirit craved121. Let him have that, let it help him to become his own man again, and he'd be ready to face life and work like a giant refreshed.
"You'll go?" Vandervelde's voice was studiously restrained; he had lowered his lids to hide the eagerness of his eyes.
"I think such a place as you describe is exactly what I need," said Peter.
"I'm quite sure it is. And the sooner you go, the better."
Peter got up and walked around the office. A typewriter was clacking monotonously122, the telephone bell was constantly ringing. Peter turned his head restlessly.
Vandervelde had made his suggestion at precisely123 the right moment. Peter felt grateful to him. Very nice man, Vandervelde. Kind as he could be, too! One liked and trusted him. Clever of him to have so instantly understood just what Peter most craved!
"I quite agree with you," said Peter. "I'll start to-night."
Vandervelde leaned back in his chair. His heart thumped124. He drew a deep breath, the corners of his mouth curling noticeably, and beamed at Peter Champneys through his glasses. He said aloud, cheerfully, "Well, why not?"
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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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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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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outstripped
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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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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negligently
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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isolated
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gregariousness
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| 集群性；簇聚性 | |
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essentially
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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compassion
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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31
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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32
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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33
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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34
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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35
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
gal
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| n.姑娘，少女 | |
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37
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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38
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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39
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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40
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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41
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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43
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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44
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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45
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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47
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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48
amulet
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| n.护身符 | |
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49
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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50
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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52
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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53
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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54
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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55
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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56
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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57
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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58
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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59
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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60
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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61
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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62
speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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63
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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64
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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65
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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66
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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67
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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68
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
monstrousness
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| 怪异 | |
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70
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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71
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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72
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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73
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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74
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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75
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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76
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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77
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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78
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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79
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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80
apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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81
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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82
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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83
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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84
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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85
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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86
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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87
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
recuperate
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| v.恢复 | |
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89
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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90
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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91
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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92
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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93
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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94
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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95
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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96
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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97
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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98
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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99
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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100
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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101
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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102
cuddly
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| adj.抱着很舒服的，可爱的 | |
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103
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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104
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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105
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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106
gangling
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| adj.瘦长得难看的 | |
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107
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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108
annulment
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| n.废除，取消，（法院对婚姻等）判决无效 | |
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109
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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110
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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111
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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112
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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113
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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114
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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115
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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116
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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117
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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118
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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119
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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120
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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121
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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122
monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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123
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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124
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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