“Why yes, uncle,” Julia answered, after a moment's thought. “Is someone coming?”
“I think so,” he replied, with a grunt2 of relief. He seemed increasingly pleased with the project he had in mind, as she helped him off with his things. The smile he gave her, when she playfully took his arm to lead him into the adjoining library, was clearly but a part of the satisfied grin with which he was considering some development in his own affairs.
He got into his slippers3 and into the easy-chair before the bright fire and lit a cigar with a contented4 air.
“Well, my little girl?” he said, with genial5 inconsequence, and smiled again at her, where she stood beside the mantel.
“It will be such a lark6 to play the hostess to a stranger!” she exclaimed. “When is he coming?—I suppose it is a 'he,'” she added, less buoyantly.
“Oh—that fellow,” Thorpe said, as if he had been thinking of something else. “Well—I can't tell just when he will turn up. I only learned he was in town—or in England—a couple of hours ago. I haven't seen him yet at all. I drove round to his lodgings7, near the British Museum, but he wasn't there. He only comes there to sleep, but they told me he turned in early—by nine o'clock or so. Then I went round to a hotel and wrote a note for him, and took it back to his lodgings, and left it for him. I told him to pack up his things as soon as he got it, and drive here, and make this his home—for the time being at least.”
“Then it's some old friend of yours?” said the girl. “I know I shall like him.”
Thorpe laughed somewhat uneasily. “Well—yes—he's a kind of a friend of mine,” he said, with a note of hesitation8 in his voice. “I don't know, though, that you'll think much of him. He aint what you'd call a ladies' man.”
He laughed again at some thought the words conjured9 up. “He's a curious, simple old party, who'd just like a comfortable corner somewhere by himself, and wouldn't expect to be talked to or entertained at all. If he does come, he'll keep to himself pretty well. He wouldn't be any company for you. I mean,—for you or Alfred either. I think he's a Canadian or West Indian,—British subject, at all events,—but he's lived all his life in the West, and he wouldn't know what to do in a drawing-room, or that sort of thing. You'd better just not pay any attention to him. Pass the time of day, of course, but that's all.”
Julia's alert, small-featured face expressed some vague disappointment at what she heard, but her words were cheerful enough. “Oh of course—whatever he likes best,” she said. “I will tell Potter to make everything ready. I suppose there's no chance of his being here in time for dinner?”
Thorpe shook his head, and then lifted his brows over some new perplexity. “I guess he'd want to eat his meals out, anyway,” he said, after some thought. “I don't seem to remember much about him in that respect—of course, everything was so different in camp out in Mexico—but I daresay he wouldn't be much of an ornament10 at the table. However, that'll be all right. He's as easy to manage as a rabbit. If I told him to eat on the roof, he'd do it without a murmur11. You see it's this way, Julia: he's a scientific man—a kind of geologist12, and mining expert and rubber expert—and chemical expert and all sort of things. I suppose he must have gone through college—very likely he'll turn out to have better manners than I was giving him credit for. I've only seen him in the rough, so to speak. We weren't at all intimate then,—but we had dealings together, and there are certain important reasons why I should keep close in touch with him while he's here in London. But I'll try and do that without letting you be bothered.” “What an idea!” cried Julia. “As if that wasn't what we had the house for—to see the people you want to see.”
Her uncle smiled rather ruefully, and looked in a rather dubious13 way at his cigar. “Between you and me and the lamp-post, Jule,” he said, with a slow, whimsical drawl, “there isn't a fellow in the world that I wanted to see less than I did him. But since he's here—why, we've got to make the best of it.”
After dinner, Thorpe suffered the youngsters to go up to the drawing-room in the tacit understanding that he should probably not see them again that night. He betook himself then once more to the library, as it was called—the little, cozy14, dark-panelled room off the hall, where the owner of the house had left two locked bookcases, and where Thorpe himself had installed a writing-desk and a diminutive15 safe for his papers. The chief purpose of the small apartment, however, was indicated by the two big, round, low-seated easy-chairs before the hearth16, and by the cigar boxes and spirit-stand and tumblers visible behind the glass of the cabinet against the wall. Thorpe himself called the room his “snuggery,” and spent many hours there in slippered17 comfort, smoking and gazing contentedly18 into the fire. Sometimes Julia read to him, as he sat thus at his ease, but then he almost invariably went to sleep.
Now, when he had poured out some whiskey and water and lit a cigar, the lounging chairs somehow did not attract him. He moved about aimlessly in the circumscribed19 space, his hands in his pockets, his burly shoulders rounded, his face dulled and heavy as with a depression of doubt. The sound of the piano upstairs came intermittently20 to his ears. Often he ascended21 to the drawing-room to hear Julia play—and more often still, with all the doors open, he enjoyed the mellowed22 murmur of her music here at his ease in the big chair. But tonight he had no joy in the noise. More than once, as he slouched restlessly round the room, the notion of asking her to stop suggested itself, but he forbore to put it into action. Once he busied himself for a time in kneeling before his safe, and scrutinizing23 in detail the papers in one of the bundles it contained.
At last—it was after ten o'clock, and the music above had ceased—the welcome sounds of cab-wheels without, and then of the door-bell, came to dispel24 his fidgeting suspense25. On the instant he straightened himself, and his face rearranged its expression. He fastened upon the door of the room the controlled, calm glance of one who is easily confident about what is to happen.
“Quaker-looking” was not an inapt phrase for the person whom the maid ushered26 into the room through this door. He was a small, thin, elderly man, bowed of figure and shuffling27 in gait. His coat and large, low-crowned hat, though worn almost to shabbiness, conveyed an indefinable sense of some theological standard, or pretence28 to such a standard. His meagre face, too, with its infinity29 of anxious yet meaningless lines, and its dim spectacled eyes, so plainly overtaxed by the effort to discern anything clearly, might have belonged to any old village priest grown childish and blear-eyed in the solitude30 of stupid books. Even the blotches31 of tell-tale colour on his long nose were not altogether unclerical in their suggestion. A poor old man he seemed, as he stood blinking in the electric light of the strange, warm apartment—a helpless, worn old creature, inured32 through long years to bleak33 adverse34 winds, hoping now for nothing better in this world than present shelter.
“How do you do, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, after a moment, with nervous formality. “This is unexpectedly kind of you, sir.”
“Why—not at all!” said Thorpe, shaking him cordially by the hand. “What have we got houses for, but to put up our old friends? And how are you, anyway? You've brought your belongings35, have you? That's right!” He glanced into the hall, to make sure that they were being taken upstairs, and then closed the door. “I suppose you've dined. Take off your hat and coat! Make yourself at home. That's it—take the big chair, there—so! And now let's have a look at you. Well, Tavender, my man, you haven't grown any younger. But I suppose none of us do. And what'll you have to drink? I take plain water in mine, but there's soda36 if you prefer it. And which shall it be—Irish or Scotch37?”
Mr. Tavender's countenance38 revealed the extremity39 of his surprise and confusion at the warmth of this welcome. It apparently40 awed41 him as well, for though he shrank into a corner of the huge chair, he painstakingly42 abstained43 from resting his head against its back. Uncovered, this head gained a certain dignity of effect from the fashion in which the thin, iron-grey hair, parted in the middle, fell away from the full, intellectual temples, and curled in meek44 locks upon his collar. A vague resemblance to the type of Wesley—or was it Froebel?—might have hinted itself to the observer's mind.
Thorpe's thoughts, however, were not upon types. “Well”—he said, from the opposite chair, in his roundest, heartiest46 voice, when the other had with diffidence suffered himself to be served, and had deferentially47 lighted on one side the big cigar pressed upon him—“Well—and how's the world been using you?”
“Not very handsomely, Mr. Thorpe,” the other responded, in a hushed, constrained48 tone.
“Oh, chuck the Misters!” Thorpe bade him. “Aren't we old pals49, man? You're plain Tavender, and I'm plain Thorpe.”
“You're very kind,” murmured Tavender, still abashed50. For some minutes he continued to reply dolefully, and with a kind of shamefaced reluctance51, to the questions piled upon him. He was in evil luck: nothing had gone well with him; it had been with the greatest difficulty that he had scraped together enough to get back to London on the chance of obtaining some expert commission; practically he possessed52 nothing in the world beyond the clothes on his back, and the contents of two old carpet-bags—these admissions, by degrees, were wormed from him.
“But have you parted with the concession53, then, that you bought from me?” Thorpe suddenly asked him. “Help yourself to some more whiskey!”
Tavender sighed as he tipped the decanter. “It isn't any good,” he answered, sadly. “The Government repudiates54 it—that is, the Central Government at Mexico. Of course, I never blamed you. I bought it with my eyes open, and you sold it in perfect good faith. I never doubted that at all. But it's not worth the paper it's written on—that's certain. It's that that busted55 me—that, and some other things.”
“Well—well!” said Thorpe, blankly. His astonishment56 was obviously genuine, and for a little it kept him silent, while he pondered the novel aspects of the situation thus disclosed. Then his eyes brightened, as a new path outlined itself.
“I suppose you've got the papers?—the concession and my transfer to you and all that?” he asked, casually57.
“Oh, yes,” replied Tavender. He added, with a gleam of returning self-command—“That's all I have got.”
“Let's see—what was it you paid me?—Three thousand eight hundred pounds, wasn't it?”
Tavender made a calculation in mental arithmetic. “Yes, something like that. Just under nineteen thousand dollars,” he said.
“Well,” remarked Thorpe, with slow emphasis, “I won't allow you to suffer that way by me. I'll buy it back from you at the same price you paid for it.”
Tavender, beginning to tremble, jerked himself upright in his chair, and stared through his spectacles at his astounding58 host. “You say”—he gasped—“you say you'll buy it back!”
“Certainly,” said Thorpe. “That's what I said.”
“I—I never heard of such a thing!” the other faltered59 with increasing agitation60. “No—you can't mean it. It isn't common sense!”
“It's common decency,” replied the big man, in his most commanding manner. “It's life and death to you—and it doesn't matter a flea-bite to me. So, since you came to grief through me, why shouldn't I do the fair thing, and put you back on your legs again?”
Tavender, staring now at those shrunken legs of his, breathed heavily. The thing overwhelmed him. Once or twice he lifted his head and essayed to speak, but no speech came to his thin lips. He moistened them eventually with a long deliberate pull at his glass.
“This much ought to be understood, however,” Thorpe resumed, reflecting upon his words as he went along. “If I'm to buy back a dead horse, like that, it's only reasonable that there should be conditions. I suppose you've seen by this time that even if this concession of ours was recognized by the Government there wouldn't be any money in it to speak of. I didn't realize that two years ago, any more than you did, but it's plain enough now. The trade has proved it. A property of rubber trees has no real value—so long as there's a wilderness61 of rubber trees all round that's everybody's property. How can a man pay even the interest on his purchase money, supposing he's bought a rubber plantation62, when he has to compete with people who've paid no purchase money at all, but just get out as much as they like from the free forest? You must know that that is so.”
Tavender nodded eloquently63. “Oh yes, I know that is so. You can prove it by me.”
Thorpe grinned a little. “As it happens, that aint what I need to have you prove,” he said, dryly. “Now WE know that a rubber property is no good—but London doesn't know it. Everybody here thinks that it's a great business to own rubber trees. Why, man alive, do you know”—the audacity64 of the example it had occurred to him to cite brought a gratified twinkle to his eyes as he went on—“do you know that a man here last year actually sold a rubber plantation for four hundred thousand pounds—two millions of dollars! Not in cash, of course, but in shares that he could do something with—and before he's done with it, I'm told, he's going to make twice that amount of money out of it. That'll show you what London is like.”
“Yes—I suppose they do those things,” remarked Tavender, vaguely66.
“Well—my point is that perhaps I can do something or other with this concession of yours here. I may even be able to get my money back on it. At any rate I'll take my chances on it—so that at least you shan't lose anything by it. Of course, if you'd rather try and put it on the market yourself, why go ahead!” There was a wistful pathos67 in the way Tavender shook his head. “Big money doesn't mean anything to me any more,” he said, wearily. “I'm too old and I'm too tired. Why—four—five—yes, half a dozen times I've had enough money to last me comfortably all my life—and every time I've used it as bait to catch bigger money with, and lost it all. I don't do that any more! I've got something the matter with me internally that takes the nerve all out of me. The doctors don't agree about it, but whatever its name is I've got it for keeps. Probably I shan't live very long”—Thorpe recalled that the old man had always taken a gloomy view of his health after the third glass—“and if you want to pay me the nineteen thousand dollars, or whatever it is, why I shall say 'God bless you,' and be more than contented.”
“Oh, there's something more to it than that,” observed Thorpe, with an added element of business-like briskness68 in his tone. “If I let you out in this way—something, of course, you could never have dreamed would happen—you must do some things for me. I should want you, for example, to go back to Mexico at once. Of course, I'd pay your expenses out. Or say, I'd give you a round four thousand pounds to cover that and some other things too. You wouldn't object to that, would you?”
The man who, two hours before, had confronted existence with the change of his last five-pound note in his pocket, did not hesitate now. “Oh no, that would be all right,” with reviving animation69, he declared. He helped himself again from the cut-glass decanter. “What would you want me to do there?”
“Oh, a report on the concession for a starter,” Thorpe answered, with careful indifference70. “I suppose they still know your name as an authority. I could make that all right anyway. But one thing I ought to speak of—it might be rather important—I wouldn't like to have you mention to anybody that the concession has at any time been yours. That might tend to weaken the value of your report, don't you see? Let it be supposed that the concession has been my property from the start. You catch my point, don't you? There never was any such thing as a transfer of it to you. It's always been mine!”
Tavender gave his benefactor71 a purblind72 sort of wink65. “Always belonged to you? Why of course it did,” he said cheerfully.
The other breathed a cautious prolonged sigh of relief “You'd better light a fresh one, hadn't you?” he asked, observing with a kind of contemptuous tolerance73 the old man's efforts to ignite a cigar which had more than once unrolled like a carpenter's shaving in his unaccustomed fingers, and was now shapelessly defiant74 of both draught75 and suction. Tavender laughed to himself silently as he took a new cigar, and puffed76 at the match held by his companion. The air of innocence77 and long-suffering meekness78 was falling rapidly away from him. He put his shabby boots out confidently to the fender and made gestures with his glass as he talked.
“My mistake,” he declared, in insistent79 tones, “was in not turning down science thirty years ago and going in bodily for business. Then I should have made my pile as you seem to have done. But I tried to do something of both. Half the year I was assaying crushings, or running a level, or analyzing80 sugars, for a salary, and the other half I was trying to do a gamble with that salary on the strength of what I'd learned. You can't ring the bell that way. You've got to be either a pig or a pup. You can't do both. Now, for instance, if I'd come to London when you did, and brought my money with me instead of buying your concession with it——”
“Why, what good do you suppose you would have done?” Thorpe interrupted him with good-natured brusqueness. “You'd have had it taken from you in a fortnight! Why, man, do you know what London is? You'd have had no more chance here than a naked nigger in a swamp-full of alligators81.”
“You seem to have hit it off,” the other objected. “This is as fine a house as I was ever in.”
“With me it's different,” Thorpe replied, carelessly. “I have the talent for money-making. I'm a man in armour82. The 'gators can't bite me, nor yet the rattle-snakes.”
“Yes—men are made up differently,” Tavender assented83, with philosophical84 gravity. Then he lurched gently in the over-large chair, and fixed85 an intent gaze upon his host. “What did you make your money in?” he demanded, not with entire distinctness of enunciation86. “It wasn't rubber, was it?”
Thorpe shook his head. “There's no money in rubber. I'm entirely87 in finance—on the Stock Exchange—dealing in differences,” he replied, with a serious face.
The explanation seemed wholly acceptable to Tavender. He mused88 upon it placidly89 for a time, with his reverend head pillowed askew90 against the corner of the chair. Then he let his cigar drop, and closed his eyes.
The master of the house bent91 forward, and noiselessly helped himself to another glass of whiskey and water. Then, sinking back again, he eyed his odd guest meditatively92 as he sipped93 the drink. He said to himself that in all the miraculous94 run of luck which the year had brought him, this was the most extraordinary manifestation95 of the lot. It had been so easy to ignore the existence of this tiresome96 and fatuous97 old man, so long as he was in remote Mexico, that he had practically forgotten him. But he should not soon forget the frightened shock with which he had learned of his presence in London, that afternoon. For a minute or two, there in his sister's book-shop, it had seemed as if he were falling through the air—as if the substantial earth had crumbled98 away from under him. But then his nerve had returned to him, his resourceful brain had reasserted itself. With ready shrewdness he had gone out, and met the emergency, and made it the servant of his own purposes.
He could be glad now, unreservedly glad, that Tavender had come to London, that things had turned out as they had. In truth, he stood now for the first time on solid ground. When he thought of it, now, the risk he had been running all these months gave him a little sinking of the heart. Upon reflection, the performance of having sold the same property first to Tavender in Mexico and then to the Rubber Consols Company in London might be subject to injurious comment, or worse. The fact that it was not a real property to begin with had no place in his thoughts. It was a concession—and concessions99 were immemorially worth what they would fetch. But the other thing might have been so awkward—and now it was all right!
For an hour and more, till the fire burnt itself out and the guest's snoring became too active a nuisance, Thorpe sat lost in this congratulatory reverie. Then he rose, and sharply shaking Tavender into a semblance45 of consciousness, led him upstairs and put him to bed.
Three days later he personally saw Tavender off at Waterloo station by the steamer-train, en route for Southampton and New York. The old man was in childlike good spirits, looking more ecclesiastical than ever in the new clothes he had been enabled to buy. He visibly purred with content whenever his dim eyes caught sight of the new valise and steamer trunk, which belonged to him, on the busy platform.
“You've been very kind to me, Thorpe,” he said more than once, as they stood together beside the open door of the compartment100. “I was never so hospitably101 treated before in my life. Your attention to me has been wonderful. I call you a true friend.”
“Oh, that's all right! Glad to do it,” replied the other, lightly. In truth he had not let Tavender stray once out of his sight during those three days. He had dragged him tirelessly about London, showing him the sights from South Kensington Museum to the Tower, shopping with him, resting in old taverns102 with him, breakfasting, lunching, aud dining with him—in the indefatigable103 resolution that he should strike up no dangerous gossiping acquaintance with strangers. The task had been tiresome in the extreme—but it had been very well worth while.
“One thing I'm rather sorry about,” Tavender remarked, in apologetic parenthesis—“I ought to have gone down and seen that brother-in-law of mine in Kent. He's been very good to me, and I'm not treating him very well. I wrote to tell him I was coming—but since then I haven't had a minute to myself. However, I can write to him and explain how it happened. And probably I'll be over again sometime.”
“Why, of course,” said Thorpe, absently. The allusion104 to the brother-in-law in Kent had escaped his notice, so intent was he upon a new congeries of projects taking vague shape in his mind.
“Think of yourself as my man out there,” he said now, slowly, following the clue of his thoughts. “There may be big things to do. Write to me as often as you can. Tell me everything that's going on. Money will be no object to me—you can have as much as you like—if things turn up out there that are worth taking up. But mind you say nothing about me—or any connection you've ever had with me. You'll get a letter from the Secretary of a Company and the Chairman asking for a report on a certain property, and naming a fee. You simply make a good report—on its merits. You say nothing about anything else—about me, or the history of the concession, or its validity, or anything. I mustn't be alluded105 to in any way. You quite understand that?”
“Trust me!” said the old man, and wrung106 his benefactor's hand.
It was indeed with a trustful eye that Thorpe watched the train draw out of the station.
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1
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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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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6
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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7
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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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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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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32
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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36
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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37
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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38
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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39
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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43
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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44
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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45
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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47
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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48
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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49
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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50
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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51
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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52
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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53
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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54
repudiates
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的第三人称单数 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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55
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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57
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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58
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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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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60
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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61
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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67
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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68
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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75
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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76
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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77
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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78
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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80
analyzing
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| v.分析；分析( analyze的现在分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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81
alligators
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| n.短吻鳄( alligator的名词复数 ) | |
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82
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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83
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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85
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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86
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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87
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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88
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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90
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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91
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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92
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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93
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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94
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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95
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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96
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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97
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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98
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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99
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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100
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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101
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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102
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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103
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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104
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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105
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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