It was a long time since he had liked himself and his surroundings so little. The bed seemed all right to the eye, and even to the touch, but he had slept very badly in it, none the less. The room was luxuriously1 furnished, as was the entire suite3, but it was all strange and uncomfortable to his senses. The operation of shaving and dressing4 in solitude5 produced an oppression of loneliness. He regretted not having brought his man with him for this reason, and then, upon meditation6, for other reasons. A person of his position ought always to have a servant with him. The hotel people must have been surprised at his travelling unattended—and the people at High Thorpe must also have thought it strange. It flashed across his mind that no doubt his wife had most of all thought it strange. How would she explain to herself his sudden, precipitate7 journey to London alone? Might she not quite naturally put an unpleasant construction upon it? It was bad enough to have to remember that they had parted in something like a tiff8; he found it much worse to be fancying the suspicions with which she would be turning over his mysterious absence in her mind.
He went downstairs as speedily as possible and, discovering no overt9 signs of breakfast in the vicinity of the restaurant, passed out and made his way to the Embankment. This had been a favourite walk of his in the old days—but he considered it now with an unsympathetic eye. It seemed a dry and haggard and desolate-looking place by comparison with his former impressions of it. The morning was grey-skied, but full of a hard quality of light, which brought out to the uncompromising uttermost the dilapidated squalor of the Surrey side. The water was low, and from the mud and ooze10 of the ugly opposite shore, or perhaps from the discoloured stream itself, there proceeded a smell which offended his unaccustomed nostril11. A fitful, gusty12 wind was blowing from the east, and ever and again it gathered dust in eddying13 swoops14 from the roadway, and flung it in his face.
He walked on toward the City, without any conscious purpose, and with no very definite reflections. It occurred to him that if his wife did impute15 to him some unworthy motive16 in stealing off to London, and made herself unhappy in doing so—that would at least provide the compensation of showing that she cared. The thought, however, upon examination, contained very meagre elements of solace17. He could not in the least be sure about any of the workings of her mind. There might be more or less annoyance18 mixed up this morning with the secret thoughts she had concerning him—or she might not be bothering her head about him at all. This latter contingency19 had never presented itself so frankly20 to him before. He looked hard at it, and saw more semblances21 of probability about it than he liked. It might very well be that she was not thinking about him one way or the other.
A depressing consciousness that practically nobody need think about him pervaded22 his soul. Who cared what he said or did or felt? The City had forgotten his very existence. In the West End, only here and there some person might chance to remember his name as that of some rich bounder who had married Lady Cressage. Nowhere else in England, save one dull strip of agricultural blankness in a backward home county, was there a human being who knew anything whatever about him. And this was his career! It was for this that he had planned that memorable23 campaign, and waged that amazing series of fortnightly battles, never missing victory, never failing at any point of the complicated strategy, and crowning it all with a culminating triumph which had been the wonder and admiration24 of the whole financial world! A few score of menials or interested inferiors bowed to him; he drove some good horses, and was attentively25 waited upon, and had a never-failing abundance of good things to eat and drink aud smoke. Hardly anything more than that, when you came to think of it—and the passing usufruct of all these things could be enjoyed by any fool who had a ten-pound note in his pocket!
What gross trick had the fates played on him? He had achieved power—and where was that power? What had he done with it? What COULD he do with it? He had an excess of wealth, it was true, but in what way could it command an excess of enjoyment26? The very phrase was a paradox27, as he dimly perceived. There existed only a narrow margin28 of advantage in favour of the rich man. He could eat and drink a little more and a little better than the poor man; he could have better clothes, and lie abed later in the morning, and take life easier all round—but only within hard and fast bounds. There was an ascertained29 limit beyond which the millionaire could no more stuff himself with food and wine than could the beggar. It might be pleasant to take an added hour or two in bed in the morning, but to lie in bed all day would be an infliction30. So it ran indefinitely—this thin selvedge of advantage which money could buy—with deprivation31 on the one side, and surfeit32 on the other. Candidly33, was it not true that more happiness lay in winning the way out of deprivation, than in inventing safeguards against satiety34? The poor man succeeding in making himself rich—at numerous stages of the operation there might be made a moral snap-shot of the truly happy man. But not after he had reached the top. Then disintegration35 began at once. The contrast between what he supposed he could do, and what he finds it possible to do, is too vast to be accepted with equanimity36.
It must be said that after breakfast—a meal which he found in an Italian restaurant of no great cleanliness or opulence37 of pretension38, and ate with an almost novel relish—Thorpe took somewhat less gloomy views of his position. He still walked eastward39, wandering into warehouse40 and shipping41 quarters skirting the river, hitherto quite unknown to him, and pursuing in an idle, inconsequent fashion his meditations42. He established in his mind the proposition that since an excess of enjoyment was impossible—since one could not derive43 a great block of happiness from the satisfaction of the ordinary appetites, but at the most could only gather a little from each—the desirable thing was to multiply as much as might be those tastes and whims44 and fancies which passed for appetites, and thus expand the area of possible gratification.
This seemed very logical indeed, but it did not apply itself to his individual needs with much facility. What did he want to do that he had not done? It was difficult for him to say. Perhaps it was chandlers' signs and windows about him, and the indefinable seafaring preoccupation suggested by the high-walled, narrow streets, which raised the question of a yacht in his mind. Did he want a yacht? He could recall having once dwelt with great fondness upon such a project: doubtless it would still be full of attractions for him. He liked the water, and the water liked him—and he was better able now than formerly45 to understand how luxurious2 existence can be made in modern private ships. He decided46 that he would have a yacht—and then perceived that the decision brought no exhilaration. He was no happier than before. He could decide that he would have anything he chose to name—and it would in no whit47 lighten his mood. The yacht might be as grand as High Thorpe, and relatively48 as spacious49 and well ordered, but would he not grow as tired of the one as he had of the other?
He stopped short at this blunt self-expression of something he had never admitted to himself. Was he indeed tired of High Thorpe? He had assured his wife to the contrary yesterday. He reiterated50 the assurance to his own mind now. It was instead that he was tired of himself. He carried a weariness about with him, which looked at everything with apathetic51 eyes, and cared for nothing. Some nameless paralysis52 had settled upon his capacity for amusement and enjoyment, and atrophied53 it. He had had the power to expand his life to the farthest boundaries of rich experience and sensation, and he had deliberately54 shrunk into a sort of herbaceous nonentity55, whom nobody knew or cared about. He might have had London at his beck and call, and yet of all that the metropolis56 might mean to a millionaire, he had been able to think of nothing better than that it should send old Kervick to him, to help beguile57 his boredom58 with dominoes and mess-room stories! Pah! He was disgusted with himself.
Striking out a new course, with the Monument as his guide, he presently came into a part of the City which had a certain familiarity for him. He walked up St. Swithin's Lane, looking at the strange forms of foreign fruit exposed at the shop-doors, and finding in them some fleeting59 recurrence60 of the hint that travel was what he needed. Then he stopped, to look through the railings and open gateway61 at an enclosure on the left, and the substantial, heavily-respectable group of early Victorian buildings beyond. Some well-dressed men were standing62 talking in one of the porches. The stiff yellowish-stucco pilasters of this entrance, and the tall uniformed figure of the porter in the shadow, came into the picture as he observed it; they gave forth63 a suggestion of satisfied smugness—of orderly but altogether unillumined routine. Nothing could be more commonplace to the eye.
Yet to his imagination, eighteen months before, what mysterious marvels64 of power had lurked65 hidden behind those conventional portals! Within those doors, in some inner chamber66, sat men whose task it was to direct the movements of the greatest force the world had ever known. They and their cousins in Paris and Frankfort, or wherever they lived, between them wielded67 a vaster authority than all the Parliaments of the earth. They could change a government, or crush the aspirations68 of a whole people, or decide a question of peace or war, by the silent dictum of their little family council. He remembered now how he had stood on this same spot, and stared with fascinated gaze at this quadrangle of dull houses, and pondered upon what it must feel like to be a Rothschild—and that was only a little over a year ago!
There was no sense of fascination69 whatever in his present gaze. He found himself regarding instead, with a kind of detached curiosity, the little knot of men in frock-coats and silk-hats who stood talking in the doorway70. It was barely ten o'clock, yet clearly business was proceeding71 within. One of these persons whom he beheld72 might be a Rothschild, for aught he knew; at any rate, it was presumable that some of them were on the premises73. He had heard it said that the very head of the house listened to quotations74 from the tape while he ate his luncheon75, and interrupted his conversations with the most important of non-commercial callers, to make or refuse bargains in shares offered by brokers77 who came in. What impulse lay behind this extraordinary devotion to labour? Toward what conceivable goal could it be striving?
To work hard and risk great things for the possession of a fortune, in order to enjoy it afterward—he could understand how that attracted men. But to possess already the biggest of human fortunes, and still work—that baffled him. He wished he knew some of those men in there, especially if they belonged to the place. It would be wonderfully interesting to get at the inner point of view of New Court.
A little later, in Colin Semple's office, he sat down to await the coming of that gentleman. “Then he doesn't get here so early nowadays?” he suggested to the head-clerk who, with instant recognition and exaggerated deference78, had ushered79 him into this furthermost private room. It pleased him to assume that prosperity had relaxed the Scotchman's vigilance.
“Oh yes, sir,” the clerk replied. “A bit earlier if anything, as a rule. But I think he is stopping at his solicitors80 on his way to the City. I hope you are very well, sir.”
“Yes—I'm very fit—thanks,” Thorpe said, listlessly, and the other left him.
Mr. Semple, when at last he arrived, bustled81 into the room with unaffected gratification at the news he had heard without. “Well, well, Thorpe man!” he cried, and shook hands cordially. “This is fine! If I'd only known you were in town! Why wouldn't you have told me you were coming? I'd never have kept you waiting.”
Thorpe laughed wearily. “I hardly knew I was in town myself. I only ran up last night. I thought it would amuse me to have a look round—but things seem as dull as ditchwater.”
“Oh no,” said Semple, “the autumn is opening verra well indeed. There are more new companies, and a better public subscription82 all round, than for any first week of October I remember. Westralians appear bad on the face of things, it's true—but don't believe all you hear of them. There's more than the suspicion of a 'rig' there. Besides, you haven't a penny in them.”
“I wasn't thinking of that,” Thorpe told him, with comprehensive vagueness. “Well, I suppose you're still coining money,” he observed, after a pause.
“Keeping along—keeping along,” the broker76 replied, cheerfully. “I canna complain.” Thorpe looked at him with a meditative83 frown. “Well, what are you going to do with it, after you've got it?” he demanded, almost with sharpness.
The Scotchman, after a surprised instant, smiled. “Oh, I'll just keep my hands on it,” he assured him, lightly.
“That isn't what I mean,” Thorpe said, groping after what he did mean, with sullen84 tenacity85, among his thoughts. His large, heavy face exhibited a depressed86 gravity which attracted the other's attention.
“What's the matter?” Semple asked quickly. “Has anything gone wrong with you?”
Thorpe slowly shook his head. “What better off do you think you'll be with six figures than you are with five?” he pursued, with dogmatic insistence87.
Semple shrugged88 his shoulders. He seemed to have grown much brighter and gayer of mood in this past twelvemonth. Apparently89 he was somewhat stouter90, and certainly there was a mellowed91 softening92 of his sharp glance and shrewd smile. It was evident that his friend's mood somewhat nonplussed93 him, but his good-humour was unflagging.
“It's the way we're taught at school,” he hazarded, genially94. “In all the arithmetics six beats five, and seven beats six.”
“They're wrong,” Thorpe declared, and then consented to laugh in a grudging95, dogged way at his friend's facial confession96 of puzzlement. “What I mean is—what's the good of piling up money, while you can't pile up the enjoyments97 it will buy? What will a million give you, that the fifth of it, or the tenth of it, won't give you just as well?”
“Aye,” said Semple, with a gleam of comprehension in his glance. “So you've come to that frame of mind, have you? Why does a man go on and shoot five hundred pheasants, when he can eat only one?”
“Oh, if you like the mere98 making of money, I've nothing more to say,” Thorpe responded, with a touch of resentment99. “I've always thought of you as a man like myself, who wanted to make his pile and then enjoy himself.”
The Scotchman laughed joyously100. “Enjoy myself! Like you!” he cried. “Man, you're as doleful as a mute at a laird's funeral! What's come over you? I know what it is. You go and take a course of German waters——”
“Oh, that be damned!” Thorpe objected, gloomily. “I tell you I'm all right. Only—only—God! I've a great notion to go and get drunk.”
Colin Semple viewed his companion with a more sympathetic expression. “I'm sorry you're so hipped,” he said, in gentle tones. “It can't be more than some passing whimsy101. You're in no real trouble, are you?—no family trouble?”
Thorpe shook his head. “The whole thing is rot!” he affirmed, enigmatically.
“What whole thing?” The broker perched on the edge of his desk, and with patient philosophy took him up. “Do you mean eighty thousand a year is rot? That depends upon the man who has it.”
“I know that well enough,” broke in the other, heavily. “That's what I'm kicking about. I'm no good!”
Semple, looking attentively down upon him, pursed his lips in reflection. “That's not the case,” he observed with argumentative calmness. “You're a great deal of good. I'm not so sure that what you've been trying to do is any good, though. Come!—I read you like large print. You've set out to live the life of a rich country squire—and it hasn't come off. It couldn't come off! I never believed it would. You haven't the taste for it inbred in your bones. You haven't the thousand little habits and interests that they take in with their mother's milk, and that make such a life possible. When you look at a hedge, you don't think of it as something to worry live animals out of. When you see one of your labourers, you don't care who his father was, or which dairymaid his uncle ought to have married, if he had wanted to get a certain cottage. You don't want to know the name of everybody whose roof you can see; much less could you remember them, and talk about them, and listen to gossip about them, year after year. It isn't a passion in your blood to ride to hounds, and to shoot, and all that. It doesn't come to you by tradition—and you haven't the vacancy102 of mind which might be a substitute for tradition. What are you doing in the country, then? Just eating too much, and sitting about, and getting fat and stupid. If you want the truth, there it is for you.”
Thorpe, putting out his lips judicially103, inclined upon reflection to the view that this was the truth. “That's all right, as far as it goes,” he assented104, with hesitation105. “But what the hell else is there?”
The little Scotchman had grown too interested in his diagnosis106 to drop it in an incomplete state. “A year ago,” he went on, “you had won your victories like a veritable Napoleon. You had everything in your own hands; Napoleon himself was not more the master of what he saw about him than you were. And then what did you do? You voluntarily retired107 yourself to your Elba. It wasn't that you were beaten and driven there by others; you went of your own accord. Have you ever thought, Thorpe, of this? Napoleon was the greatest man of his age—one of the greatest men of all ages—not only in war but in a hundred other ways. He spent the last six years of his life at St. Helena—in excellent health and with companions that he talked freely to—and in all the extraordinarily108 copious109 reports of his conversations there, we don't get a single sentence worth repeating. If you read it, you'll see he talked like a dull, ordinary body. The greatness had entirely110 evaporated from him, the moment he was put on an island where he had nothing to do.”
“Yes-s,” said Thorpe, thoughtfully. He accepted the application without any qualms111 about the splendour of the comparison it rested upon. He had done the great things, just as Semple said, and there was no room for false modesty112 about them in his mind. “The trouble is,” he began, “that I did what I had always thought I wanted to do most. I was quite certain in my mind that that was what I wanted. And if we say now that I was wrong—if we admit that that wasn't what I really wanted—why then, God knows what it is I DO want. I'll be hanged if I do!”
“Come back to the City,” Semple told him. “That's where you belong.”
“No—no!” Thorpe spoke113 with emphasis. “That's where you're all off. I don't belong in the City at all. I hate the whole outfit114. What the devil amusement would it be to me to take other men's money away from them? I'd be wanting all the while to give it back to them. And certainly I wouldn't get any fun out of their taking my money away from me. Besides, it doesn't entertain me. I've no taste at all for it. I never look at a financial paper now. I could no more interest myself in all that stuff again than I could fly. That's the hell of it—to be interested in anything.”
“Go in for politics,” the other suggested, with less warmth.
“Yes, I know,” Thorpe commented, with a lingering tone. “Perhaps I ought to think more about that. By the way, what's Plowden doing? I've lost all track of him.”
“Abroad somewhere, I fancy,” Semple replied. His manner exhibited a profound indifference115. “When his mother died he came into something—I don't know how much. I don't think I've seen him since—and that must have been six months and more ago.”
“Yes. I heard about it at the time,” the other said. “It must be about that. His sister and brother—the young Plowdens—they're coming to us at the end of the week, I believe. You didn't hit it off particularly with Plowden, eh?”
Semple emitted a contemptuous little laugh. “I did not quarrel with him—if you mean that,” he said, “but even to please you, Thorpe, I couldn't bring myself to put my back into the job of making money for him. He was treated fairly—even generously, d'ye mind. I should think, all told, he had some thirty thousand pounds for his shares, and that's a hundred times as much as I had a pleasure in seeing him get. Each man can wear his own parasites116, but it's a task for him to stand another man's. I shook your Lord Plowden off, when the chance came.”
“THAT'S all right,” Thorpe assured him, easily. “I never told you that he was any good. I merely felt like giving him a leg up—because really at the start he was of use to me. I did owe him something....It was at his house that I met my wife.”
“Aye,” said Semple, with dispassionate brevity.
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1
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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tiff
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| n.小争吵，生气 | |
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overt
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| adj.公开的，明显的，公然的 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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nostril
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| n.鼻孔 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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semblances
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| n.外表，外观（semblance的复数形式） | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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52
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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55
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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56
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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57
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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58
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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59
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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60
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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61
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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62
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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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66
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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68
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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69
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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70
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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71
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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72
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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73
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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74
quotations
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| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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75
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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76
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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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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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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81
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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84
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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88
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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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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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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93
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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95
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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96
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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97
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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98
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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99
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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100
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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101
whimsy
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| n.古怪，异想天开 | |
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102
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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103
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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104
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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106
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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107
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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108
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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109
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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110
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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111
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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112
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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113
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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114
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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115
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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116
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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