As the two paused, the girl suddenly sank upon her knees, then threw herself face forward upon the soft green bark which had formed itself above the roots of the ancient mother-tree. Her companion looked down in pained amazement7 at what he saw. Her body shook with the violence of recurring8 sobs9, or rather gasps10 of wrath11 and grief Her hands, with stiffened12, claw-like fingers, dug into the moss and tangle13 of tiny vines, and tore them by the roots. The half-stifled sounds of weeping that arose from where her face grovelled14 in the leaves were terrible to his ears. He knew not what to say or do, but gazed in resourceless suspense16 at the strange figure she made. It seemed a cruelly long time that she lay there, almost at his feet, struggling fiercely with the fury that was in her.
All at once the paroxysms passed away, the sounds of wild weeping ceased. Celia sat up, and with her handkerchief wiped the tears and leafy fragments from her face. She rearranged her hat and the braids of her hair with swift, instinctive17 touches, brushed the woodland debris18 from her front, and sprang to her feet.
“I'm all right now,” she said briskly. There was palpable effort in her light tone, and in the stormy sort of smile which she forced upon her blotched and perturbed19 countenance20, but they were only too welcome to Theron's anxious mood.
“Thank God!” he blurted21 out, all radiant with relief. “I feared you were going to have a fit—or something.”
Celia laughed, a little artificially at first, then with a genuine surrender to the comic side of his visible fright. The mirth came back into the brown depths of her eyes again, and her face cleared itself of tear-stains and the marks of agitation22. “I AM a nice quiet party for a Methodist minister to go walking in the woods with, am I not?” she cried, shaking her skirts and smiling at him.
“I am not a Methodist minister—please!” answered Theron—“at least not today—and here—with you! I am just a man—nothing more—a man who has escaped from lifelong imprisonment23, and feels for the first time what it is to be free!”
“Ah, my friend,” Celia said, shaking her head slowly, “I'm afraid you deceive yourself. You are not by any means free. You are only looking out of the window of your prison, as you call it. The doors are locked, just the same.”
“I will smash them!” he declared, with confidence. “Or for that matter, I HAVE smashed them—battered them to pieces. You don't realize what progress I have made, what changes there have been in me since that night, you remember that wonderful night! I am quite another being, I assure you! And really it dates from way beyond that—why, from the very first evening, when I came to you in the church. The window in Father Forbes' room was open, and I stood by it listening to the music next door, and I could just faintly see on the dark window across the alley-way a stained-glass picture of a woman. I suppose it was the Virgin24 Mary. She had hair like yours, and your face, too; and that is why I went into the church and found you. Yes, that is why.”
Celia regarded him with gravity. “You will get yourself into great trouble, my friend,” she said.
“That's where you're wrong,” put in Theron. “Not that I'd mind any trouble in this wide world, so long as you called me 'my friend,' but I'm not going to get into any at all. I know a trick worth two of that. I've learned to be a showman. I can preach now far better than I used to, and I can get through my work in half the time, and keep on the right side of my people, and get along with perfect smoothness. I was too green before. I took the thing seriously, and I let every mean-fisted curmudgeon25 and crazy fanatic26 worry me, and keep me on pins and needles. I don't do that any more. I've taken a new measure of life. I see now what life is really worth, and I'm going to have my share of it. Why should I deliberately27 deny myself all possible happiness for the rest of my days, simply because I made a fool of myself when I was in my teens? Other men are not eternally punished like that, for what they did as boys, and I won't submit to it either. I will be as free to enjoy myself as—as Father Forbes.”
Celia smiled softly, and shook her head again. “Poor man, to call HIM free!” she said: “why, he is bound hand and foot. You don't in the least realize how he is hedged about, the work he has to do, the thousand suspicious eyes that watch his every movement, eager to bring the Bishop28 down upon him. And then think of his sacrifice—the great sacrifice of all—to never know what love means, to forswear his manhood, to live a forlorn, celibate29 life—you have no idea how sadly that appeals to a woman.”
“Let us sit down here for a little,” said Theron; “we seem at the end of the path.” She seated herself on the root-based mound30, and he reclined at her side, with an arm carelessly extended behind her on the moss.
“I can see what you mean,” he went on, after a pause. “But to me, do you know, there is an enormous fascination31 in celibacy32. You forget that I know the reverse of the medal. I know how the mind can be cramped33, the nerves harassed34, the ambitions spoiled and rotted, the whole existence darkened and belittled35, by—by the other thing. I have never talked to you before about my marriage.”
“I don't think we'd better talk about it now,” observed Celia. “There must be many more amusing topics.”
He missed the spirit of her remark. “You are right,” he said slowly. “It is too sad a thing to talk about. But there! it is my load, and I bear it, and there's nothing more to be said.”
Theron drew a heavy sigh, and let his fingers toy abstractedly with a ribbon on the outer edge of Celia's penumbra37 of apparel.
“No,” she said. “We mustn't snivel, and we mustn't sulk. When I get into a rage it makes me ill, and I storm my way through it and tear things, but it doesn't last long, and I come out of it feeling all the better. I don't know that I've ever seen your wife. I suppose she hasn't got red hair?”
“I think it's a kind of light brown,” answered Theron, with an effect of exerting his memory.
“It seems that you only take notice of hair in stained-glass windows,” was Celia's comment.
“Oh-h!” he murmured reproachfully, “as if—as if—but I won't say what I was going to.”
“That's not fair!” she said. The little touch of whimsical mockery which she gave to the serious declaration was delicious to him. “You have me at such a disadvantage! Here am I rattling40 out whatever comes into my head, exposing all my lightest emotions, and laying bare my very heart in candor41, and you meditate42, you turn things over cautiously in your mind, like a second Machiavelli. I grow afraid of you; you are so subtle and mysterious in your reserves.”
Theron gave a tug43 at the ribbon, to show the joy he had in her delicate chaff44. “No, it is you who are secretive,” he said. “You never told me about—about the piano.”
The word was out! A minute before it had seemed incredible to him that he should ever have the courage to utter it—but here it was. He laid firm hold upon the ribbon, which it appeared hung from her waist, and drew himself a trifle nearer to her. “I could never have consented to take it, I'm afraid,” he went on in a low voice, “if I had known. And even as it is, I fear it won't be possible.”
“What are you afraid of?” asked Celia. “Why shouldn't you take it? People in your profession never do get anything unless it's given to them, do they? I've always understood it was like that. I've often read of donation parties—that's what they're called, isn't it?—where everybody is supposed to bring some gift to the minister. Very well, then, I've simply had a donation party of my own, that's all. Unless you mean that my being a Catholic makes a difference. I had supposed you were quite free from that kind of prejudice.”
“So I am! Believe me, I am!” urged Theron. “When I'm with you, it seems impossible to realize that there are people so narrow and contracted in their natures as to take account of such things. It is another atmosphere that I breathe near you. How could you imagine that such a thought—about our difference of creed—would enter my head? In fact,” he concluded with a nervous half-laugh, “there isn't any such difference. Whatever your religion is, it's mine too. You remember—you adopted me as a Greek.”
“Did I?” she rejoined. “Well, if that's the case, it leaves you without a leg to stand on. I challenge you to find any instance where a Greek made any difficulties about accepting a piano from a friend. But seriously—while we are talking about it—you introduced the subject: I didn't—I might as well explain to you that I had no such intention, when I picked the instrument out. It was later, when I was talking to Thurston's people about the price, that the whim39 seized me. Now it is the one fixed45 rule of my life to obey my whims38. Whatever occurs to me as a possibly pleasant thing to do, straight like a hash, I go and do it. It is the only way that a person with means, with plenty of money, can preserve any freshness of character. If they stop to think what it would be prudent46 to do, they get crusted over immediately. That is the curse of rich people—they teach themselves to distrust and restrain every impulse toward unusual actions. They get to feel that it is more necessary for them to be cautious and conventional than it is for others. I would rather work at a wash-tub than occupy that attitude toward my bank account. I fight against any sign of it that I detect rising in my mind. The instant a wish occurs to me, I rush to gratify it. That is my theory of life. That accounts for the piano; and I don't see that you've anything to say about it at all.”
It seemed very convincing, this theory of life. Somehow, the thought of Miss Madden's riches had never before assumed prominence47 in Theron's mind. Of course her father was very wealthy, but it had not occurred to him that the daughter's emancipation48 might run to the length of a personal fortune. He knew so little of rich people and their ways!
He lifted his head, and looked up at Celia with an awakened49 humility50 and awe51 in his glance. The glamour52 of a separate banking-account shone upon her. Where the soft woodland light played in among the strands53 of her disordered hair, he saw the veritable gleam of gold. A mysterious new suggestion of power blended itself with the beauty of her face, was exhaled54 in the faint perfume of her garments. He maintained a timorous55 hold upon the ribbon, wondering at his hardihood in touching56 it, or being near her at all.
“What surprises me,” he heard himself saying, “is that you are contented57 to stay in Octavius. I should think that you would travel—go abroad—see the beautiful things of the world, surround yourself with the luxuries of big cities—and that sort of thing.”
Celia regarded the forest prospect58 straight in front of her with a pensive59 gaze. “Sometime—no doubt I will sometime,” she said abstractedly.
“One reads so much nowadays,” he went on, “of American heiresses going to Europe and marrying dukes and noblemen. I suppose you will do that too. Princes would fight one another for you.”
The least touch of a smile softened60 for an instant the impassivity of her countenance. Then she stared harder than ever at the vague, leafy distance. “That is the old-fashioned idea,” she said, in a musing36 tone, “that women must belong to somebody, as if they were curios, or statues, or race-horses. You don't understand, my friend, that I have a different view. I am myself, and I belong to myself, exactly as much as any man. The notion that any other human being could conceivably obtain the slightest property rights in me is as preposterous61, as ridiculous, as—what shall I say?—as the notion of your being taken out with a chain on your neck and sold by auction62 as a slave, down on the canal bridge. I should be ashamed to be alive for another day, if any other thought were possible to me.”
“That is not the generally accepted view, I should think,” faltered63 Theron.
“No more is it the accepted view that young married Methodist ministers should sit out alone in the woods with red-headed Irish girls. No, my friend, let us find what the generally accepted views are, and as fast as we find them set our heels on them. There is no other way to live like real human beings. What on earth is it to me that other women crawl about on all-fours, and fawn64 like dogs on any hand that will buckle65 a collar onto them, and toss them the leavings of the table? I am not related to them. I have nothing to do with them. They cannot make any rules for me. If pride and dignity and independence are dead in them, why, so much the worse for them! It is no affair of mine. Certainly it is no reason why I should get down and grovel15 also. No; I at least stand erect66 on my legs.”
Mr. Ware67 sat up, and stared confusedly, with round eyes and parted lips, at his companion. Instinctively68 his brain dragged forth69 to the surface those epithets70 which the doctor had hurled71 in bitter contempt at her—“mad ass2, a mere72 bundle of egotism, ignorance, and red-headed lewdness73.” The words rose in their order on his memory, hard and sharp-edged, like arrow-heads. But to sit there, quite at her side; to breathe the same air, and behold74 the calm loveliness of her profile; to touch the ribbon of her dress—and all the while to hold these poisoned darts75 of abuse levelled in thought at her breast—it was monstrous76. He could have killed the doctor at that moment. With an effort, he drove the foul77 things from his mind—scattered them back into the darkness. He felt that he had grown pale, and wondered if she had heard the groan78 that seemed to have been forced from him in the struggle. Or was the groan imaginary?
Celia continued to sit unmoved, composedly looking upon vacancy79. Theron's eyes searched her face in vain for any sign of consciousness that she had astounded80 and bewildered him. She did not seem to be thinking of him at all. The proud calm of her thoughtful countenance suggested instead occupation with lofty and remote abstractions and noble ideals. Contemplating81 her, he suddenly perceived that what she had been saying was great, wonderful, magnificent. An involuntary thrill ran through his veins82 at recollection of her words. His fancy likened it to the sensation he used to feel as a youth, when the Fourth of July reader bawled83 forth that opening clause: “When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary,” etc. It was nothing less than another Declaration of Independence he had been listening to.
He sank again recumbent at her side, and stretched the arm behind her, nearer than before. “Apparently, then, you will never marry.” His voice trembled a little.
“Most certainly not!” said Celia.
“You spoke85 so feelingly a little while ago,” he ventured along, with hesitation86, “about how sadly the notion of a priest's sacrificing himself—never knowing what love meant—appealed to a woman. I should think that the idea of sacrificing herself would seem to her even sadder still.”
“I don't remember that we mentioned THAT,” she replied. “How do you mean—sacrificing herself?”
Theron gathered some of the outlying folds of her dress in his hand, and boldly patted and caressed88 them. “You, so beautiful and so free, with such fine talents and abilities,” he murmured; “you, who could have the whole world at your feet—are you, too, never going to know what love means? Do you call that no sacrifice? To me it is the most terrible that my imagination can conceive.”
Celia laughed—a gentle, amused little laugh, in which Theron's ears traced elements of tenderness. “You must regulate that imagination of yours,” she said playfully. “It conceives the thing that is not. Pray, when”—and here, turning her head, she bent84 down upon his face a gaze of arch mock-seriousness—“pray, when did I describe myself in these terms? When did I say that I should never know what love meant?”
For answer Theron laid his head down upon his arm, and closed his eyes, and held his face against the draperies encircling her. “I cannot think!” he groaned89.
The thing that came uppermost in his mind, as it swayed and rocked in the tempest of emotion, was the strange reminiscence of early childhood in it all. It was like being a little boy again, nestling in an innocent, unthinking transport of affection against his mother's skirts. The tears he felt scalding his eyes were the spontaneous, unashamed tears of a child; the tremulous and exquisite90 joy which spread, wave-like, over him, at once reposeful91 and yearning92, was full of infantile purity and sweetness. He had not comprehended at all before what wellsprings of spiritual beauty, what limpid93 depths of idealism, his nature contained.
“We were speaking of our respective religions,” he heard Celia say, as imperturbably94 as if there had been no digression worth mentioning.
“Yes,” he assented95, and moved his head so that he looked up at her back hair, and the leaves high above, mottled against the sky. The wish to lie there, where now he could just catch the rose-leaf line of her under-chin as well, was very strong upon him. “Yes?” he repeated.
“I cannot talk to you like that,” she said; and he sat up again shamefacedly.
“Yes—I think we were speaking of religions—some time ago,” he faltered, to relieve the situation. The dreadful thought that she might be annoyed began to oppress him.
“Well, you said whatever my religion was, it was yours too. That entitles you at least to be told what the religion is. Now, I am a Catholic.”
Theron, much mystified, nodded his head. Could it be possible—was there coming a deliberate suggestion that he should become a convert? “Yes—I know,” he murmured.
“But I should explain that I am only a Catholic in the sense that its symbolism is pleasant to me. You remember what Schopenhauer said—you cannot have the water by itself: you must also have the jug97 that it is in. Very well; the Catholic religion is my jug. I put into it the things I like. They were all there long ago, thousands of years ago. The Jews threw them out; we will put them back again. We will restore art and poetry and the love of beauty, and the gentle, spiritual, soulful life. The Greeks had it; and Christianity would have had it too, if it hadn't been for those brutes98 they call the Fathers. They loved ugliness and dirt and the thought of hell-fire. They hated women. In all the earlier stages of the Church, women were very prominent in it. Jesus himself appreciated women, and delighted to have them about him, and talk with them and listen to them. That was the very essence of the Greek spirit; and it breathed into Christianity at its birth a sweetness and a grace which twenty generations of cranks and savages99 like Paul and Jerome and Tertullian weren't able to extinguish. But the very man, Cyril, who killed Hypatia, and thus began the dark ages, unwittingly did another thing which makes one almost forgive him. To please the Egyptians, he secured the Church's acceptance of the adoration100 of the Virgin. It is that idea which has kept the Greek spirit alive, and grown and grown, till at last it will rule the world. It was only epileptic Jews who could imagine a religion without sex in it.”
“I remember the pictures of the Virgin in your room,” said Theron, feeling more himself again. “I wondered if they quite went with the statues.”
The remark won a smile from Celia's lips.
“They get along together better than you suppose,” she answered. “Besides, they are not all pictures of Mary. One of them, standing101 on the moon, is of Isis with the infant Horus in her arms. Another might as well be Mahamie, bearing the miraculously102 born Buddha103, or Olympias with her child Alexander, or even Perictione holding her babe Plato—all these were similar cases, you know. Almost every religion had its Immaculate Conception. What does it all come to, except to show us that man turns naturally toward the worship of the maternal104 idea? That is the deepest of all our instincts—love of woman, who is at once daughter and wife and mother. It is that that makes the world go round.”
Brave thoughts shaped themselves in Theron's mind, and shone forth in a confident yet wistful smile on his face.
“It is a pity you cannot change estates with me for one minute,” he said, in steady, low tone. “Then you would realize the tremendous truth of what you have been saying. It is only your intellect that has reached out and grasped the idea. If you were in my place, you would discover that your heart was bursting with it as well.”
Celia turned and looked at him.
“I myself,” he went on, “would not have known, half an hour ago, what you meant by the worship of the maternal idea. I am much older than you. I am a strong, mature man. But when I lay down there, and shut my eyes—because the charm and marvel105 of this whole experience had for the moment overcome me—the strangest sensation seized upon me. It was absolutely as if I were a boy again, a good, pure-minded, fond little child, and you were the mother that I idolized.”
Celia had not taken her eyes from his face. “I find myself liking106 you better at this moment,” she said, with gravity, “than I have ever liked you before.”
Then, as by a sudden impulse, she sprang to her feet. “Come!” she cried, her voice and manner all vivacity107 once more, “we have been here long enough.”
Upon the instant, as Theron was more laboriously108 getting up, it became apparent to them both that perhaps they had been there too long.
A boy with a gun under his arm, and two gray squirrels tied by the tails slung109 across his shoulder, stood at the entrance to the glade110, some dozen paces away, regarding them with undisguised interest. Upon the discovery that he was in turn observed, he resumed his interrupted progress through the woods, whistling softly as he went, and vanished among the trees.
“Heavens above!” groaned Theron, shudderingly111.
“Know him?” he went on, in answer to the glance of inquiry112 on his companion's face. “I should think I did! He spades my—my wife's garden for her. He used to bring our milk. He works in the law office of one of my trustees—the one who isn't friendly to me, but is very friendly indeed with my—with Mrs. Ware. Oh, what shall I do? It may easily mean my ruin!”
Celia looked at him attentively113. The color had gone out of his face, and with it the effect of earnestness and mental elevation114 which, a minute before, had caught her fancy. “Somehow, I fear that I do not like you quite so much just now, my friend,” she remarked.
“In God's name, don't say that!” urged Theron. He raised his voice in agitated115 entreaty116. “You don't know what these people are—how they would leap at the barest hint of a scandal about me. In my position I am a thousand times more defenceless than any woman. Just a single whisper, and I am done for!”
“Let me point out to you, Mr. Ware,” said Celia, slowly, “that to be seen sitting and talking with me, whatever doubts it may raise as to a gentleman's intellectual condition, need not necessarily blast his social reputation beyond all hope whatever.”
Theron stared at her, as if he had not grasped her meaning. Then he winced117 visibly under it, and put out his hands to implore118 her. “Forgive me! Forgive me!” he pleaded. “I was beside myself for the moment with the fright of the thing. Oh, say you do forgive me, Celia!” He made haste to support this daring use of her name. “I have been so happy today—so deeply, so vastly happy—like the little child I spoke of—and that is so new in my lonely life—that—the suddenness of the thing—it just for the instant unstrung me. Don't be too hard on me for it! And I had hoped, too—I had had such genuine heartfelt pleasure in the thought—that, an hour or two ago, when you were unhappy, perhaps it had been some sort of consolation119 to you that I was with you.”
Celia was looking away. When he took her hand she did not withdraw it, but turned and nodded in musing general assent96 to what he had said. “Yes, we have both been unstrung, as you call it, today,” she said, decidedly out of pitch. “Let each forgive the other, and say no more about it.”
She took his arm, and they retraced120 their steps along the path, again in silence. The labored121 noise of the orchestra, as it were, returned to meet them. They halted at an intersecting footpath122.
“I go back to my slavery—my double bondage,” said Theron, letting his voice sink to a sigh. “But even if I am put on the rack for it, I shall have had one day of glory.”
“I think you may kiss me, in memory of that one day—or of a few minutes in that day,” said Celia.
Their lips brushed each other in a swift, almost perfunctory caress87.
Theron went his way at a hurried pace, the sobered tones of her “good-bye” beating upon his brain with every measure of the droning waltz-music.
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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stump
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lichens
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moss
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amazement
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recurring
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sobs
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gasps
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wrath
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stiffened
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tangle
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grovelled
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grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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instinctive
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debris
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perturbed
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countenance
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blurted
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agitation
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imprisonment
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virgin
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curmudgeon
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fanatic
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deliberately
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bishop
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celibate
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mound
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fascination
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celibacy
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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34
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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35
belittled
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
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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37
penumbra
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| n.（日蚀）半影部 | |
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38
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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39
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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40
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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41
candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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42
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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43
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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44
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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45
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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46
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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47
prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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48
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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49
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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50
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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51
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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52
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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53
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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54
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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55
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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58
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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59
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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60
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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61
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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62
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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63
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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64
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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66
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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67
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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68
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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69
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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70
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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71
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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72
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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73
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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74
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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75
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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76
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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77
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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78
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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79
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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80
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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81
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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82
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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83
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
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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86
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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87
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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88
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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90
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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91
reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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92
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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93
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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94
imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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95
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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97
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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98
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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99
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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100
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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101
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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102
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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103
Buddha
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| n.佛；佛像；佛陀 | |
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104
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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105
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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106
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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107
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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108
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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109
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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110
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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111
shudderingly
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112
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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113
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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114
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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115
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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116
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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117
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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119
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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120
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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121
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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122
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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