By tacit agreement, the General ordered the luncheon, speaking French to the waiter throughout. Divested5 of his imposing6 great-coat, he was seen to be a gentleman of meagre flesh as well as of small stature7. He had the Roman nose, narrow forehead, bushing brows, and sharply-cut mouth and chin of a soldier grown old in the contemplation of portraits of the Duke of Wellington. His face and neck were of a dull reddish tint8, which seemed at first sight uniformly distributed: one saw afterward9 that it approached pallor at the veined temples, and ripened10 into purple in minute patches on the cheeks and the tip of the pointed3 nose. Against this flushed skin, the closely-cropped hair and small, neatly-waxed moustache were very white indeed. It was a thin, lined, care-worn face, withal, which in repose11, and particularly in profile, produced an effect of dignified12 and philosophical13 melancholy14. The General's over-prominent light blue eyes upon occasion marred15 this effect, however, by glances of a bold, harsh character, which seemed to disclose unpleasant depths below the correct surface. His manner with the waiters was abrupt16 and sharp, but undoubtedly17 they served him very well—much better, in truth, than Thorpe had ever seen them serve anybody before.
Thorpe observed his guest a good deal during the repast, and formed numerous conclusions about him. He ate with palpable relish18 of every dish, and he emptied his glass as promptly19 as his host could fill it. There was hardly a word of explanation as to the purpose of their meeting, until the coffee was brought, and they pushed back their chairs, crossed their legs, and lighted cigars.
“I was lucky to catch you with my wire, at such short notice,” Thorpe said then. “I sent two, you know—to your chambers20 and your club. Which of them found you?”
“Chambers,” said the General. “I rarely dress till luncheon time. I read in bed. There's really nothing else to do. Idleness is the curse of my life.”
“I've been wondering if you'd like a little occupation—of a well-paid sort,” said Thorpe slowly. He realized that it was high time to invent some pretext21 for his hurried summons of the General.
“My dear sir,” responded the other, “I should like anything that had money in it. And I should very much like occupation, too—if it were, of course, something that was—was suitable to me.”
“Yes,” said Thorpe, meditatively22. “I've something in my mind—not at all definite yet—in fact, I don't think I can even outline it to you yet. But I'm sure it will suit you—that is, if I decide to go on with it—and there ought to be seven or eight hundred a year for you in it—for life, mind you.”
The General's gaze, fastened strenuously23 upon Thorpe, shook a little. “That will suit me very well,” he declared, with feeling. “Whatever I can do for it”—he let the sentence end itself with a significant gesture.
“I thought so,” commented the other, trifling24 with the spoon in his cup. “But I want you to be open with me. I'm interested in you, and I want to be of use to you. All that I've said, I can do for you. But first, I'm curious to know everything that you can tell me about your circumstances. I'm right in assuming, I suppose, that you're—that you're not any too well-fixed25.”
The General helped himself to another little glass of brandy. His mood seemed to absorb the spirit of the liqueur. “Fixed!” he repeated with a peevish26 snap in his tone. “I'm not 'fixed' at all, as you call it. Good God, sir! They no more care what becomes of me than they do about their old gloves. I gave them name and breeding and position—and everything—and they round on me like—like cuckoos.” His pale, bulging27 eyes lifted their passionless veil for an instant as he spoke28, and flashed with the predatory fierceness of a hawk29.
Intuition helped Thorpe to guess whom “they” might mean. The temper visibly rising in the old man's mind was what he had hoped for. He proceeded with an informed caution. “Don't be annoyed if I touch upon family matters,” he said. “It's a part of what I must know, in order to help you. I believe you're a widower30, aren't you, General?”
The other, after a quick upward glance, shook his head resentfully. “Mrs. Kervick lives in Italy with HER son-in-law—and her daughter. He is a man of property—and also, apparently31, a man of remarkable32 credulity and patience.” He paused, to scan his companion's face. “They divide him between them,” he said then, from clenched33 teeth—“and I—mind you—I made the match! He was a young fellow that I found—and I brought him home and introduced him—and I haven't so much as an Italian postage-stamp to show for it. But what interest can you possibly take in all this?” The unamiable glance of his eyes was on the instant surcharged with suspicion.
“How many daughters have you?” Thorpe ventured the enquiry with inward doubts as to its sagacity.
“Three,” answered the General, briefly34. It was evident that he was also busy thinking.
“I ask because I met one of them in the country over Sunday,” Thorpe decided35 to explain.
The old soldier's eyes asked many questions in the moment of silence. “Which one—Edith?—that is, Lady Cressage?” he enquired36. “Of course—it would have been her.”
Thorpe nodded. “She made a tremendous impression upon me,” he observed, watching the father with intentness as he let the slow words fall.
“Well she might,” the other replied, simply. “She's supposed to be the most beautiful woman in England.”
“Well—I guess she is,” Thorpe assented37, while the two men eyed each other.
“Is the third sister unmarried?” it occurred to him to ask. The tone of the question revealed its perfunctory character.
“Oh—Beatrice—she's of no importance,” the father replied. “She goes in for writing, and all that—she's not a beauty, you know—she lives with an old lady in Scotland. The oldest daughter—Blanche—she has some good looks of her own, but she's a cat. And so you met Edith! May I ask where it was?”
“At Hadlow House—Lord Plowden's place, you know.”
The General's surprise at the announcement was undoubted. “At Plowden's!” he repeated, and added, as if half to himself, “I thought that was all over with, long ago.”
“I wish you'd tell me about it,” said Thorpe, daringly. “I've made it plain to you, haven't I? I'm going to look out for you. And I want you to post me up, here, on some of the things that I don't understand. You remember that it was Plowden who introduced you to me, don't you? It was through him that you got on the Board. Well, certain things that I've seen lead me to suppose that he did that in order to please your daughter. Did you understand it that way?”
“It's quite likely, in one sense,” returned the General. He spoke with much deliberation now, weighing all his words. “He may have thought it would please her; he may not have known how little my poor affairs concerned her.”
“Well, then,” pursued Thorpe, argumentatively, “he had an object in pleasing her. Let me ask the question—did he want to marry her?”
“Most men want to marry her,” was the father's non-committal response. His moustache lifted itself in the semblance39 of a smile, but the blue eyes above remained coldly vigilant40.
“Well—I guess that's so too,” Thorpe remarked. He made a fleeting41 mental note that there was something about the General which impelled42 him to think and talk more like an American than ever. “But was HE specially43 affected44 that way?”
“I think,” said Kervick, judicially45, “I think it was understood that if he had been free to marry a penniless wife, he would have wished to marry her.”
“Do you know,” Thorpe began again, with a kind of diffident hesitation—“do you happen to have formed an idea—supposing that had been the case—would she have accepted him?” “Ah, there you have me,” replied the other. “Who can tell what women will accept, and what they will refuse? My daughter refused Lord Lingfield—and he is an Under-Secretary, and will be Earl Chobham, and a Cabinet Minister, and a rich man. After that, what are you to say?”
“You speak of her as penniless,” Thorpe remarked, with a casual air.
“Six hundred a year,” the father answered. “We could have rubbed along after a fashion on it, if she had had any notions at all of taking my advice. I'm a man of the world, and I could have managed her affairs for her to her advantage, but she insisted upon going off by herself. She showed not the slightest consideration for me—but then I am accustomed to that.”
Thorpe smiled reflectively, and the old gentleman read in this an encouragement to expand his grievances46.
“In my position,” he continued, helping47 himself to still another tiny glass, “I naturally say very little. It is not my form to make complaints and advertise my misfortunes. I daresay it's a fault. I know it kept me back in India—while ever so many whipper-snappers were promoted over my head—because I was of the proud and silent sort. It was a mistake, but it was my nature. I might have put by a comfortable provision for my old age, in those days, if I had been willing to push my claims, and worry the Staff into giving me what was my due. But that I declined to do—and when I was retired48, there was nothing for me but the ration38 of bread and salt which they serve out to the old soldier who has been too modest. I served my Queen, sir, for forty years—and I should be ashamed to tell you the allowance she makes me in my old age. But I do not complain. My mouth is closed. I am an English gentleman and one of Her Majesty's soldiers. That's enough said, eh? Do you follow me? And about my family affairs, I'm not likely to talk to the first comer, eh? But to you I say it frankly—they've behaved badly, damned badly, sir.
“Mrs. Kervick lives in Italy, at the cost of HER son-in-law. He has large estates in one of the healthiest and most beautiful parts; he has a palace, and more money than he knows what to do with—but it seems that he's not my son-in-law. I could do with Italy very well—but that doesn't enter into anyone's calculations. No! let the worn-out old soldier sell boot-laces on the kerb! That's the spirit of woman-kind. And my daughter Edith—does she care what becomes of me? Listen to me—I secured for her the very greatest marriage in England. She would have been Duchess of Glastonbury today if her husband had not played the fool and drowned himself.”
“What's that you say?” put in Thorpe, swiftly.
“It was as good as suicide,” insisted the General, with doggedness. His face had become a deeper red. “They didn't hit it off together, and he left in a huff, and went yachting with his father, who was his own sailing-master—and, as might be expected, they were both drowned. The title would have gone to her son—but no, of course, she had no son—and so it passed to a stranger—an outsider that had been an usher49 in a school, or something of that sort. You can fancy what a blow this was to me. Instead of being the grandfather of a Duke, I have a childless widow thrust back upon my hands! Fine luck, eh? And then, to cap all, she takes her six hundred a year and goes off by herself, and gives me the cold shoulder completely. What is it Shakespeare says? 'How sharper than a serpent's teeth'——”
Thorpe brought his fist down upon the table with an emphasis which abruptly50 broke the quotation51 in half. He had been frowning moodily52 at his guest for some minutes, relighting his cigar more than once meanwhile. He had made a mental calculation of what the old man had had to drink, and had reassured53 himself as to his condition. His garrulity54 might have an alcoholic55 basis, but his wits were clear enough. It was time to take a new line with him.
“I don't want to hear you abuse your daughter,” he admonished56 him now, with a purpose glowing steadily57 in his firm glance. “Damn it all, why shouldn't she go off by herself, and take care of her own money her own way? It's little enough, God knows, for such a lady as she is. Why should you expect her to support you out of it? No—sit still! Listen to me!”—he stretched out his hand, and laid it with restraining heaviness upon the General's arm—“you don't want to have any row with me. You can't afford it. Just think that over to yourself—you—can't afford—it.”
Major-General Kervick's prominent blue eyes had bulged58 forth59 in rage till their appearance had disconcerted the other's gaze. They remained still too much in the foreground, as it were, and the angry scarlets60 and violets of the cheeks beneath them carried an unabated threat of apoplexy—but their owner, after a moment's silence, made a sign with his stiff white brows that the crisis was over. “You must remember that—that I have a father's feelings,” he gasped61 then, huskily.
Thorpe nodded, with a nonchalance62 which was not wholly affected. He had learned what he wanted to know about this veteran. If he had the fierce meannesses of a famished63 old dog, he had also a dog's awe64 of a stick. It was almost too easy to terrorize him.
“Oh, I make allowances for all that,” Thorpe began, vaguely65. “But it's important that you should understand me. I'm this sort of a man: whatever I set out to do, and put my strength into it, that I do! I kill every pheasant I fire at; Plowden will tell you that! It's a way I have. To those that help me, and are loyal to me, I'm the best friend in the world. To those that get in my way, or try to trip me up, I'm the devil—just plain devil. Now then—you're getting three hundred a year from my Company, that is to say from me, simply to oblige my friend Plowden. You don't do anything to earn this money; you're of no earthly use on the Board. If I chose, I could put you off at the end of the year as easily as I can blow out this match. But I propose not only to keep you on, but to make you independent. Why do I do that? You should ask yourself that question. It can't be on account of anything you can do for the Company. What else then? Why, first and foremost, because you are the father of your daughter.”
“Let me tell you the kind of man I am,” said the General, inflating66 his chest, and speaking with solemnity.
“Oh, I know the kind of man you are,” Thorpe interrupted him, coolly. “I want to talk now.”
“It was merely,” Kervick ventured, in an injured tone, “that I can be as loyal as any man alive to a true friend.”
“Well, I'll be the true friend, then,” said Thorpe, with impatient finality. “And now this is what I want to say. I'm going to be a very rich man. You're not to say so to anybody, mind you, until the thing speaks for itself. We're keeping dark for a few months, d'ye see?—lying low. Then, as I say, I shall be a very rich man. Well now, I wouldn't give a damn to be rich, unless I did with my money the things that I wanted to do, and got the things with it that I wanted to get. Whatever takes my fancy, that's what I'll do.”
He paused for a moment, mentally to scrutinize67 a brand-new project which seemed, by some surreptitious agency, to have already taken his fancy. It was a curious project; there were attractive things about it, and objections to it suggested themselves as well.
“I may decide,” he began speaking again, still revolving68 this hypothetical scheme in his thoughts—“I may want to—well, here's what occurs to me as an off-chance. I take an interest in your daughter, d'ye see? and it seems a low-down sort of thing to me that she should be so poor. Well, then—I might say to you, here's two thousand a year, say, made over to you in your name, on the understanding that you turn over half of it, say, to her. She could take it from you, of course, as her father. You could say you made it out of the Company. Of course it might happen, later on, that I might like to have a gentle hint dropped to her, d'ye see, as to where it really came from. Mind, I don't say this is what is going to be done. It merely occurred to me.”
After waiting for a moment for some comment, he added a second thought: “You'd have to set about making friends with her, you know. In any case, you'd better begin at that at once.”
The General remained buried in reflection. He lighted a cigarette, and poured out for himself still another petit verre. His pursed lips and knitted brows were eloquent70 of intense mental activity.
“Well, do you see any objections to it?” demanded Thorpe, at last.
“I do not quite see the reasons for it,” answered the other, slowly. “What would you gain by it?”
“How do you mean—gain?” put in the other, with peremptory71 intolerance of tone.
General Kervick spread his hands in a quick little gesture. These hands were withered72, but remarkably73 well-kept. “I suppose one doesn't do something for nothing,” he said. “I see what I would gain, and what she would gain, but I confess I don't see what advantage you would get out of it.”
“No-o, I daresay you don't,” assented Thorpe, with sneering74 serenity75. “But what does that matter? You admit that you see what you would gain. That's enough, isn't it?”
The older man's veined temples twitched76 for an instant. He straightened himself in his chair, and looked hard at his companion. There was a glistening77 of moisture about his staring eyes.
“It surely isn't necessary—among gentlemen”—he began, cautiously picking his phrases—“to have quite so much that's unpleasant, is it?”
“No—you're right—I didn't mean to be so rough,” Thorpe declared, with spontaneous contrition78. Upon the instant, however, he perceived the danger that advantage might be taken of his softness. “I'm a plain-spoken man,” he went on, with a hardening voice, “and people must take me as they find me. All I said was, in substance, that I intended to be of service to you—and that that ought to interest you.”
The General seemed to have digested his pique79. “And what I was trying to say,” he commented deferentially80, “was that I thought I saw ways of being of service to you. But that did not seem to interest you at all.”
“How—service?” Thorpe, upon consideration, consented to ask.
“I know my daughter so much better than you do,” explained the other; “I know Plowden so much better; I am so much more familiar with the whole situation than you can possibly be—I wonder that you won't listen to my opinion. I don't suggest that you should be guided by it, but I think you should hear it.”
“I think so, too,” Thorpe declared, readily enough. “What IS your opinion?”
General Kervick sipped81 daintily at his glass, and then gave an embarrassed little laugh. “But I can't form what you might call an opinion,” he protested, apologetically, “till I understand a bit more clearly what it is you propose to yourself. You mustn't be annoyed if I return to that—'still harping82 on my daughter,' you know. If I MUST ask the question—is it your wish to marry her?”
Thorpe looked blankly at his companion, as if he were thinking of something else. When he spoke, it was with no trace of consciousness that the question had been unduly83 intimate.
“I can't in the least be sure that I shall ever marry,” he replied, thoughtfully. “I may, and I may not. But—starting with that proviso—I suppose I haven't seen any other woman that I'd rather think about marrying than—than the lady we're speaking of. However, you see it's all in the air, so far as my plans go.”
“In the air be it,” the soldier acquiesced84, plausibly85. “Let us consider it as if it were in the air—a possible contingency86. This is what I would say—My—'the lady we are speaking of' is by way of being a difficult lady—'uncertain, coy, and hard to please' as Scott says, you know—and it must be a very skilfully-dressed fly indeed which brings her to the surface. She's been hooked once, mind, and she has a horror of it. Her husband was the most frightful87 brute88 and ruffian, you know. I was strongly opposed to the marriage, but her mother carried it through. But—yes—about her—I think she is afraid to marry again. If she does ever consent, it will be because poverty has broken her nerve. If she is kept on six hundred a year, she may be starved, so to speak, into taking a husband. If she had sixteen hundred—either she would never marry at all, or she would be free to marry some handsome young pauper89 who caught her fancy. That would be particularly like her. You would be simply endowing some needy90 fellow, beside losing her for yourself. D'ye follow me? If you'll leave it to me, I can find a much better way than that—better for all of us.”
“Hm!” said Thorpe, and pondered the paternal91 statement. “I see what you mean,” he remarked at last. “Yes—I see.”
The General preserved silence for what seemed a long time, deferring92 to the reverie of his host. When finally he offered a diversion, in the form of a remark about the hour, Thorpe shook himself, and then ponderously93 rose to his feet. He took his hat and coat from the waiter, and made his way out without a word.
At the street door, confronting the waning94 foliage95 of the Embankment garden, Kervick was emboldened96 to recall to him the fact of his presence. “Which way are you going?” he asked.
“I don't know,” Thorpe answered absently. “I think—I think I'll take a walk on the Embankment—by myself.”
The General could not repress all symptoms of uneasiness. “But when am I to see you again?” he enquired, with an effect of solicitude97 that defied control.
“See me?” Thorpe spoke as if the suggestion took him by surprise.
“There are things to be settled, are there not?” the other faltered98, in distressed99 doubt as to the judicious100 tone to take. “You spoke, you know, of—of some employment that—that would suit me.”
Thorpe shook himself again, and seemed by an effort to recall his wandering attention. “Oh yes,” he said, with lethargic101 vagueness—“I haven't thought it out yet. I'll let you know—within the week, probably.”
With the briefest of nods, he turned and crossed the road. Walking heavily, with rounded shoulders and hands plunged102 deep in his overcoat pockets, he went through the gateway103, and chose a path at random104. To the idlers on the garden benches who took note of him as he passed, he gave the impression of one struggling with nausea105. To his own blurred106 consciousness, he could not say which stirred most vehemently107 within him, his loathing108 for the creature he had fed and bought, or his bitter self-disgust.
The General, standing69 with exaggerated exactness upon the doorstep, had followed with his bulging eyes the receding109 figure. He stood still regarding the gateway, mentally summarizing the events of the day, after the other had vanished. At last, nestling his chin comfortably into the fur of his collar, he smiled with self-satisfaction. “After all,” he said to himself, “there are always ways of making a cad feel that he is a cad, in the presence of a gentleman.”
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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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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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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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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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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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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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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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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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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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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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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39
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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40
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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41
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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42
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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43
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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44
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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45
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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46
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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47
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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51
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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53
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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54
garrulity
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| n.饶舌，多嘴 | |
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55
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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60
scarlets
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| 鲜红色，猩红色( scarlet的名词复数 ) | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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inflating
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| v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的现在分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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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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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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73
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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74
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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81
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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83
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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84
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
plausibly
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| 似真地 | |
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86
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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87
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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88
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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89
pauper
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| n.贫民，被救济者，穷人 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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92
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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93
ponderously
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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96
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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97
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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98
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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99
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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100
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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101
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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102
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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103
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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104
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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105
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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106
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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107
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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108
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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109
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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