He looked into her eyes and smiled, as he bowed over the hand she extended to him. His glance expressed with forceful directness his thought: “Ah, then she has told you!”
The complacent1 consciousness of producing a fine effect in evening-clothes had given to Mr. Stormont Thorpe habitually2 now a mildness of manner, after the dressing3 hour, which was lacking to his deportment in the day-time. The conventional attire4 of ceremony, juggled5 in the hands of an inspired tailor, had been brought to lend to his ponderous6 figure a dignity, and even something of a grace, which the man within assimilated and made his own. It was an equable and rather amiable7 Thorpe whom people encountered after nightfall—a gentleman who looked impressive enough to have powerful performances believed of him, yet seemed withal an approachable and easy-going person. Men who saw him at midnight or later spoke8 of him to their womenkind with a certain significant reserve, in which trained womankind read the suggestion that the “Rubber King” drank a good deal, and was probably not wholly nice in his cups.
This, however, could not be said to render him less interesting in any eyes. There was indeed about it the implication of a generous nature, or at the least of a blind side—and it is not unpleasant to discover these attributes in a new man who has made his half-million, and has, or may have, countless9 favours to bestow10.
It was as if his tongue instead of his eyes had uttered the exclamation—“Ah, then she has told you!”—for Miss Madden took it as having been spoken. “I'm not disposed to pretend that I'm overjoyed about it, you know,” she said to him bluntly, as their hands dropped, and they stood facing each other. “If I said I congratulated you, it would be only the emptiest form. And I hate empty forms.”
“Why should you think that I won't make a good husband?” Thorpe asked the question with a good-natured if peremptory11 frankness which came most readily to him in the presence of this American lady, herself so outspoken12 and masterful.
“I don't know that I specially13 doubt it,” she replied. “I suppose any man has in him the makings of what is called a good husband—if the conditions are sufficiently14 propitious15.”
“Well then—what's the matter with the conditions?” he demanded, jocosely16.
Miss Madden shrugged17 her shoulders slightly. Thorpe noted18 the somewhat luxuriant curves of these splendid shoulders, and the creamy whiteness of the skin, upon which, round the full throat, a chain of diamonds lay as upon satin—and recalled that he had not seen her before in what he phrased to himself as so much low-necked dress. The deep fire-gleam in her broad plaits of hair gave a wonderful brilliancy to this colouring of brow and throat and bosom19. He marvelled20 at himself for discovering only now that she also was beautiful—and then thrilled with pride at the thought that henceforth his life might be passed altogether among beautiful women, radiant in gems21 and costly22 fabrics23, who would smile upon him at his command.
“Oh, I have no wish to be a kill-joy,” she protested. “I'm sure I hope all manner of good results from the—the experiment.”
“I suppose that's what it comes to,” he said, meditatively24. “It's all an experiment. Every marriage in the world must be that—neither more nor less.”
“With all the experience of the ages against its coming out right.” She had turned to move toward a chair, but looked now over her shoulder at him. “Have you ever seen what seemed to you an absolutely happy marriage in your life?”
Upon reflection he shook his head. “I don't recall one on the spur of the minute,” he confessed. “Not the kind, I mean, that you read about in books. But I've seen plenty where the couple got along together in a good, easy, comfortable sort of way, without a notion of any sort of unpleasantness. It's people who marry too young who do most of the fighting, I imagine. After people have got to a sensible age, and know what they want and what they can get along without, why then there's no reason for any trouble. We don't start out with any school-boy and school-girl moonshine.”
“Oh, there's a good deal to be said for the moonshine,” she interrupted him, as she sank upon the sofa.
“Why certainly,” he assented25, amiably26, as he stood looking down at her. “The more there is of it, the better—if it comes naturally, and people know enough to understand that it is moonshine, and isn't the be-all and end-all of everything.”
“There's a lover for you!” Miss Madden cried, with mirth and derision mingled27 in her laugh.
“Don't you worry about me,” he told her. “I'm a good enough lover, all right. And when you come to that, if Edith is satisfied, I don't precisely28 see what——”
“What business it is of mine?” she finished the sentence for him. “You're entirely29 right. As you say, IF she's satisfied, no one else has anything to do with it.”
“But have you got any right to assume that she isn't satisfied?” he asked her with swift directness—“or any reason for supposing it?”
Miss Madden shook her head, but the negation30 seemed qualified31 by the whimsical smile she gave him. “None whatever,” she said—and on the instant the talk was extinguished by the entrance of Lady Cressage.
Thorpe's vision was flooded with the perception of his rare fortune as he went to meet her. He took the hand she offered, and looked into the smile of her greeting, and could say nothing. Her beauty had gathered to it new forces in his eyes—forces which dazzled and troubled his glance. The thought that this exquisite33 being—this ineffable34 compound of feeling and fine nerves and sweet wisdom and wit and loveliness—belonged to him seemed too vast for the capacity of his mind. He could not keep himself from trembling a little, and from diverting to a screen beyond her shoulder a gaze which he felt to be overtly35 dimmed and embarrassed.
“I have kept you waiting,” she murmured.
The soft sound of her voice came to his ears as from a distance. It bore an unfamiliar36 note, upon the strangeness of which he dwelt for a detached instant. Then its meaning broke in upon his consciousness from all sides, and lighted up his heavy face with the glow of a conqueror's self-centred smile. He bent37 his eyes upon her, and noted with a controlled exaltation how her glance in turn deferred38 to his, and fluttered beneath it, and shrank away. He squared his big shoulders and lifted his head. Still holding her jewelled hand in his, he turned and led her toward the sofa. Halting, he bowed with an exaggerated genuflection39 and flourish of his free hand to Miss Madden, the while he flashed at her a glance at once of challenge and of deprecation. Through the sensitized contact of the other hand, he felt that the woman he held bowed also, and in his own spirit of confused defiance40 and entreaty41. The laugh he gave then seemed to dispel42 the awkwardness which had momentarily hung over the mocking salutation.
Miss Madden laughed too. “Oh, I surrender,” she said. “You drag congratulations from me.”
Some quality in the tone of this ungracious speech had the effect of putting the party at its ease. Lady Cressage seated herself beside her friend on the sofa, and gently, abstractedly, patted one of her hands. Thorpe remained on his feet, looking down at the pair with satisfied cheerfulness. He tool, a slip of paper from his pocket, to support a statement he was making.
“I'm forever telling you what a strain the City is on a man in my position,” he said—“and today I had the curiosity to keep an account of what happened. Here it is. I had thirty callers. Of those, how many do you suppose came to see me on my own business? Just eight. That is to say, their errands were about investments of mine, but most of them managed to get in some word about axes of their own to grind. All the rest made no pretence43 at all of thinking about anybody but themselves. I've classified them, one by one, here.
“First, there were six men who wanted me to take shares of one sort or another, and I had to more or less listen to what they tried to make out their companies were like. They were none of them any good. Eight different fellows came to me with schemes that haven't reached the company stage. One had a scheme for getting possession of a nigger republic in the West Indies by raising a loan, and then repudiating44 all the previous loans. Another wanted me to buy a paper for him, in which he was to support all my enterprises. Another wanted to start a bank—I apparently45 to find the money, and he the brains. One chap wanted me to finance a theatrical46 syndicate—he had a bag full of photographs of an actress all eyes and teeth and hair,—and another chap had a scheme all worked out for getting a concession47 from Spain for one of the Caroline Islands, and putting up a factory there for making porpoise-hide leather.
“Then there were three inventors—let's see, here they are—one with a coiled wire spring for scissors inside a pocket-knife, and one with a bottle, the whole top of which unscrews instead of having a cork48 or stopper, and one with an electrical fish-line, a fine wire inside the silk, you know, which connects with some battery when a fish bites, and rings a bell, and throws out hooks in various directions, and does all sorts of things.
“Well then, there was a man who wanted me to take the chairmanship of a company, and one who wanted me to guarantee an overdraft49 at his bank, and two who wanted to borrow money on stock, and one parson-fellow who tried to stick me for a subscription50 to some Home or other he said he had for children in the country. He was the worst bounder of the lot.
“Well, there's twenty-seven people—and twenty of them strangers to me, and not worth a penny to me, and all trying to get money out of me. Isn't that a dog's life for one?”
“I don't know,” said Miss Madden, contemplatively. “A lady may have twice that number of callers in an afternoon—quite as great strangers to all intents and purposes—and not even have the satisfaction of discovering that they had any object whatever in calling. At least your people had some motive51: the grey matter in their brain was working. And besides, one of them might have had something to say which you would value. I don't think that ever happens among a lady's callers; does it, Edith?”
Edith smiled, pleasantly and yet a little wistfully, but said nothing.
“At any rate,” Thorpe went on, with a kind of purpose gathering52 in his eyes, “none of those fellows cost me anything, except in time. But then I had three callers, almost in a bunch, and one of them took out of me thirty thousand pounds, and another fifteen thousand pounds, and the third—an utter stranger he was—he got an absolute gratuity53 of ten thousand pounds, besides my consent to a sale which, if I had refused it, would have stood me in perhaps forty or fifty thousand pounds more. You ladies may thank your stars you don't have that kind of callers!”
The sound of these figures in the air brought a constrained54 look to the faces of the women. Seemingly they confronted a subject which was not to their liking55. The American, however, after a moment's pause, took it up in an indifferent manner.
“You speak of an 'absolute gratuity.' I know nothing of London City methods—but isn't ten thousand pounds a gratuity on a rather large scale?”
Thorpe hesitated briefly56, then smiled, and, with slow deliberation, drew up a chair and seated himself before them. “Perhaps I don't mind telling you about it,” he began, and paused again. “I had a letter in my mail this morning,” he went on at last, giving a sentimental57 significance to both tone and glance—“a letter which changed everything in the world for me, and made me the proudest and happiest man above ground. And I put that letter in my pocket, right here on the left side—and it's there now, for that matter”—he put his hand to his breast, as if under the impulse to verify his words by the production of the missive, and then stopped and flushed.
The ladies, watching him, seemed by their eyes to condone58 the mawkishness59 of the demonstration60 which had tempted61 him. There was indeed a kind of approving interest in their joint62 regard, which he had not experienced before.
“I had it in my pocket,” he resumed, with an accession of mellow63 emotion in his voice, “and none of the callers ever got my thoughts very far from that letter. And one of these was an old man—a French banker who must be seventy years old, but dyes his hair a kind of purple black—and it seems that his nephew had got the firm into a terrible kind of scrape, selling 2,000 of my shares when he hadn't got them to sell and couldn't get them—and the old man came to beg me to let him out at present market figures. He got Lord Chaldon—he's my Chairman, you know—to bring him, and introduce him as his friend, and plead for him—but I don't think all that, by itself, would have budged64 me an atom. But then the old man told how he was just able to scrape together money enough to buy the shares he needed, at the ruling price, and he happened to mention that his niece's marriage portion would have to be sacrificed. Well, then, do you know, that letter in my pocket said something to me....And—well, that's the story. The girl' s portion, I wormed it out of him, was ten thousand...and I struck that much off the figure that I allowed him to buy his shares, and save his firm, for....It was all the letter that did it, mind you!”
He concluded the halting narrative65 amid a marked silence. The ladies looked at him and at each other, but they seemed surprised out of their facility of comment. In this kind of flustered66 hush67, the door was opened and dinner was announced.
Miss Madden welcomed the diversion by rising with ostentatious vigour68. “I will take myself out,” she declared, with cheerful promptness leading the way. Lady Cressage took the arm Thorpe offered her, and gave no token of comprehending that her wrist was being caressingly69 pressed against his side as they moved along.
At the little table shining in the centre of the dark, cool dining-room, talk moved idly about among general topics. A thunderstorm broke over the town, at an early stage of the dinner, and the sound of the rushing downpour through the open windows, and the breath of freshness which stirred the jaded70 air, were pleasanter than any speech. Thoughts roved intuitively country-ward, where the long-needed rain would be dowering the landscape with new life—where the earth at sunrise would be green again, and buoyant in reawakened energy, and redolent with the perfumes of sweetest summer. They spoke of the fields and the moors71 with the longing72 of tired town-folk in August.
“Oh, when I get away”—said Thorpe, fervently73, “it seems to me that I don't want ever to come back. These last few weeks have got terribly on my nerve. And really—why should I come back? I've been asking myself the question—more today than ever before. Of course everything has been different today. But if I'm to get any genuine good out of my—my fortune—I must pull away from the City altogether sometime—and why not now? Of course, some important things are still open—and they have to be watched night and day—but after all, Semple—that's my Broker—he could do it for me. At the most, it won't last more than another six weeks. There is a settlement-day next week, the 15th, and another a fortnight after, on the 29th, and another on September 12th. Well, those three days, if they're worked as I intend they shall be, and nothing unforeseen happens, will bring in over four hundred thousand pounds, and close the 'corner' in Rubber Consols for good. Then I need never see the City again, thank God! And for that matter—why, what is six weeks? It's like tomorrow. I'm going to act as if I were free already. The rain fills me full of the country. Will you both come with me tomorrow or next day, and see the Pellesley place in Hertfordshire? By the photographs it's the best thing in the market. The newest parts of it are Tudor—and that's what I've always wanted.”
“How unexpected you are!” commented Miss Madden. “You are almost the last person I should have looked to for a sentiment about Tudor foundations.”
Thorpe put out his lips a trifle. “Ah, you don't know me,” he replied, in a voice milder than his look had promised. “Because I'm rough and practical, you mustn't think I don't know good things when I see them. Why, all the world is going to have living proof very soon”—he paused, and sent a smile surcharged with meaning toward the silent member of the trio—“living proof that I'm the greatest judge of perfection in beauty of my time.”
He lifted his glass as he spoke, and the ladies accepted with an inclination74 of the head, and a touch of the wine at their lips, his tacit toast. “Oh, I think I do know you,” said Celia Madden, calmly discursive75. “Up to a certain point, you are not so unlike other men. If people appeal to your imagination, and do not contradict you, or bore you, or get in your way, you are capable of being very nice indeed to them. But that isn't a very uncommon76 quality. What is uncommon in you—at least that is my reading—is something which according to circumstances may be nice, or very much the other way about. It's something which stands quite apart from standards of morals or ethics77 or the ordinary emotions. But I don't know, whether it is desirable for me to enter into this extremely personal analysis.”
“Oh yes, go on,” Thorpe urged her. He watched her face with an almost excited interest.
“Well—I should say that you possessed78 a capacity for sudden and capricious action in large matters, equally impatient of reasoning and indifferent to consequences, which might be very awkward, and even tragic79, to people who happened to annoy you, or stand in your road. You have the kind of organization in which, within a second, without any warning or reason, a passing whim32 may have worked itself up into an imperative80 law—something you must obey.”
The man smiled and nodded approvingly: “You've got me down fine,” he said.
“I talk with a good deal of confidence,” she went on, with a cheerless, ruminative81 little laugh, “because it is my own organization that I am describing, too. The difference is that I was allowed to exploit my capacity for mischief82 very early. I had my own way in my teens—my own money, my own power—of course only of a certain sort, and in a very small place. But I know what I did with that power. I spread trouble and misery83 about me—always of course on a small scale. Then a group of things happened in a kind of climax—a very painful climax—and it shook the nonsense out of me. My brother and my father died—some other sobering things happened...and luckily I was still young enough to stop short, and take stock of myself, and say that there were certain paths I would never set foot on again—and stick to it. But with you—do you see?—power only comes to you when you are a mature man. Experiences, no matter how unpleasant they are, will not change you now. You will not be moved by this occurrence or that to distrust yourself, or reconsider your methods, or form new resolutions. Oh no! Power will be terrible in your hands, if people whom you can injure provoke you to cruel courses——”
“Oh, dear—dear!” broke in Lady Cressage. “What a distressing84 Mrs. Gummidge-Cassandra you are, Celia! Pray stop it!”
“No—she's right enough,” said Thorpe, gravely. “That's the kind of man I am.”
He seemed so profoundly interested in the contemplation of this portrait which had been drawn85 of him, that the others respected his reflective silence. He sat for some moments, idly fingering a fork on the table, and staring at a blotch86 of vivid red projected through a decanter upon the cloth.
“It seems to me that's the only kind of man it's worth while to be,” he added at last, still speaking with thoughtful deliberation. “There's nothing else in the world so big as power—strength. If you have that, you can get everything else. But if you have it, and don't use it, then it rusts87 and decays on your hands. It's like a thoroughbred horse. You can't keep it idle in the stable. If you don't exercise it, you lose it.”
He appeared to be commenting upon some illustration which had occurred to his own mind, but was not visible to his auditors88. While they regarded him, he was prompted to admit them to his confidence.
“There was a case of it today,” he said, and then paused.
“Precisely,” put in Miss Madden. “The fact that some Frenchwoman, of whom you had never heard before, was going to lose her marriage portion caught your attention, and on the instant you presented her with $10,000, an exercise of power which happens to be on the generous side—but still entirely unreasoning, and not deserving of any intellectual respect. And here's the point: if it had happened that somebody else chanced to produce an opposite impression upon you, you would have been capable of taking $50,000 away from him with just as light a heart.”
Thorpe's face beamed with repressed amusement. “As a matter of fact it was that kind of case I was going to mention. I wasn't referring to the girl and her marriage portion. A young man came to me today—came into my room all cock-a-whoop, smiling to himself with the notion that he had only to name what he wanted, and I would give it to him—and——”
He stopped abruptly89, with a confused little laugh. He had been upon the brink90 of telling about Lord Plowden's discomfiture91, and even now the story itched92 upon his tongue. It cost him an effort to put the narrative aside, the while he pondered the arguments which had suddenly reared themselves against publicity93. When at last he spoke, it was with a glance of conscious magnanimity toward the lady who had consented to be his wife.
“Never mind,” he said, lightly. “There wasn't much to it. The man annoyed me, somehow—and he didn't get what he came for—that's all.”
“But he was entitled to get it?” asked Celia Madden. Thorpe's lips pouted94 over a reply. “Well—no,” he said, with a kind of reluctance95. “He got strictly96 what he was entitled to—precisely what I had promised him—and he wrung97 up his nose at that—and then I actually gave him 15,000 pounds he wasn't entitled to at all.”
“I hardly see what it proves, then,” Edith Cressage remarked, and the subject was dropped.
Some two hours later, Thorpe took his departure. It was not until he was getting into the hansom which had been summoned, that it all at once occurred to him that he had not for a moment been alone with his betrothed98. Upon reflection, as the cab sped smoothly99 forward, this seemed odd to him. He decided100 finally that there was probably some social rule about such things which he didn't understand.
In the drawing-room of the house in Grafton Street which he had quitted, the two ladies sat with faces averted101 from each other, in constrained silence.
Edith Cressage rose at last, and took a few aimless steps, with her hands at her hair. “Well—I'm embarked—fairly under way!” she said, in clear-cut, almost provocative102 tones.
“I don't at all know what to say,” her companion replied, slowly. “I fancy that you exaggerate my disapproval103. Perhaps it ought not even to be called disapproval at all. It is only that I am puzzled—and a little frightened.”
“Oh, I am frightened too,” said the other, but with eagerness rather than trepidation104 in her voice. “That is why I did not give you the signal to leave us alone. I couldn't quite get up the nerve for it. But would you believe it?—that is one of the charms of the thing. There is an excitement about it that exhilarates me. To get happiness through terror—you can't understand that, can you?”
“I'm trying. I think I'm beginning to understand,” said Miss Madden, vaguely105.
“Did you ever set yourself to comprehending why Marie Stuart married Bothwell?” asked Edith, looking down upon the other with illuminating106 fixity. “You have it all—all there. Marie got tired of the smooth people, the usual people. There was the promise of adventure, and risk, and peril107, and the grand emotions with the big, dark brute108.”
“It isn't a happy story—this parallel that you pick out,” commented Celia, absently.
“Happy! Pah!” retorted Edith, with spirit. “Who knows if it wasn't the only really happy thing in her life? The snobs110 and prigs all scold her and preach sermons at her—they did it in her lifetime: they do it now——” “Oh come, I'm neither a snob109 nor a prig,” put in Celia, looking up in her turn, and tempering with a smile the energy of her tone—“I don't blame her for her Bothwell; I don't criticize her. I never was even able to mind about her killing111 Darnley. You see I take an extremely liberal view. One might almost call it broad. But if I had been one of her ladies—her bosom friends—say Catherine Seton—and she had talked with me about it—I think I should have confessed to some forebodings—some little misgivings112.”
“And do you know what she would have said?” Edith's swift question, put with a glowing face and a confident voice, had in it the ring of assured triumph. “She would have answered you: 'My dearest girl, all my life I have done what other people told me to do. In my childhood I was given in marriage to a criminal idiot. In my premature113 widowhood I was governed by a committee of scoundrels of both sexes until another criminal idiot was imposed upon me as a second husband. My own personality has never had the gleam of a chance. I have never yet done any single thing because I wanted to do it. Between first my politician-mother and her band of tonsured114 swindlers, and then my cantankerous115 brother and his crew of snarling116 and sour-minded preachers, and all the court liars117 and parasites118 and spies that both sides surrounded me with, I have lived an existence that isn't life at all. I purport119 to be a woman, but I have never been suffered to see a genuine man. And now here is one—or what I think to be one—and I'm given to understand that he is a pirate and a murderer and an unspeakable ruffian generally—but he takes my fancy, and he has beckoned120 to me to come to him, and so you will kindly121 get me my hat and jacket and gloves.' That's what she would have said to you, my dear.”
“And I”—said Celia, rising after a moment's pause, and putting her hand upon Edith's arm—“I would have answered, 'Dearest lady, in whatever befalls, I pray you never to forget that I am to the end your fond and devoted122 and loyal servant.'”
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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countless
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bestow
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peremptory
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outspoken
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specially
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sufficiently
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propitious
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jocosely
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shrugged
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noted
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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marvelled
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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meditatively
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assented
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amiably
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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28
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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29
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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30
negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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31
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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32
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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33
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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34
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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35
overtly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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36
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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37
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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38
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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39
genuflection
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| n. 曲膝, 屈服 | |
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40
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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41
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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42
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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43
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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44
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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45
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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46
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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47
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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48
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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49
overdraft
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| n.透支，透支额 | |
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50
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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51
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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52
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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53
gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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54
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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55
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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56
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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57
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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58
condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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59
mawkishness
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60
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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61
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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62
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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63
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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64
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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65
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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66
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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67
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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68
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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69
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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70
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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71
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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73
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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74
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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75
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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76
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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77
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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78
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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79
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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80
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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81
ruminative
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| adj.沉思的，默想的，爱反复思考的 | |
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82
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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83
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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84
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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85
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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86
blotch
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| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
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87
rusts
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| n.铁锈( rust的名词复数 )；（植物的）锈病，锈菌v.（使）生锈( rust的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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89
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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90
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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91
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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92
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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94
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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96
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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97
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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98
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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99
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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100
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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101
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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102
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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103
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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104
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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105
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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106
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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107
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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108
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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109
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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110
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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111
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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112
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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113
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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114
tonsured
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| v.剃( tonsure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
cantankerous
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| adj.爱争吵的，脾气不好的 | |
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116
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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117
liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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118
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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119
purport
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| n.意义，要旨，大要；v.意味著，做为...要旨，要领是... | |
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120
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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122
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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