He was standing7 in the centre of the room examining an unusual trinket—a gold hoop8 like a bracelet9, with numbers and the zodiac signs engraved10 on the inner surface. Mr. Brimsdown had discovered it in a Kingsway curiosity shop a week before. It was a portable sun-dial of the sixteenth century. A slide, pushed back a certain distance in accordance with the zodiac signs, permitted the sun to fall through a slit on the figures of the hours within—a dainty timekeeper for mediaeval lovers. Mr. Brimsdown was no gallant11, nor had he sufficient imagination to prompt him to wonder what dead girl’s dainty fingers had once held up the bright fragile circle to the sun to see if Love’s tryst12 was to be kept. His joy in the sun-dial was the pride of the collector in the possession of a rare thing.
But that night it failed to interest him. He put it down with a sigh, and resumed his restless pacing of the room.
It was his office, but he preferred it to his chambers at the end of the passage. He said the air was better, but it is doubtful whether that was the reason. Perhaps Mr. Brimsdown felt less lonely among his legal documents, meditating13 over battles he had won for dead legatees. As a solicitor14 he was “strong on the Chancery side” and had gained some famous judgments15 for notorious litigants—men who had loved the law so well that their souls might well have been found—knowing no higher heaven—in the office where the records of their forgotten lawsuits17 were buried. And in death, as in life, they would have been glad to confide18 their affairs to the man whose lot it had been to add “Deceased” to so many of the names on the black steel deed-boxes which lined the shelves.
Mr. Brimsdown lived for the law. As a family lawyer he was the soul of discretion19, an excellent fighter, wary20 and reticent21, deep as the grave, but far safer. The grave sometimes opens and divulges22 a ghastly secret from its narrow depths. There was no chance of getting anything out of Mr. Brimsdown, dead or alive. He had no wife to extract bedroom confidences from him, no relations to visit in expansive moments, he trusted nothing to paper or diary, and he did not play golf. He was a solitary23 man, of an habitual24 secretiveness deepened by years of living alone.
His lips moved now, and he spoke25 aloud. His voice sounded sharply in the heavy silence.
“A calamity—nothing less. How did it happen? Was it grief for his wife?”
His face showed unusual agitation26—distress27 even. It was well his clients could not see him at that moment. To them he was a remote enigmatic figure of conveyances29 and legal deeds; one deeply versed30 in human follies31 and foibles, but impervious32 to human feeling, independent of human companionship. The reserved glance of his cold grey eye betokened33 that he guarded his own secrets as closely as he guarded the secrets entrusted34 to him professionally. But there was human nature in him—deep down. It was not much—a lock of hair in a sealed packet in his pocket-book. The giver was dead and gone to dust, sleeping in an old churchyard near the Strand35, forgotten by all who had ever known her—except one. Sometimes in the twilight36 a tall figure would stand musing37 beside that forgotten grave for awhile, then turn away and walk swiftly up the narrow river street, across the Strand, and through the archway to Grey’s Inn.
“Thirty years!” he murmured. Then his mind seemed to hark back to his previous thought, after the fashion of a man who thinks aloud—“No, no; not his wife. He did not care enough for her for that. Thirty years—wasted. My heart bleeds when I think of it. Ought I to go down? Did he wish for me? I wonder—”
His distress as he paced the room was more apparent than ever. Again, his clients would have been astonished if they had witnessed it. In their opinion he was hard as nails and a stranger to the softer feelings of the heart. They would as soon thought of attributing sentiment to one of the japanned deed-boxes. But they would have accepted the surprising revelation with well-bred English tolerance38 for eccentricity39, not allowing it to affect their judgment16 that Mr. Brimsdown was one of the soundest and safest lawyers in England.
His agitation arose from the death of Robert Turold—his client. He had gathered that piece of news from an evening newspaper in the restaurant where he had dined. Mr. Brimsdown had reached an age when the most poignant40 events of human life seem little more than trifles. It was in the nature of things for men to die. As a lawyer he had prepared many last wills and testaments—had helped men into their graves, as it were—unmoved. But that unexpected announcement of Robert Turold’s death had come to him as an over-whelming shock. He had left his meal unfinished, and returned to his chambers to seek consolation41, not in prayer, but in his collection of old clocks and watches. In the dusk he had set out his greatest treasures—the gold sun-dial, a lamp clock, an early French watch in blue enamel42, and a bed repeating clock in a velvet43 case. But the solace44 had failed him for once. Even the magic name of Dan Quare on the jewelled face of the repeater failed to stir his collector’s heart.
His regard for Robert Turold was deep and sincere. His dead client had been his ideal of a strong man. Strong and unyielding—like a rock. That was the impression Robert Turold had conveyed at their first interview many years before, and his patience and tenacity45 in pursuit of his purpose had deepened the feeling since. The object of his search had the lawyer’s sympathy. Mr. Brimsdown had a reverence46 for titles—inherited titles, not mere47 knighthoods, or Orders of the British Empire. For those he felt nothing but contempt. He drew the sharpest distinction between such titled vulgarians and those who were born into the world with the blood running blue in their veins48. He regarded Robert Turold as belonging to this latter class. It was nothing to him that he was a commoner in the eyes of the world, with no more claim to distinction than a golf-playing city merchant. He had believed in his story from the first, and had helped him in that belief. Turrald of Missenden! It was a great old name. Mr. Brimsdown rolled it round his tongue as though it were a vintage port—pronounced it lingeringly, rolling the “rr’s” sonorously49, and hissing50 the “ss’s” with a caressing51 sibilant sound.
Turrald of Missenden! Robert Turold was the lineal descendant of the name, and worthy52 of the title. Mr. Brimsdown had always felt that, from the very first. There was something noble and dominating in his presence. Blood told; there could be no doubt of that.
What stronger proof of it could be found than the dogged strength with which the dead man had persisted for thirty years in his effort to claim as his rightful due a baronial title which had been in abeyance53 for four hundred years?
And he would have succeeded—was on the verge54 of success—but for this unlucky stroke of Death’s.
With a sigh for the frailty55 of human hopes, Mr. Brimsdown put an end to his reflections and went downstairs for the post.
By the dim light of the lowered hall gas he saw an envelope lying on the floor—a thick grey envelope addressed to himself in a thin irregular hand. The sight of that superscription startled him like a glimpse of the unseen. For it was the handwriting of the subject of his thoughts—Robert Turold.
With the stiff movement of an ageing man he picked up the letter and went upstairs again. In some subtle way the room seemed changed. He had a sudden inexplicable56 sensation of nervousness and depression. Shaking it off with an effort, he opened the envelope in his hand with an odd reluctance—the feeling that he was prying57 into something which was no concern of his. He drew out the single grey sheet and unfolded it. The letter was dated from Flint House on the previous day. There was but a few lines, but the lawyer was pulled up at the beginning by the unusual familiarity of the address. “My dear Brimsdown” was unusual in one so formal as Robert Turold. But the handwriting was his—undoubtedly. Mr. Brimsdown had seen it too often to be mistaken. With the growing idea that the whole thing was confounding to sober sense and reason, he read on—
"Can you postpone58 all your other engagements and come to Cornwall on receipt of this? If you will telegraph the train you travel by I will have a conveyance28 to meet you at Penzance and bring you to Flint House. This is a matter of importance."
A postscript59 followed in the strangest contrast to the formal note—a postscript hasty and blotted60, which had evidently been added in extreme agitation of mind—
"For God's sake lose no time. Come at once."
The tremulous urgent words stared out from the surface of the grey paper in all the piteous futility61 of an appeal made too late. Glancing up, Mr. Brimsdown’s eye rested on the shelf where the deed box of Robert Turold reposed62, and he mechanically reflected that it would be necessary to have the word “Deceased” added to the white-lettered inscription63 on the black surface. Mr. Brimsdown sighed. Then, shaking off the quiescence64 of mind which his brooding had engendered65, he applied66 his faculties67 to the consideration of a situation which at first sight seemed fantastic as a nightmare.
The letter was not more remarkable68 than its despatch69 after the writer’s death, but the summons to Cornwall was not in itself surprising. He recalled a similar visit to Norfolk some years before, and the recent correspondence between them made it clear that the claim had reached a stage which required careful legal handling. Robert Turold had forwarded copies of the final proofs of the family descent discovered in Cornwall, and Mr. Brimsdown had prepared the claim for the termination of abeyance which was to be heard by the House of Lords. Mr. Brimsdown was also aware of the summoning of the other members of the family to Cornwall to impart the news to them. A very natural and proper proceeding70 on Robert Turold’s part, he had deemed it.
He believed he knew every intimate detail of the ambition on which Robert Turold had immutably71 set his heart. Had they not been discussed between them, again and again, in that room—his bitterness that he had no son, his fear that the regained72 title might be extinguished again in female descent, his grievance73 that the succession could not be altered. It was his dream to found a new line of Turralds, and be remembered as the head of it. “If you could only get the descent taken outside the limits of the original creation, Brimsdown—” The harsh voice, uttering these words, seemed to reach Mr. Brimsdown in the muffled74 silence at that moment. He had told him, again and again, that the thing was impossible. If the Turrald barony was called out of abeyance it was an act of Royal grace and favour. They had no rights—he insisted on that—and any attempt to influence the Crown about the line of succession might endanger the claim.
And now Robert Turold was dead in the midst of his plans—dead when he had almost gained the peak of his dreams.
It seemed incredible, almost impossible. Death at such a moment assumed an unexpected reality as an actual and tangible75 mocker of human ambitions. And this letter with its postscript—what was the meaning of it? The lawyer knew nothing of Robert Turold’s announcement to his family on the previous day. If he had, it would have intensified76 his feeling that the letter hinted at some terrible secret hidden behind the thick curtain of his client’s strange and sudden death. The hasty postscript suggested a quickened sense of a growing danger which Robert Turold had seen too late to avert77.
What danger? Mr. Brimsdown could form no idea. He reflected that he really knew very little of Robert Turold’s private life in spite of the long association between them. He must have had other interests at one time or other beside the eternal question of the title. Mr. Brimsdown had vaguely78 understood that the money he had invested for Robert Turold had been gained abroad—in the wilds of the earth—in his client’s early life, but his client had never confided79 to him the manner of the gathering80. That was a page in the dead man’s life of which his trusted legal adviser81 knew nothing whatever. It was unsafe to assume that the page, if revealed, would throw any light on his tragic82 death, but there was a possibility that it might.
The evening newspaper he had brought home lay on the carpet at his feet exposing the headline—“A Cornish Mystery”—which had caught his eye at the restaurant. Mr. Brimsdown picked up the sheet and read the report again. There was nothing in it to help him. It was only a brief notification of the facts—of a death which, in the words of the newspaper’s local correspondent, “pointed83 to suicide.”
Suicide! The letter on which the ink was still bluish and fresh, seemed to convey Robert Turold’s denial of the suggestion that he had taken his life. It was the cry of a man who had looked into the dark place of fear and seen Death lurking84 within. Only mortal terror could have called forth85 that passionate86 frantic87 appeal. And that appeal accomplished88 its purpose, although it came too late. Robert Turold was dead, but the call for elucidation89 rang loudly from his coffin90. The dead man’s hand beckoned91 him, and he dared not disobey. He determined92 to go to Cornwall.
Outside in the darkness a clock chimed, and one of his own treasures repeated the hour with a soft mellifluous93 note. Eleven! He had an idea that there was—or used to be—a midnight train to Cornwall. He crossed to his bureau and consulted a time-table. Yes—to Penzance from Paddington. He decided94 to catch it.
His preparations for departure were quickly made. The writing of a note to his clerk and the packing of a bag were matters soon accomplished. In a quarter of an hour he had picked up a taxicab at the Holborn stand near his chambers and was on his way to the station.
There was plenty of light and stir at Paddington, which appeared like a great and glowing cavern95 in the cold darkness of the night. There were engines shunting, cabs arriving, porters and passengers rushing about with luggage, throngs96 of people. It happened that the midnight train from Cornwall was overdue97, and fluttered women waiting for friends were importuning98 bored officials about the delay. Sleepy children stared with wondering eyes at pictorial99 efforts to beguile100 the tedium101 of waiting for trains. There were geographical102 posters comparing Cornwall favourably103 to Italy; posters of girls in bathing costume beckoning104 to “the Cornish Riviera;” posters of frolicsome105 puppies in baskets ticketed “Lucky Dogs, They’re Off to Penzance.”
The passengers waiting for the midnight train to that resort did not do equal justice to this flattering assumption of its delights. They seemed, on the whole, rather to regard themselves as unlucky dogs (if the term could be applied to parties of women), and were huddled106 together on the station seats in attitudes suggestive of despair. Men flirting107 with barmaids in the bars may have considered themselves lucky dogs, but whisky played an important part in their exhilaration.
The belated train came rushing in with an effusion of steam, like a late arrival puffing108 out apologies, bringing a large number of passengers back to London from Penzance. They scrambled109 on to the platform with the dishevelled appearance of people who had been cooped up for hours. First-class passengers eased their pent-up energy by shouting for luggage porters and bundling their women into taxicabs. The third-class passengers, whose minor110 importance in the scheme of things did not warrant such displays of self-importance, made meekly111 and wearily for the exits.
They were dammed back at the barriers by two ticket collectors, whose adroit112 manipulation of the gates prevented more than one person trickling113 through at a time, and turned the choked stream of humanity within into a whirlpool of floating faces and struggling forms. As Mr. Brimsdown stood regarding this distracting spectacle from the outside, he saw one of the ticket collectors grasp the arm of a girl who was just emerging, at the same time shutting the gate on a stout114 woman following, thus effectually blocking the egress115 of those behind.
The girl turned quickly at the touch of the detaining hand, and there was fear in her face.
“What do you want?” she said, framing the words with an obvious effort.
The ticket collector was a man whose natural choleric116 temperament117 was accentuated118 by the harassing119 nature of his employment. He tore in two portions the ticket which the girl had just given him, and thrust half into her hand.
“Here’s your return half. Why don’t you look what yer doin’ when givin’ up yer ticket? You women are the limit. Now, mother, for God’s sake don’t be all night getting through that there barrier. There’s others want to get ‘ome, if you don’t.”
Having by this adroit remonstrance120 spiked121 the wrath122, as it were, of the stout and angry woman he had jammed in the gate, he permitted the resumption of the trickle123 of impatient passengers.
Mr. Brimsdown followed with his eye the pretty girl who had been forgetful enough to give up a return ticket instead of a half one. She had stopped outside the barrier, gazing round with a troubled face at the immensity of the station and the throngs of hurrying people.
The lawyer looked at her hard, from a little distance. “Where have I seen that face before?” he murmured to himself.
Her beauty was of a sufficiently rare type to attract attention anywhere, except, perhaps, at a London railway station at midnight. She was unused to her surroundings and she was not a city product. So much was obvious, though her clear pale face and slim young figure did not suggest rusticity124. Her dark eyes glanced quickly and nervously125 around her, and then she started to walk slowly towards one of the main entrances.
A luggage porter hurried towards her, intent on tips. The broad back of a policeman was outlined in the entrance. The girl looked wistfully from the policeman to the porter, then appeared to make up her mind. She extracted a silver coin from her purse, and proffered126 it timidly to the porter. The porter showed no timidity in accepting it.
“Luggage, miss, in the van?” he asked. “Just you wait ‘ere.”
“I have no luggage,” Mr. Brimsdown heard her say. Her eyes wandered downward to the little handbag she carried. “I wanted to ask you—I am a stranger to London. Can you tell me a place where I could stay; for the night—somewhere quiet and respectable?”
Mr. Brimsdown found himself listening anxiously for the porter’s reply. By all the laws of Romance he should have had an old mother in a clean and humble127 home who would have been delighted to give the girl shelter for the sight of her pretty face. But pretty girls are plentiful128 in London, and kind-hearted old women are rare. The porter seemed surprised at the inquiry129. He pushed his blue cap back from a shock of red hair, and pondered the question deeply. Then he made a valiant130 feint of earning his shilling by throwing out suggestions of temperance hotels in Russell Square and the Euston Road. He warmed to the subject and depicted131 the attractions of these places. Quiet and cheap, and nothing respectabler in the ‘ole city of London. They was open at all hours. His own sister stayed in one when she come to town.
“Would you give me the address?” the girl wistfully asked.
The porter shook his head cautiously. He had evidently no intention of pawning132 his sister’s reputation for a shilling given him by a strange girl who might have designs on the spoons of temperance hotels.
“How do I get to Euston Road?” asked the girl with a quick realization133 of the fact that she had obtained London value for her shilling.
“By the Metropolitan134.” He pointed to a blazing subterranean135 archway which at that late hour was still vomiting136 forth a mass of people. “Book at the first winder.”
Mr. Brimsdown watched the girl until she disappeared out of sight down the steps. He then turned away to seek his own train, the insistent feeling still haunting him that he had seen her pretty wistful face before. He taxed his memory to recall where, but memory made no response. It seemed a long time ago—like a glimpse from the face of the dead. Mr. Brimsdown strove to put the idea from him as a trick of the imagination.
He beckoned to a porter, who took his bag to a first-class carriage in the Penzance train. Mr. Brimsdown settled himself comfortably in a corner seat. A few minutes later the train moved out on the long night journey to Penzance.
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1
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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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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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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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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lawsuits
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| n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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divulges
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的第三人称单数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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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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conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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44
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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45
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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46
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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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50
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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51
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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54
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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55
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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56
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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57
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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58
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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59
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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60
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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61
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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62
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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64
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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65
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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67
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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68
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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69
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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70
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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71
immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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72
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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73
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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74
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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76
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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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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80
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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81
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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82
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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83
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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84
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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85
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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87
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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88
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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90
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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96
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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overdue
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| adj.过期的，到期未付的；早该有的，迟到的 | |
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importuning
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的现在分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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99
pictorial
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| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
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100
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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101
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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102
geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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103
favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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104
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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105
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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106
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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107
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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108
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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109
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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110
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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111
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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112
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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113
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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115
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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116
choleric
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| adj.易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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117
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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118
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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119
harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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120
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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121
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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122
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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123
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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124
rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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125
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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126
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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127
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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128
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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129
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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130
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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131
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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132
pawning
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的现在分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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133
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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134
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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135
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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136
vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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