The room in which he found himself was so dark at first that it yielded little to the eye, and that little seemed altogether beyond his comprehension. His gaze helplessly followed Celia and her candle about as she busied herself in the work of illumination. When she had finished, and pinched out the taper4, there were seven lights in the apartment—lights beaming softly through half-opaque alternating rectangles of blue and yellow glass. They must be set in some sort of lanterns around against the wall, he thought, but the shape of these he could hardly make out.
Gradually his sight adapted itself to this subdued5 light, and he began to see other things. These queer lamps were placed, apparently6, so as to shed a special radiance upon some statues which stood in the corners of the chamber7, and upon some pictures which were embedded9 in the walls. Theron noted10 that the statues, the marble of which lost its aggressive whiteness under the tinted11 lights, were mostly of naked men and women; the pictures, four or five in number, were all variations of a single theme—the Virgin12 Mary and the Child.
A less untutored vision than his would have caught more swiftly the scheme of color and line in which these works of art bore their share. The walls of the room were in part of flat upright wooden columns, terminating high above in simple capitals, and they were all painted in pale amber8 and straw and primrose13 hues14, irregularly wavering here and there toward suggestions of white. Between these pilasters were broader panels of stamped leather, in gently varying shades of peacock blue. These contrasted colors vaguely15 interwove and mingled16 in what he could see of the shadowed ceiling far above. They were repeated in the draperies and huge cushions and pillows of the low, wide divan17 which ran about three sides of the room. Even the floor, where it revealed itself among the scattered19 rugs, was laid in a mosaic20 pattern of matched woods, which, like the rugs, gave back these same shifting blues21 and uncertain yellows.
The fourth side of the apartment was broken in outline at one end by the door through which they had entered, and at the other by a broad, square opening, hung with looped-back curtains of a thin silken stuff. Between the two apertures22 rose against the wall what Theron took at first glance to be an altar. There were pyramidal rows of tall candles here on either side, each masked with a little silken hood23; below, in the centre, a shelf-like projection24 supported what seemed a massive, carved casket, and in the beautiful intricacies of this, and the receding25 canopy26 of delicate ornamentation which depended above it, the dominant27 color was white, deepening away in its shadows, by tenderly minute gradations, to the tints28 which ruled the rest of the room.
Celia lighted some of the high, thick tapers29 in these candelabra, and opened the top of the casket. Theron saw with surprise that she had uncovered the keyboard of a piano. He viewed with much greater amazement30 her next proceeding—which was to put a cigarette between her lips, and, bending over one of the candles with it for an instant, turn to him with a filmy, opalescent31 veil of smoke above her head.
“Make yourself comfortable anywhere,” she said, with a gesture which comprehended all the divans32 and pillows in the place. “Will you smoke?”
“I have never tried since I was a little boy,” said Theron, “but I think I could. If you don't mind, I should like to see.”
Lounging at his ease on the oriental couch, Theron experimented cautiously upon the unaccustomed tobacco, and looked at Celia with what he felt to be the confident quiet of a man of the world. She had thrown aside her hat, and in doing so had half released some of the heavy strands33 of hair coiled at the back of her head. His glance instinctively34 rested upon this wonderful hair of hers. There was no mistaking the sudden fascination35 its disorder36 had for his eye.
She stood before him with the cigarette poised37 daintily between thumb and finger of a shapely hand, and smiled comprehendingly down on her guest.
“I suffered the horrors of the damned with this hair of mine when I was a child,” she said. “I daresay all children have a taste for persecuting38 red-heads; but it's a specialty39 with Irish children. They get hold somehow of an ancient national superstition40, or legend, that red hair was brought into Ireland by the Danes. It's been a term of reproach with us since Brian Boru's time to call a child a Dane. I used to be pursued and baited with it every day of my life, until the one dream of my ambition was to get old enough to be a Sister of Charity, so that I might hide my hair under one of their big beastly white linen41 caps. I've got rather away from that ideal since, I'm afraid,” she added, with a droll42 downward curl of her lip.
“Your hair is very beautiful,” said Theron, in the calm tone of a connoisseur43.
“I like it myself,” Celia admitted, and blew a little smoke-ring toward him. “I've made this whole room to match it. The colors, I mean,” she explained, in deference44 to his uplifted brows. “Between us, we make up what Whistler would call a symphony. That reminds me—I was going to play for you. Let me finish the cigarette first.”
Theron felt grateful for her reticence45 about the fact that he had laid his own aside. “I have never seen a room at all like this,” he remarked. “You are right; it does fit you perfectly46.”
She nodded her sense of his appreciation47. “It is what I like,” she said. “It expresses ME. I will not have anything about me—or anybody either—that I don't like. I suppose if an old Greek could see it, it would make him sick, but it represents what I mean by being a Greek. It is as near as an Irishman can get to it.”
“I remember your puzzling me by saying that you were a Greek.”
Celia laughed, and tossed the cigarette-end away. “I'd puzzle you more, I'm afraid, if I tried to explain to you what I really meant by it. I divide people up into two classes, you know—Greeks and Jews. Once you get hold of that principle, all other divisions and classifications, such as by race or language or nationality, seem pure foolishness. It is the only true division there is. It is just as true among negroes or wild Indians who never heard of Greece or Jerusalem, as it is among white folks. That is the beauty of it. It works everywhere, always.”
“Try it on me,” urged Theron, with a twinkling eye. “Which am I?”
“Both,” said the girl, with a merry nod of the head. “But now I'll play. I told you you were to hear Chopin. I prescribe him for you. He is the Greekiest of the Greeks. THERE was a nation where all the people were artists, where everybody was an intellectual aristocrat48, where the Philistine49 was as unknown, as extinct, as the dodo. Chopin might have written his music for them.”
“I am interested in Shopang,” put in Theron, suddenly recalling Sister Soulsby's confidences as to the source of her tunes50. “He lived with—what's his name—George something. We were speaking about him only this afternoon.”
Celia looked down into her visitor's face at first inquiringly, then with a latent grin about her lips. “Yes—George something,” she said, in a tone which mystified him.
The Rev18. Mr. Ware was sitting up, a minute afterward52, in a ferment53 of awakened54 consciousness that he had never heard the piano played before. After a little, he noiselessly rearranged the cushions, and settled himself again in a recumbent posture55. It was beyond his strength to follow that first impulse, and keep his mind abreast56 with what his ears took in. He sighed and lay back, and surrendered his senses to the mere57 unthinking charm of it all.
It was the Fourth Prelude58 that was singing in the air about him—a simple, plaintive59 strain wandering at will over a surface of steady rhythmic61 movement underneath62, always creeping upward through mysteries of sweetness, always sinking again in cadences63 of semi-tones. With only a moment's pause, there came the Seventh Waltz—a rich, bold confusion which yet was not confused. Theron's ears dwelt with eager delight upon the chasing medley64 of swift, tinkling65 sounds, but it left his thoughts free.
From where he reclined, he turned his head to scrutinize66, one by one, the statues in the corners. No doubt they were beautiful—for this was a department in which he was all humility—and one of them, the figure of a broad-browed, stately, though thick-waisted woman, bending slightly forward and with both arms broken off, was decently robed from the hips67 downward. The others were not robed at all. Theron stared at them with the erratic68, rippling69 jangle of the waltz in his ears, and felt that he possessed70 a new and disturbing conception of what female emancipation71 meant in these later days. Roving along the wall, his glance rested again upon the largest of the Virgin pictures—a full-length figure in sweeping72 draperies, its radiant, aureoled head upturned in rapt adoration73, its feet resting on a crescent moon which shone forth74 in bluish silver through festooned clouds of cherubs75. The incongruity76 between the unashamed statues and this serene77 incarnation of holy womanhood jarred upon him for the instant. Then his mind went to the piano.
Without a break the waltz had slowed and expanded into a passage of what might be church music, an exquisitely78 modulated79 and gently solemn chant, through which a soft, lingering song roved capriciously, forcing the listener to wonder where it was coming out, even while it caressed80 and soothed81 to repose82.
He looked from the Madonna to Celia. Beyond the carelessly drooping83 braids and coils of hair which blazed between the candles, he could see the outline of her brow and cheek, the noble contour of her lifted chin and full, modelled throat, all pink as the most delicate rose leaf is pink, against the cool lights of the altar-like wall. The sight convicted him in the court of his own soul as a prurient84 and mean-minded rustic85. In the presence of such a face, of such music, there ceased to be any such thing as nudity, and statues no more needed clothes than did those slow, deep, magnificent chords which came now, gravely accumulating their spell upon him.
“It is all singing!” the player called out to him over her shoulder, in a minute of rest. “That is what Chopin does—he sings!”
She began, with an effect of thinking of something else, the Sixth Nocturne, and Theron at first thought she was not playing anything in particular, so deliberately86, haltingly, did the chain of charm unwind itself into sequence. Then it came closer to him than the others had done. The dreamy, wistful, meditative87 beauty of it all at once oppressed and inspired him. He saw Celia's shoulders sway under the impulse of the RUBATO license—the privilege to invest each measure with the stress of the whole, to loiter, to weep, to run and laugh at will—and the music she made spoke88 to him as with a human voice. There was the wooing sense of roses and moonlight, of perfumes, white skins, alluring89 languorous90 eyes, and then—
“You know this part, of course,” he heard her say.
On the instant they had stepped from the dark, scented91, starlit garden, where the nightingale sang, into a great cathedral. A sombre and lofty anthem92 arose, and filled the place with the splendor93 of such dignified94 pomp of harmony and such suggestions of measureless choral power and authority that Theron sat abruptly96 up, then was drawn97 resistlessly to his feet. He stood motionless in the strange room, feeling most of all that one should kneel to hear such music.
“This you'll know too—the funeral march from the Second Sonata,” she was saying, before he realized that the end of the other had come. He sank upon the divan again, bending forward and clasping his hands tight around his knees. His heart beat furiously as he listened to the weird98, mediaeval processional, with its wild, clashing chords held down in the bondage99 of an orderly sadness. There was a propelling motion in the thing—a sense of being borne bodily along—which affected100 him like dizziness. He breathed hard through the robust101 portions of stern, vigorous noise, and rocked himself to and fro when, as rosy102 morn breaks upon a storm-swept night, the drums are silenced for the sweet, comforting strain of solitary103 melody. The clanging minor104 harmonies into which the march relapses came to their abrupt95 end. Theron rose once more, and moved with a hesitating step to the piano.
“I want to rest a little,” he said, with his hand on her shoulder.
“Whew! so do I,” exclaimed Celia, letting her hands fall with an exaggerated gesture of weariness. “The sonatas105 take it out of one! They are hideously106 difficult, you know. They are rarely played.”
“I didn't know,” remarked Theron. She seemed not to mind his hand upon her shoulder, and he kept it there. “I didn't know anything about music at all. What I do know now is that—that this evening is an event in my life.”
She looked up at him and smiled. He read unsuspected tendernesses and tolerances107 of friendship in the depths of her eyes, which emboldened108 him to stir the fingers of that audacious hand in a lingering, caressing109 trill upon her shoulder. The movement was of the faintest, but having ventured it, he drew his hand abruptly away.
“You are getting on,” she said to him. There was an enigmatic twinkle in the smile with which she continued to regard him. “We are Hellenizing you at a great rate.”
A sudden thought seemed to strike her. She shifted her eyes toward vacancy110 with a swift, abstracted glance, reflected for a moment, then let a sparkling half-wink and the dimpling beginnings of an almost roguish smile mark her assent111 to the conceit112, whatever it might be.
“I will be with you in a moment,” he heard her say; and while the words were still in his ears she had risen and passed out of sight through the broad, open doorway113 to the right. The looped curtains fell together behind her. Presently a mellow114 light spread over their delicately translucent115 surface—a creamy, undulating radiance which gave the effect of moving about among the myriad116 folds of the silk.
Theron gazed at these curtains for a little, then straightened his shoulders with a gesture of decision, and, turning on his heel, went over and examined the statues in the further corners minutely.
“If you would like some more, I will play you the Berceuse now.”
Her voice came to him with a delicious shock. He wheeled round and beheld117 her standing118 at the piano, with one hand resting, palm upward, on the keys. She was facing him. Her tall form was robed now in some shapeless, clinging drapery, lustrous119 and creamy and exquisitely soft, like the curtains. The wonderful hair hung free and luxuriant about her neck and shoulders, and glowed with an intensity120 of fiery121 color which made all the other hues of the room pale and vague. A fillet of faint, sky-like blue drew a gracious span through the flame of red above her temples, and from this there rose the gleam of jewels. Her head inclined gently, gravely, toward him—with the posture of that armless woman in marble he had been studying—and her brown eyes, regarding him from the shadows, emitted light.
“It is a lullaby—the only one he wrote,” she said, as Theron, pale-faced and with tightened122 lips, approached her. “No—you mustn't stand there,” she added, sinking into the seat before the instrument; “go back and sit where you were.”
The most perfect of lullabies, with its swaying abandonment to cooing rhythm, ever and again rising in ripples123 to the point of insisting on something, one knows not what, and then rocking, melting away once more, passed, so to speak, over Theron's head. He leaned back upon the cushions, and watched the white, rounded forearm which the falling folds of this strange, statue-like drapery made bare.
There was more that appealed to his mood in the Third Ballade. It seemed to him that there were words going along with it—incoherent and impulsive124 yet very earnest words, appealing to him in strenuous125 argument and persuasion126. Each time he almost knew what they said, and strained after their meaning with a passionate127 desire, and then there would come a kind of cuckoo call, and everything would swing dancing off again into a mockery of inconsequence.
Upon the silence there fell the pure, liquid, mellifluous128 melody of a soft-throated woman singing to her lover.
“It is like Heine—simply a love-poem,” said the girl, over her shoulder.
Theron followed now with all his senses, as she carried the Ninth Nocturne onward129. The stormy passage, which she banged finely forth, was in truth a lover's quarrel; and then the mild, placid130 flow of sweet harmonies into which the furore sank, dying languorously131 away upon a silence all alive with tender memories of sound—was that not also a part of love?
They sat motionless through a minute—the man on the divan, the girl at the piano—and Theron listened for what he felt must be the audible thumping132 of his heart.
Then, throwing back her head, with upturned face, Celia began what she had withheld133 for the last—the Sixteenth Mazurka. This strange foreign thing she played with her eyes closed, her head tilted134 obliquely135 so that Theron could see the rose-tinted, beautiful countenance136, framed as if asleep in the billowing luxuriance of unloosed auburn hair. He fancied her beholding137 visions as she wrought138 the music—visions full of barbaric color and romantic forms. As his mind swam along with the gliding139, tricksy phantom140 of a tune51, it seemed as if he too could see these visions—as if he gazed at them through her eyes.
It could not be helped. He lifted himself noiselessly to his feet, and stole with caution toward her. He would hear the rest of this weird, voluptuous141 fantasy standing thus, so close behind her that he could look down upon her full, uplifted lace—so close that, if she moved, that glowing nimbus of hair would touch him.
There had been some curious and awkward pauses in this last piece, which Theron, by some side cerebration, had put down to her not watching what her fingers did. There came another of these pauses now—an odd, unaccountable halt in what seemed the middle of everything. He stared intently down upon her statuesque, dreaming face during the hush142, and caught his breath as he waited. There fell at last a few faltering143 ascending144 notes, making a half-finished strain, and then again there was silence.
Celia opened her eyes, and poured a direct, deep gaze into the face above hers. Its pale lips were parted in suspense145, and the color had faded from its cheeks.
“That is the end,” she said, and, with a turn of her lithe146 body, stood swiftly up, even while the echoes of the broken melody seemed panting in the air about her for completion.
Theron put his hands to his face, and pressed them tightly against eyes and brow for an instant. Then, throwing them aside with an expansive downward sweep of the arms, and holding them clenched147, he returned Celia's glance. It was as if he had never looked into a woman's eyes before.
“It CAN'T be the end!” he heard himself saying, in a low voice charged with deep significance. He held her gaze in the grasp of his with implacable tenacity148. There was a trouble about breathing, and the mosaic floor seemed to stir under his feet. He clung defiantly149 to the one idea of not releasing her eyes.
“How COULD it be the end?” he demanded, lifting an uncertain hand to his breast as he spoke, and spreading it there as if to control the tumultuous fluttering of his heart. “Things don't end that way!”
A sharp, blinding spasm150 of giddiness closed upon and shook him, while the brave words were on his lips. He blinked and tottered151 under it, as it passed, and then backed humbly152 to his divan and sat down, gasping153 a little, and patting his hand on his heart. There was fright written all over his whitened face.
“We—we forgot that I am a sick man,” he said feebly, answering Celia's look of surprised inquiry154 with a forced, wan60 smile. “I was afraid my heart had gone wrong.”
She scrutinized155 him for a further moment, with growing reassurance156 in her air. Then, piling up the pillows and cushions behind him for support, for all the world like a big sister again, she stepped into the inner room, and returned with a flagon of quaint157 shape and a tiny glass. She poured this latter full to the brim of a thick yellowish, aromatic158 liquid, and gave it him to drink.
“This Benedictine is all I happen to have,” she said. “Swallow it down. It will do you good.”
Theron obeyed her. It brought tears to his eyes; but, upon reflection, it was grateful and warming. He did feel better almost immediately. A great wave of comfort seemed to enfold him as he settled himself back on the divan. For that one flashing instant he had thought that he was dying. He drew a long grateful breath of relief, and smiled his content.
Celia had seated herself beside him, a little away. She sat with her head against the wall, and one foot curled under her, and almost faced him.
“I dare say we forced the pace a little,” she remarked, after a pause, looking down at the floor, with the puckers159 of a ruminating160 amusement playing in the corners of her mouth. “It doesn't do for a man to get to be a Greek all of a sudden. He must work along up to it gradually.”
He remembered the music. “Oh, if I only knew how to tell you,” he murmured ecstatically, “what a revelation your playing has been to me! I had never imagined anything like it. I shall think of it to my dying day.”
He began to remember as well the spirit that was in the air when the music ended. The details of what he had felt and said rose vaguely in his mind. Pondering them, his eye roved past Celia's white-robed figure to the broad, open doorway beyond. The curtains behind which she had disappeared were again parted and fastened back. A dim light was burning within, out of sight, and its faint illumination disclosed a room filled with white marbles, white silks, white draperies of varying sorts, which shaped themselves, as he looked, into the canopy and trappings of an extravagantly161 over-sized and sumptuous162 bed. He looked away again.
“I wish you would tell me what you really mean by that Greek idea of yours,” he said with the abruptness163 of confusion.
Celia did not display much enthusiasm in the tone of her answer. “Oh,” she said almost indifferently, “lots of things. Absolute freedom from moral bugbears, for one thing. The recognition that beauty is the only thing in life that is worth while. The courage to kick out of one's life everything that isn't worth while; and so on.”
“But,” said Theron, watching the mingled delicacy164 and power of the bared arm and the shapely grace of the hand which she had lifted to her face, “I am going to get you to teach it ALL to me.” The memories began crowding in upon him now, and the baffling note upon which the mazurka had stopped short chimed like a tuning-fork in his ears. “I want to be a Greek myself, if you're one. I want to get as close to you—to your ideal, that is, as I can. You open up to me a whole world that I had not even dreamed existed. We swore our friendship long ago, you know: and now, after tonight—you and the music have decided165 me. I am going to put the things out of MY life that are not worthwhile. Only you must help me; you must tell me how to begin.”
He looked up as he spoke, to enforce the almost tender entreaty166 of his words. The spectacle of a yawn, only fractionally concealed167 behind those talented fingers, chilled his soft speech, and sent a flush over his face. He rose on the instant.
Celia was nothing abashed168 at his discovery. She laughed gayly in confession169 of her fault, and held her hand out to let him help her disentangle her foot from her draperies, and get off the divan. It seemed to be her meaning that he should continue holding her hand after she was also standing.
“You forgive me, don't you?” she urged smilingly. “Chopin always first excites me, then sends me to sleep. You see how YOU sleep tonight!”
The brown, velvety170 eyes rested upon him, from under their heavy lids, with a languorous kindliness171. Her warm, large palm clasped his in frank liking172.
“I don't want to sleep at all,” Mr. Ware was impelled173 to say. “I want to lie awake and think about—about everything all over again.”
She smiled drowsily174. “And you're sure you feel strong enough to walk home?”
“Yes,” he replied, with a lingering dilatory175 note, which deepened upon reflection into a sigh. “Oh, yes.”
He followed her and her candle down the magnificent stairway again. She blew the light out in the hall, and, opening the front door, stood with him for a silent moment on the threshold. Then they shook hands once more, and with a whispered good-night, parted.
Celia, returning to the blue and yellow room, lighted a cigarette and helped herself to some Benedictine in the glass which Theron had used. She looked meditatively176 at this little glass for a moment, turning it about in her fingers with a smile. The smile warmed itself suddenly into a joyous177 laugh. She tossed the glass aside, and, holding out her flowing skirts with both hands, executed a swinging pirouette in front of the gravely beautiful statue of the armless woman.
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1
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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apertures
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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32
divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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33
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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35
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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36
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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37
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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38
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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39
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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40
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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41
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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42
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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43
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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44
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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45
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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46
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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47
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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48
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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49
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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50
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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51
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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52
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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53
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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54
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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55
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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56
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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59
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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60
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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61
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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62
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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63
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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64
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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65
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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66
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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67
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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68
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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69
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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70
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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71
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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72
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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73
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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74
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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76
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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77
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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78
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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79
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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80
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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82
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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83
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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84
prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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85
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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86
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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87
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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88
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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89
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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90
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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91
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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92
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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93
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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94
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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95
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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96
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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97
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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98
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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99
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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100
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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101
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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102
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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103
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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104
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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105
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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106
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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107
tolerances
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| n.宽容( tolerance的名词复数 )；容忍；忍耐力；偏差 | |
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108
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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110
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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111
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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112
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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113
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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114
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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115
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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116
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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117
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
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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119
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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120
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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121
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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122
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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123
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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124
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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125
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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126
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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127
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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128
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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129
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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130
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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131
languorously
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| adv.疲倦地，郁闷地 | |
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132
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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133
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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134
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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135
obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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136
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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137
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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138
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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139
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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140
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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141
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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142
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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143
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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144
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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145
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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146
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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147
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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149
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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150
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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151
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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152
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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153
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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154
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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155
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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157
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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158
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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159
puckers
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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161
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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162
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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163
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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164
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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165
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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166
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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167
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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168
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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169
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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170
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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171
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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172
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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173
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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175
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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176
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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177
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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