It stood proudly upon what was rather a notable elevation4 for those flat parts—a massive mansion5 of simple form, built of a grey stone which seemed at a distance almost white against the deep background of yews6 and Italian pines behind it. For many miles seaward this pale front was a landmark7. From the terrace-walk at its base, one beheld8 a great expanse of soft green country, sloping gently away for a long distance, then stretching out upon a level which on misty9 days was interminable. In bright weather, the remote, low-lying horizon had a defining line of brownish-blue—and this stood for what was left of a primitive10 forest, containing trees much older than the Norman name it bore. It was a forest which at some time, no doubt, had extended without a break till it merged11 into that of Epping—leagues away to the south. The modern clearance12 and tillage, however, which separated it now from Epping had served as a curiously13 effective barrier—more baffling than the Romans and Angles in their turn had found the original wildwood. No stranger seemed ever to find his way into that broad, minutely-cultivated fertile plain which High Thorpe looked down upon. No railway had pushed its cheapening course across it. Silent, embowered old country roads and lanes netted its expanse with hedgerows; red points of tiled roofs, distinguishable here and there in clusters among the darker greens of orchards14, identified the scattered15 hamlets—all named in Domesday Book, all seemingly unchanged since. A grey square church-tower emerging from the rooks' nests; an ordered mass of foliage16 sheltering the distant gables and chimneys of some isolated17 house; the dim perception on occasion that a rustic18 waggon19 was in motion on some highway, crawling patiently like an insect—of this placid20, inductive nature were all the added proofs of human occupation that the landscape offered.
Mr. Stormont Thorpe, on an afternoon of early October, yawned in the face of this landscape—and then idly wondered a little at the mood which had impelled21 him to do so. At the outset of his proprietorship22 he had bound himself, as by a point of honour, to regard this as the finest view from any gentleman's house in England. During the first few months his fidelity23 had been taxed a good deal, but these temptations and struggles lay now all happily behind him. He had satisfactorily assimilated the spirit of the vista24, and blended it with his own. Its inertia25, when one came to comprehend it, was undeniably magnificent, and long ago he had perceived within himself the growth of an answering repose26, a responsive lethargy, which in its full development was also going to be very fine. Practically all the land this side of the impalpable line where trees and houses began to fade into the background belonged to him; there were whole villages nestling half-concealed under its shrubberies which were his property. As an investment, these possessions were extremely unremunerative. Indeed, if one added the cost of the improvements which ought to be made, to the expenditure27 already laid out in renovations, it was questionable28 if for the next twenty years they would not represent a deficit29 on the income-sheet. But, now that he had laid hold of the local character, it pleased him that it should be so. He would not for the world have his gentle, woolly-minded, unprofitable cottagers transformed into “hustlers”; it would wound his eye to see the smoke of any commercial chimney, the smudge of any dividend-paying factory, staining the pure tints30 of the sylvan31 landscape. He had truly learned to love it.
Yet now, as he strolled on the terrace with his first after-luncheon cigar, he unaccountably yawned at the thing he loved. Upon reflection, he had gone to bed rather earlier the previous evening than usual. He had not been drinking out of the ordinary; his liver seemed right enough. He was not conscious of being either tired or drowsy32. He looked again at the view with some fixity, and said to himself convincingly that nothing else in England could compare with it. It was the finest thing there was anywhere. Then he surprised himself in the middle of another yawn—and halted abruptly33. It occurred to him that he wanted to travel.
Since his home-coming to this splendid new home in the previous January, at the conclusion of a honeymoon35 spent in Algiers and Egypt, he had not been out of England. There had been a considerable sojourn36 in London, it is true, at what was described to him as the height of the Season, but looking back upon it, he could not think of it as a diversion. It had been a restless, over-worked, mystifying experience, full of dinners to people whom he had never seen before, and laborious37 encounters with other people whom he did not particularly want to see again. There had been no physical comfort in it for him, and little more mental satisfaction, for Londoners, or rather people in London, seemed all to be making an invidious distinction in their minds between him and his wife. The fact that she continued to be called Lady Cressage was not of itself important to him. But in the incessant38 going about in London, their names were called out together so often that his ear grew sensitive and sore to the touch of the footmen's reverberations. The meaning differentiation39 which the voices of the servants insisted upon, seemed inevitably40 reflected in the glance and manner of their mistresses. More than anything else, that made him hate London, and barred the doors of his mind to all thoughts of buying a town-house.
His newly-made wife, it is true, had not cared much for London, either, and had agreed to his decision against a town-house almost with animation41. The occasion of their return from the hot bustle42 of the metropolis43 to these cool home shades—in particular the minute in which, at a bend in the winding44 carriage-way down below, they had silently regarded together the spectacle uplifted before them, with the big, welcoming house, and the servants on the terrace—had a place of its own in his memory. Edith had pressed his arm, as they sat side by side in the landau, on the instant compulsion of a feeling they had in common. He had never, before or since, had quite the same assurance that she shared an emotion with him.
He was very far, however, from finding fault with his wife. It was in the nature of the life he chose to lead that he should see a great deal of her, and think a great deal about her, and she bore both tests admirably. If there was a fault to be found, it was with himself for his inability to altogether understand her. She played the part she had undertaken to play with abundant skill and discretion45 and grace, and even with an air of nice good-fellowship which had some of the aspects of affection. He was vaguely46 annoyed with himself for having insight enough to perceive that it was a part she was playing, and yet lacking the added shrewdness to divine what her own personal attitude to her role was like. He had noticed sometimes the way good women looked at their husbands when the latter were talking over their heads—with the eager, intent, non-comprehending admiration47 of an affectionate dog. This was a look which he could not imagine himself discovering in his wife's eves. It was not conceivable to him that he should talk over her head. Her glance not only revealed an ample understanding of all he said, but suggested unused reserves of comprehension which he might not fathom49. It was as if, intellectually no less than socially, she possessed50 a title and he remained an undistinguished plebeian51.
He made no grievance52, however, even in his own thoughts, of either inequality. She had been charmingly frank and fair about the question of the names, when it first arose. The usage had latterly come to be, she explained, for a widow bearing even a courtesy title derived53 from her late husband, to retain it on marrying again. It was always the easiest course to fall in with usage, but if he had any feelings on the subject, and preferred to have her insist on being called Mrs. Thorpe, she would meet his wishes with entire willingness. It had seemed to him, as to her, that it was wisest to allow usage to settle the matter. Some months after their marriage there appeared in the papers what purported54 to be an authoritative55 announcement that the Queen objected to the practice among ladies who married a second time, of retaining titles acquired by the earlier marriages, and that the lists of precedency at Buckingham Palace would henceforth take this into account. Lady Cressage showed this to her husband, and talked again with candour on the subject. She said she had always rather regretted the decision they originally came to, and even now could wish that it might be altered, but that to effect a change in the face of this newspaper paragraph would seem servile—and in this as in most other things he agreed with her. As she said, they wanted nothing of Buckingham Palace.
She wanted equally little, it seemed, of the society which the neighbouring district might afford. There was a meagre routine of formal calls kept in languid operation, Thorpe knew, but it was so much in the background that he never came in contact with it. His own notions of the part he ought to take in County affairs had undergone a silent and unnoted, yet almost sweeping57, change. What little he saw of the gentry58 and strong local men with whom he would have to work, quietly undermined and dismantled59 all his ambitions in that direction. They were not his sort; their standards for the measurement of things were unintelligible60 to him. He did not doubt that, if he set himself about it, he could impose his dominion61 upon them, any more than he doubted that, if he mastered the Chinese language, he could lift himself to be a Mandarin62, but the one would be as unnatural63 and unattractive an enterprise as the other. He came to be upon nodding terms with most of the “carriage-people” round about; some few he exchanged meaningless words with upon occasion, and understood that his wife also talked with, when it was unavoidable, but there his relationship to the County ended, and he was well pleased that it should be so. It gave him a deep satisfaction to see that his wife seemed also well pleased.
He used the word “seemed” in his inmost musings, for it was never quite certain what really did please and displease64 her. It was always puzzling to him to reconcile her undoubted intellectual activity with the practical emptiness of the existence she professed65 to enjoy. In one direction, she had indeed a genuine outlet66 for her energies, which he could understand her regarding in the light of an occupation. She was crazier about flowers and plants than anybody he had ever heard of, and it had delighted him to make over to her, labelled jocosely67 as the bouquet-fund, a sum of money which, it seemed to him, might have paid for the hanging-gardens of Babylon. It yielded in time—emerging slowly but steadily68 from a prodigious69 litter of cement and bricks and mortar70 and putty, under the hands of innumerable masons, carpenters, glaziers, plumbers71, and nondescript subordinates, all of whom talked unwearyingly about nothing at all, and suffered no man to perform any part of his allotted72 task without suspending their own labours to watch him—an imposing73 long line of new greenhouses, more than twenty in number. The mail-bag was filled meanwhile with nurserymen's catalogues, and the cart made incessant journeys to and from Punsey station, bringing back vast straw-enwrapped baskets and bundles and boxes beyond counting, the arrival and unpacking74 of which was with Edith the event of the day. About the reality of her engrossed75 interest in all the stages of progress by which these greenhouses became crowded museums of the unusual and abnormal in plant-life, it was impossible to have any suspicion. And even after they were filled to overflowing76, Thorpe noted56 with joy that this interest seemed in no wise to flag. She spent hours every day under the glass, exchanging comments and theories with her gardeners, and even pulling things about with her own hands, and other hours she devoted77 almost as regularly to supervising the wholesale78 alterations79 that had been begun in the gardens outside. There were to be new paths, new walls with a southern exposure, new potting sheds, new forcing pits, new everything—and in the evenings she often worked late over the maps and plans she drew for all this. Thorpe's mind found it difficult to grasp the idea that a lady of such notable qualities could be entirely80 satisfied by a career among seeds and bulbs and composts, but at least time brought no evidences of a decline in her horticultural zeal81. Who knew? Perhaps it might go on indefinitely.
As for himself, he had got on very well without any special inclination82 or hobby. He had not done any of the great things that a year ago it had seemed to him he would forthwith do—but his mind was serenely83 undisturbed by regrets. He did not even remember with any distinctness what these things were that he had been going to do. The routine of life—as arranged and borne along by the wise and tactful experts who wore the livery of High Thorpe—was abundantly sufficient in itself. He slept well now in the morning hours, and though he remained still, by comparison, an early riser, the bath and the shaving and slow dressing84 under the hands of a valet consumed comfortably a good deal of time. Throughout the day he was under the almost constant observation of people who were calling him “master” in their minds, and watching to see how, in the smallest details of deportment, a “master” carried himself, and the consciousness of this alone amounted to a kind of vocation85. The house itself made demands upon him nearly as definite as those of the servants. It was a house of huge rooms, high ceilings, and grandiose86 fireplaces and stairways, which had seemed to him like a royal palace when he first beheld it, and still produced upon him an effect of undigestible largeness and strangeness. It was as a whole not so old as the agents had represented it, by some centuries, but it adapted itself as little to his preconceived notions of domesticity as if it had been built by Druids. The task of seeming to be at home in it had as many sides to it as there were minutes in the day—and oddly enough, Thorpe found in their study and observance a congenial occupation. Whether he was reading in the library—where there was an admirable collection of books of worth—or walking over the home-farms, or driving in his smart stanhope with the coachman behind, or sitting in formal costume and dignity opposite his beautiful wife at the dinner-table, the sense of what was expected of him was there, steadying and restraining, like an atmospheric87 pressure.
Thus far they had had few visitors, and had accepted no invitations to join house-parties elsewhere. They agreed without speaking about it that it was more their form to entertain than to be entertained, and certain people were coming to them later in the month. These were quite wholly of Edith's set and selection, for Thorpe had no friends or acquaintances outside her circle for whose presence he had any desire—and among these prospective88 guests were a Duke and a Duchess. Once, such a fact would have excited Thorpe's imagination. He regarded it now as something appropriate under the circumstances, and gave it little further thought. His placid, satisfied life was not dependent upon the stir of guests coming and going, even though they were the great of the earth. He walked on his spacious89 terrace after luncheon—a tall, portly, well-groomed figure of a man, of relaxed, easy aspect, with his big cigar, and his panama hat, and his loose clothes of choice fabrics90 and exquisite91 tailoring—and said to himself that it was the finest view in England—and then, to his own surprise, caught himself in the act of yawning.
From under the silk curtains and awning92 of a window-doorway at the end of the terrace, his wife issued and came toward him. Her head was bare, and she had the grace and fresh beauty of a young girl in her simple light gown of some summery figured stuff.
“What do you say to going off somewhere—tomorrow if you like—travelling abroad?” he called out, as she approached him. The idea, only a moment old in his mind, had grown to great proportions. “How can we?” she asked, upon the briefest thought. “THEY are coming at the end of the week. This is Monday, and they arrive on the 12th—that's this Saturday.”
“So soon as that!” he exclaimed. “I thought it was later. H-m! I don't know—I think perhaps I'll go up to London this evening. I'm by way of feeling restless all at once. Will you come up with me?”
She shook her head. “I can't think of anything in London that would be tolerable.”
He gave a vague little laugh. “I shall probably hate it myself when I get there,” he speculated. “There isn't anybody I want to see—there isn't anything I want to do. I don' t know—perhaps it might liven me up.”
Her face took on a look of enquiring93 gravity. “Are you getting tired of it, then?” She put the question gently, almost cautiously.
He reflected a little. “Why—no,” he answered, as if reasoning to himself. “Of course I'm not. This is what I've always wanted. It's my idea of life to a 't.' Only—I suppose everything needs a break in it now and then—if only for the comfort of getting back into the old rut again.”
“The rut—yes,” she commented, musingly94. “Apparently95 there's always a rut.”
Thorpe gave her the mystified yet uncomplaining glance she knew so well in his eyes. For once, the impulse to throw hidden things up into his range of view prevailed with her.
“Do you know,” she said, with a confused half-smile at the novelty of her mood for elucidation96, “I fancied a rut was the one thing there could be no question about with you. I had the notion that you were incapable97 of ruts—and conventional grooves98. I thought you—as Carlyle puts it—I thought you were a man who had swallowed all the formulas.”
Thorpe looked down at his stomach doubtfully. “I see what you mean,” he said at last, but in a tone without any note of conviction.
“I doubt it,” she told him, with light readiness—“for I don't see myself what I mean. I forget indeed what it was I said. And so you think you'll go up to town tonight?”
A sudden comprehension of what was slipping away from his grasp aroused him. “No—no,” he urged her, “don't forget what it was you said! I wish you'd talk more with me about that. It was what I wanted to hear. You never tell me what you're really thinking about.” She received the reproach with a mildly incredulous smile in her eyes. “Yes—I know—who was it used to scold me about that? Oh”—she seemed suddenly reminded of something—“I was forgetting to mention it. I have a letter from Celia Madden. She is back in England; she is coming to us Saturday, too.”
He put out his lips a trifle. “That's all right,” he objected, “but what has it got to do with what we were talking about?”
“Talking about?” she queried99, with a momentarily blank countenance100. “Oh, she used to bully101 me about my deceit, and treachery, and similar crimes. But I shall be immensely glad to see her. I always fight with her, but I think I like her better than any other woman alive.”
“I like her too,” Thorpe was impelled to say, with a kind of solemnity. “She reminds me of some of the happiest hours in my life.”
His wife, after a brief glance into his face, laughed pleasantly, if with a trace of flippancy102. “You say nice things,” she observed, slightly inclining her head. “But now that Celia is coming, it would be as well to have another man. It's such dreadfully short notice, though.”
“I daresay your father could come, all right,” Thorpe suggested. “I'd rather have him than almost anyone else. Would you mind asking him—or shall I?”
An abrupt34 silence marked this introduction of a subject upon which the couple had differed openly. Thorpe, through processes unaccountable to himself, had passed from a vivid dislike of General Kervick to a habit of mind in which he thoroughly103 enjoyed having him about. The General had been twice to High Thorpe, and on each occasion had so prolonged his stay that, in retrospect104, the period of his absence seemed inconsiderable. The master now, thinking upon it in this minute of silence, was conscious of having missed him greatly. He would not have been bored to the extremity105 of threatening to go to London, if Kervick had been here. The General was a gentleman, and yet had the flexible adaptability106 of a retainer; he had been trained in discipline, and hence knew how to defer107 without becoming fulsome108 or familiar; he was a man of the world and knew an unlimited109 number of racy stories, and even if he repeated some of them unduly110, they were better than no stories at all. And then, there was his matchless, unfailing patience in playing chess or backgammon or draughts111 or bezique, whatever he perceived that the master desired.
“If you really wish it,” Edith said at last, coldly.
“But that's what I don't understand,” Thorpe urged upon her with some vigour112. “If I like him, I don't see why his own daughter——”
“Oh, need we discuss it?” she broke in, impatiently. “If I'm an unnatural child, why then I am one, and may it not be allowed to pass at that?” A stormy kind of smile played upon her beautifully-cut lips as she added: “Surely one's filial emotions are things to be taken for granted—relieved from the necessity of explanation.”
Thorpe grinned faintly at the hint of pleasantry, but he did not relinquish113 his point. “Well—unless you really veto the thing—I think I'd like to tell him to come,” he said, with composed obstinacy114. Upon an afterthought he added: “There's no reason why he shouldn't meet the Duke, is there?”
“No specific reason,” she returned, with calm coolness of tone and manner. “And certainly I do not see myself in the part of Madame Veto.”
“All right then—I'll send him a wire,” said Thorpe. His victory made him uneasy, yet he saw no way of abandoning it with decorum.
As the two, standing48 in a silence full of tacit constraint115, looked aimlessly away from the terrace, they saw at the same instant a vehicle with a single horse coming rather briskly up the driveway, some hundreds of yards below. It was recognizable at once as the local trap from Punsey station, and as usual it was driven by a boy from the village. Seated beside this lad was a burly, red-bearded man in respectable clothes, who, to judge from the tin-box and travelling-bags fastened on behind, seemed coming to High Thorpe to stay.
“Who on earth is that?” asked Thorpe, wonderingly. The man was obviously of the lower class, yet there seemed something about him which invited recognition.
“Presumably it's the new head-gardener,” she replied with brevity.
Her accent recalled to Thorpe the fact that there had been something disagreeable in their conversation, and the thought of it was unpleasant to him. “Why, I didn't know you had a new man coming,” he said, turning to her with an overture116 of smiling interest.
“Yes,” she answered, and then, as if weighing the proffered117 propitiation and rejecting it, turned slowly and went into the house.
The trap apparently ended its course at some back entrance: he did not see it again. He strolled indoors, after a little, and told his man to pack a bag for London, and order the stanhope to take him to the train.
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1
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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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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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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deficit
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| n.亏空，亏损；赤字，逆差 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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differentiation
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| n.区别，区分 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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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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42
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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45
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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46
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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47
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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48
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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49
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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50
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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51
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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52
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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53
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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54
purported
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.声称是…，（装得）像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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56
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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57
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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58
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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59
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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60
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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61
dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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62
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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63
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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64
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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65
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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66
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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70
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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71
plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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72
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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75
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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82
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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83
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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84
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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85
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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86
grandiose
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| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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90
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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91
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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92
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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93
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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94
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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95
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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96
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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97
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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98
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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99
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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102
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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103
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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104
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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105
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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106
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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107
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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108
fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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109
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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110
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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111
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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112
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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113
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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114
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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115
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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116
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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117
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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