It is quite simple, after all. We have only to go back a year to get to the bottom of the matter. Miss Fairweather and Mr. Flanders were fellow lodgers6 in a boarding-house not far removed from Times Square. She was playing a small part in one of the Broadway theatres and was known on the programme as Amy Colgate, the customary sop7 to "family feelings" causing her to abandon her own name during the neophytic period of her career. This was a temporary concession8, however; she intended to make the family name famous as soon as she got a "part" that would give her a real chance. Flanders was on the newspaper, but his aspirations9 were quite as lofty as any one's: he was writing a play. He had already written two novels, both of which remained unpublished.
At the outset, his play was intended for Miss Barrymore, but after the second week of his acquaintance with the attractive Miss Colgate his ambitions proved fickle10: he discarded Miss Barrymore and substituted Miss Colgate for the star part in the piece. Fortunately he had written but six or eight pages of the first act, so the transfer was not a deleterious undertaking11. He could see no one else in the part; he could think of no one else as he dreamed of the play's success. Moreover, Miss Colgate was as pleased as Punch over this flattering tribute to her magnetism—for the part, as described, was one that would not "get over" unless created by an actress of pronounced magnetic appeal—and lost no time in falling deeply in love with the manly12 playwright13. They were serious-minded, ambitious young people. It is of small consequence that he was an untried, unskilled dramatist, and of equally small moment that she was little more than an amateur. They saw a bright light ahead and trudged14 steadily15 toward it, prodding16 themselves—and each other—with all the vain-glorious artifices17 known to and employed by the young and undefeated. The young man's dramatic aspirations were somewhat retarded18, however, by the fact that he was so desperately19 enamoured that he couldn't confine his thoughts to the play; so the growth of the first act was slow and tortuous20. Under other conditions he would have despaired of ever completing the thing. As it was, his despair was of an entirely21 different character and had to do with the belief that Miss Colgate loved some one else instead of him.
But even doubt and uncertainty22 possess virtue23 in that they often lead to rashness, sometimes folly24. In this case, Mr. Flanders proposed marriage, albeit25 he couldn't, for the life of him, see how he was going to manage on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. That was the rashness of it. Miss Colgate attended to the folly. She said she would marry him if it meant starvation. So there you are.
After that, ambition revived and worked smoothly26, rapidly. In the middle of the second act, however, the play failed—that is to say, the play in which Miss Colgate was appearing on Broadway. (It failed in the middle of Mr. Flanders' second act, lest I appear ambiguous.) The young actress found herself out of employment and without much prospect27 of getting an engagement at that season of the year—a bad year it was, too, if you will remember what theatrical28 people had to say about it. Now, she was not obliged to work for a living. She could have gone back to her family in Connecticut. But she was not made of that sort of stuff. She could have gone back home and married the most desirable young or old man in the town. She could have given up the stage and devoted29 herself to the teaching of music, French or wood-carving, in which pursuits she was far less of an amateur than at play-acting. But she was a valiant30, undaunted little warrior31. She announced that she was ready to do anything that offered, even chorus-work.
And one evening she told him that she had found a place in the chorus of a "road show." She tried to hide her mortification32 under a somewhat quivering jauntiness33, but Mr. Flanders went rudely to the bottom of the matter. She argued that she could change her name and no one would be the wiser. She would positively34 refuse to appear in tights. Then came the episode. Mr. Flanders flew into a scornful rage. He said a great many things that he was afterwards ashamed to recall. Among other things, he said he'd be hanged if he'd marry a chorus-girl; as for tights, she wouldn't have any choice in the matter, once the manager set his mind to it. She had not been in love with him long enough to submit to bullying35, so she sent him about his business. Moreover, she coldly informed him that their engagement was over and that she never wanted to see his face again.
Inasmuch as it would be quite impossible to remain in the same boarding-house without seeing his face once in a while, she moved out the very next day.
The "road" was not what she had expected, nor was the life of a chorus-girl as simple as it had seemed from her virtuous36 point of view. Before the first two weeks were over, she deserted37 the company, disillusioned38, mortified39. It HAD come to a matter of tights.
She returned to New York and bravely resumed her visits to managerial offices and to the lairs40 of agents, in quest of an engagement not quite so incompatible41 with her sense of delicacy42 and refinement43 as the one she had just abandoned. But there was nothing to be had. More than once she was tempted44 to write to Flanders, begging him to forgive her and to forget, if he could, the silly mistake she had made. But love and loneliness were no match for the pride that was a part of her nature. She resolutely45 put away the temptation to do the perfectly sensible thing, and, woman-like, fortified47 herself against surrender by running away from danger.
She had heard of the Bingles through a woman playwright who wanted to dramatize the Bingle enterprise. Nothing, said this enthusiastic person, could be more adorable than a play based on the Bingle methods of acquiring a family.
One day, in Central Park, she saw Mr. Bingle and seven of the children. He looked happy but inadequate48. A grinning park policeman enlightened her as to the identity of the bewildered little man. A single glance was all that was necessary to convince her that Mr. Bingle was having his hands full.
He had lost all control of the little ruffians. (The park policeman was the first to call them ruffians, so I may be pardoned.) They insisted on playing games that Mr. Bingle couldn't play, and he was beginning to look worried. Time and again he tried to herd49 them into the big station 'bus in which he had brought them over from Seafood50 (the Bingle estate), and always with so little success that he was getting hot and tired—and farther away from the conveyance51 all the time. Still he smiled cheerfully and gave no sign of losing his temper.
They were frolicking in the neighbourhood of the lake at the north end of the park, and Miss Colgate was sitting on one of the benches not far removed from the scene of activity. She began to feel sorry for the little foster-father. He was having a time of it! The first thing he knew, one of the little insurgents52 would tumble into the lake and—well, she couldn't imagine anything more droll53 than Mr. Bingle venturing into the water as a rescuer. At last, moved by an impulse that afterwards took its place as the psychic54 capstone in her career, she arose and resolutely went to his relief. He was panting and perspiring55, for the spring day was warm.
"May I help you to gather them up?" she inquired.
Now, Mr. Bingle was not accustomed to seeing girls as pretty as the one who accosted56 him so amiably57. At first, he said no, he was very much obliged, he guessed he could manage 'em, thank you. He wasn't quite sure that it was right for him to "take up" with a strange and beautiful young woman in a public park. One never could tell about these well-dressed women who sit on park benches, and yet appear to be perfectly free from tuberculosis58. But Miss Colgate insisted, and Mr. Bingle, taking a second look at her, said he would be grateful if she'd stay and watch the littlest ones while he rounded up the big ones. She shook her head, smiling, and gently ordered him to sit down and cool off a bit while she gathered in the recalcitrants.
"You look so hot and tired," she said, and her smile was so frankly59 sympathetic, so commanding in its sweetness, that Mr. Bingle promptly60 sat down and said that it beat all how hot the weather was for early May. Perhaps they WOULD come for her, he went on shyly; if she didn't mind calling Frederick, that would be sufficient. Frederick was the rebel leader. He ought to be spanked61. She smiled again, and Mr. Bingle said to himself that he'd never seen anything so nice. As she walked away, bent62 on rounding-up the three boys and Kathleen, he was impressed by the slim, graceful63 figure and the manner in which she carried herself. Nothing ordinary or common about THAT girl, said he; nothing bold or immodest. Out of the goodness of her heart she had proffered64 assistance, as any gently born person would have done. His heart warmed toward her. It wasn't often that one encountered a pretty girl who was considerate, sweet-natured and polite to her elders, especially in New York City. He almost forgot Henrietta and Guinevere in his contemplation of this extraordinary phenomenon. Indeed, Henrietta's blubberings went quite unnoticed for some little time, and it was not until Guinevere sent up a sympathetic howl that he remembered the "littlest ones" and hastily took them upon his knees, dropping his hat in his haste.
He was considerably65 amazed by the swiftness with which his ally "rounded-up" the five roisterers. She went about it sweetly, even gaily66, yet with a certain authority that had an instant effect on the youngsters. Almost before he knew what had happened, she was approaching him with the flushed, mischievous67 "kiddies" in tow. They were staring at the strange, beautiful young lady with wide-open, fascinated eyes. They were abashed68, puzzled; meek69 with wonder. When she extended her hands to Kathleen and Marie Louise, they came to her shyly and then, without so much as a glance at the three boys, she calmly led them back to the marvelling70 little millionaire. It was a crafty71 way of bringing the boys, to time. Their curiosity, cupidity72, envy—what you will—brought them scurrying73 up to the group, and not a face was missing from the ranks when she stopped before Mr. Bingle and said:
"And now that we have them, bound hand and foot, what are we to do with them? Put them in a dungeon74 and feed them on bread and water?"
"I don't see how you did it," said Mr. Bingle. "It was really quite wonderful. Perhaps it was because you are so very pretty. I think, if you don't object, I'll put 'em in the 'bus, take 'em home and feed them on milk and honey and jam. Thank you, thank you ever so much."
"I love children and I believe that children like me," said she, her fingers gently caressing75 Kathleen's brown, tumbled locks. "That explains it, I am sure. Now, boys, run on ahead and tell the chauffeur76 your father is coming. And, listen to me: your father is tired and very, very warm. You must not cause him any more distress77. I am sure you won't, will you?"
Then she wiped the tears from the cheeks of the "littlest ones," straightened their bonnets78, and, in the end, proposed that she should carry one of them to the 'bus.
Down in her heart, she was coddling the wild, improbable hope that Mr. Richard Flanders might be somewhere in the neighbourhood, watching her with proud, but remorseful79 eyes!
Mr. Bingle turned to her after the children were safely stowed away in the 'bus and ready for the long ride home. He had his hat in his hand and he bowed very low, with the old-fashioned courtesy that time and environment had failed to modify.
"My dear young lady, you remind me of the fairy princess that I knew so well as a boy. You spring up out of the ground and—Whist! you perform deeds of magic and enchantment80. I am sorry that we cannot have you hovering81 about us forevermore. We are all enchanted82."
"Thank you," she said, with her gay smile. "Do you still believe in fairies?"
"I do," said he.
"And witches?"
"Absolutely," said he, with boyish enthusiasm. "And wizards, too—and, I'm ashamed to admit it—ghosts. Good-bye. Thank you for the spell you've cast upon us. I think it has done all of us a lot of good. I undertook a task that was beyond me, bringing these youngsters here for a lark83. But you see, I had promised them the trip, and I don't believe in going back on a promise. The governess left us yesterday, most unexpectedly. She said her sister was ill, but—well, I shouldn't say anything unkind. Perhaps her sister really is ill. So, then, I brought them all by myself. Mrs. Bingle is in the city looking for a new governess. She—"
"Would you consider—" began Miss Colgate eagerly, and then flushed to the roots of her hair, What had come over her? Was she on the point of applying for a position as governess in a family of—But why not? Why not? She was tired, discouraged, and a failure at the work she had tried so hard to perform.
"Yes?"
She laughed confusedly. "It was nothing, Mr. Bingle, nothing at all. Good-bye. I hope you'll get them home safe, sound and—intact. They are dears."
Mr. Bingle surveyed his brood. Every eye was riveted84 on the face of the strange, lovely lady, and in each was the look of complete subjugation85.
"You've hypnotised them," said he, wonderingly.
She looked away. After a moment's hesitation86, she cast the die—urged by the queerest impulse that had ever come over her.
"Would you consider me, Mr. Bingle, for the position that has just been given up by the—the woman whose sister is ill?"
He heard, but he could not believe his ears. "I—I beg pardon?" he said.
She faced him, now resolute46 and eager. "I am not a fairy princess, I am not a witch. As a matter of fact, I am a very commonplace person who is obliged to earn a living one way or another, and it isn't always a simple thing to do. Tip to this instant, I hadn't the remotest thought of becoming a governess. I don't know what came over me unless it was loneliness, thinking of my little brothers and sisters at home. When I first saw you and the children nothing was farther from my mind than the thought that has just come into it. I DO love children. I want work, Mr. Bingle. I am self-supporting. No matter what may have been my ambition up to five minutes ago, I am content to put it aside, I am willing to undertake—"
"My dear young lady," broke in Mr. Bingle, who had been slow to grasp her meaning and even slower to recover from his stupefaction; "you—you really have knocked me silly. I hadn't the faintest idea—"
"May I apply to Mrs. Bingle to-morrow?" she asked nervously87, interrupting him with unintentional rudeness. "I have no references to give as a governess, but I—I think I can convince Mrs. Bingle that I would be quite capable. Do you think there would be a chance for me if I—"
Mr. Bingle broke in once more, this time with acute enthusiasm. "Don't wait till to-morrow," he exclaimed. "Do it to-day! To-morrow may be too late. Harkins, drive to the nearest public telephone. We will call up the intelligence office and see if Mrs. Bingle has been there yet. If she hasn't—"
"Is she looking for a governess in an intelligence office?" cried Miss
Colgate, in dismay.
"Certainly! Where else? Oh, I see," he made haste to add, sensing her expression; "it isn't the place to find high-grade governesses, eh? Well, all the better for us! We'll head her off. Climb in, Miss—Miss—"
"Fairweather, Mr. Bingle," said she, and it was the first time in two years that she had called herself by that name. Of all the millions of human beings in New York, but one knew that her name was Fairweather—and she had quarrelled with him. She had told Dick Flanders. He was the kind of man that women tell things to without reserve or without considering the consequences.
"Move up, Frederick," commanded Mr. Bingle. "Make room for Miss Fairweather. She's going to be the new governess. Lively, Harkins! The nearest telephone. No! Not that saloon over there. Tackle an apartment house. Well, well, Miss Fairweather, this is just like a fairy story after all. I told you that I believed in fairies, didn't I?"
And that is how Miss Fairweather came to be governess in the Bingle family, a position for which she was suited by nature but for which she was utterly88 unqualified when it came to experience. And that is how she managed to disappear so completely that Richard Flanders, love-sick and repentant89, could find no trace of her. There were days—and long, long nights—when she ate her heart out in the hunger for him, but she could not bring herself to the point where starvation made it imperative90 for her to go begging. There was always before her the distressing91 fear that he might have ceased, to care for her—ay, that he might have gone so far as to transfer his affections to some one else as the result of her stupid notions concerning independence.
No doubt he was going his way without a thought of her, pleasantly forgetting her or, at best, merely remembering her as one who had proved a brief but satisfactory blessing92, as many a passing sweetheart has been to a man in his flight through time. No, she argued in conflict with her inclinations93, it was not to be thought of, this senseless desire to go back and begin all over again. Everything was over between them. She had made her choice on that never-to-be-forgotten night and she had gone out of his life. There was no use bewailing the fact that she was in the wrong and that his contentions94 had been justified95. She had made her bed, and she would lie in it. The fault was with her, not with him—and yet she could never quite forgive him for being right! She couldn't forget how angry she was before she realised that his judgment96 was better than hers. As a matter of fact, she couldn't help being a perfectly normal woman: she enjoyed misery97.
It must be recorded that she imposed upon the Bingles in one respect: she did not mention the fact that she was or had been an actress. On the other hand, she did not deceive them as to her lack of experience as a teacher of young children. She confessed that the work was new to her, but she confessed it so naively98, so frankly, that they were charmed into overlooking the most important detail in the matter of engaging a governess. In fact, Mr. Bingle very properly said to his wife that as she was expected to devote her time to children who had no pedigree, "it wouldn't be along the line of common sense to exact references from her." Besides, said he, she was so sure to be satisfactory. It was only necessary to look into her honest eyes to feel sure about that. And Mrs. Bingle, who was just then in the throes of adopting Imogene, agreed to everything that Imogene's prospective99 father had to say.
In the meantime, Mr. Flanders had remained doggedly100 constant. He had surrendered, as a man will, to reason, and had set about to find the girl of his choice, determined101 to make his peace with her. But nowhere was she to be found. He laid aside the unfinished play. What was the sense of writing a play if there was no one to play the principal part? He was disconsolate102. He cursed himself for the stupid thing he had done. He had wrecked103 his life, that's what he had done—poor fool!
And then came the unexpected meeting in the home of Thomas Singleton
Bingle, and the detached scene in the shelter of the window-nook.
Mr. Bingle experienced a second shock just before Flanders darted104 out of the house to jump into the waiting automobile105 which was to take him to the station for the 10:17 train.
"Well, good night, Mr. Bingle," cried the tall young reporter, sticking his head through the library door in response to the host's invitation to "come in." "Thank you for the greatest evening of my life. It's just like a fairy story. Oh, yes, before I forget it: I want to tell you how much I enjoyed 'The Chimes.' I never knew that Dickens could write anything so—"
"'The Chimes'?" cried Mr. Bingle, abruptly106 leaving the little group at the fireplace and bearing down upon the unconscious offender107. "What do you mean? It wasn't 'The Chimes' that I—"
"Certainly not," exclaimed Mr. Flanders, glibly108. "Of course, it wasn't.
I never think of 'The Christmas Carol' without first thinking of 'The
Chimes.' Thank you for getting the automobile out to take me to—"
"No trouble at all, my dear fellow," cried Mr. Bingle, shaking hands with the departing guest. "I wish you a Merry Christmas."
Flanders' face was glowing. "It will be the merriest Christmas I've ever known, Mr. Bingle," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "I owe it to you, too. By Jove, sir, I believe I am the happiest man in all the world." He almost shook the little man's arm out of its socket109.
Mr. Bingle's smile was meant to be beaming. He made a valiant effort to rise above the catastrophe110 that was to make his Christmas the most miserable111 he had ever known.
"Come to see us every Christmas Eve, my boy, if it puts you in such good spirits to see the—the kiddies—" his voice quavered a little—"and to hear the 'Carol.' You will always find the latchstring out."
"No other Christmas Eve will be as glorious as this one, sir," said Dick, gently dragging his host into the hall and lowering his voice to a thrilling undertone. "Not in a million years. Why, it is positively bewildering. I wonder if I'm awake. Is it really true? I—I can't believe that it really happened. Take a good, long look at me, please. You DO see me, don't you? I am really standing112 here in your house—"
"What in the world are you talking about?" gasped113 Mr. Bingle, drawing back a step or two. Mr. Flanders grabbed him by the arm. "Ouch!"
"I beg pardon, sir—I didn't mean to be rough," cried Flanders. "I'm so excited I don't know what I'm doing, that's all. A man may be excused for a lot of brainstorm114 antics when he's going to be married again. It—"
"Married again? I thought you said you'd never—"
"What I mean is this: I was going to be married once and now I'm going to be married again. See? Oh, you know what I mean. I'm just driveling—simply driveling with joy. We fixed115 it all up fifteen minutes after we got together. You might congratulate me, Mr. Bingle."
"God bless my soul! Congratulate you on what?"
"I'm going to marry your governess."
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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denseness
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| 稠密，密集，浓厚； 稠度 | |
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lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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sop
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| n.湿透的东西，懦夫；v.浸，泡，浸湿 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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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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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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lairs
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| n.（野兽的）巢穴，窝( lair的名词复数 )；（人的）藏身处 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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42
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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43
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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44
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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45
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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47
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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48
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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49
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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50
seafood
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| n.海产食品，海味，海鲜 | |
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51
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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52
insurgents
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| n.起义，暴动，造反( insurgent的名词复数 ) | |
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53
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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54
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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55
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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56
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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57
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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58
tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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59
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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61
spanked
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| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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66
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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67
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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marvelling
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的现在分词 ) | |
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71
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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72
cupidity
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| n.贪心，贪财 | |
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73
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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74
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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78
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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80
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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81
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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82
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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83
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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84
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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85
subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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87
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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88
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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89
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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90
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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91
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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92
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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94
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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95
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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96
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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97
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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98
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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99
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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100
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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101
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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102
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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103
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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104
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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105
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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106
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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107
offender
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| n.冒犯者，违反者，犯罪者 | |
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108
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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109
socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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110
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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111
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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112
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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113
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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114
brainstorm
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| vi.动脑筋，出主意，想办法，献计，献策 | |
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115
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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