I sat beside Daisy, and we talked. It was at the beginning a highly superficial conversation, as I remember it, during which neither looked at the other, and each made haste to fill up any threatened lapse1 into silence by words of some sort, it mattered not much what.
She told me a great deal about Mr. Stewart's health, which I learned was far less satisfactory than his letters had given reason to suspect. In reply to questions, I told her of my business and my daily life here in Albany. I did not ask her in return about herself. She seemed eager to forestall2 any possible inquiry3 on this point, and hastened to inform me as to my old acquaintances in the Valley.
From her words I first realized how grave the situation there had suddenly become. It was not only that opposition4 to the Johnsons had been openly formulated5, but feuds6 of characteristic bitterness had sprung up within families, and between old-time friends, in consequence. Colonel Henry Frey, who owned the upper Canajoharie mills, took sides with the Tories, and had fiercely quarrelled with his brother John, who was one of the Whig Committee. There was an equally marked division in the Herkimer family, where one brother, Hon-Yost Herkimer, and his nephew, outraged7 the others by espousing8 the Tory cause. So instances might be multiplied. Already on one side there were projects of forcible resistance, and on the other ugly threats of using the terrible Indian power, which hung portentous9 on the western skirt of the Valley, to coerce10 the Whigs.
I gained from this recital11, more from her manner than her words, that her sympathies were with the people and not with the aristocrats12. She went on to say things which seemed to offer an explanation of this.
The tone of Valley society, at least so far as it was a reflection of Johnson Hall, had, she said, deteriorated13 wofully since the old baronet's death. A reign14 of extravagance and recklessness both as to money and temper--of gambling15, racing16, hard drinking, low sports, and coarse manners--had set in. The friends of Sir John were now a class by themselves, having no relations to speak of with the body of Whig farmers, merchants, inn-keepers, and the like. Rather it seemed to please the Tory clique17 to defy the good opinion of their neighbors, and show by very excess and license18 contempt for their judgment19. Some of the young men whom I had known were of late sadly altered. She spoke20 particularly of Walter Butler, whose moodiness21 had now been inflamed22, by dissipation and by the evil spell which seemed to hang over everything in the Valley, into a sinister23 and sombre rage at the Whigs, difficult to distinguish sometimes from madness.
In all this I found but one reflection--rising again and again as she spoke--and this was that she was telling me, by inference, the story of her own unhappiness.
Daisy would never have done this consciously--of that I am positive. But it was betrayed in every line of her face, and my anxious ear caught it in every word she uttered as to the doings of the Johnson party. Doubtless she did not realize how naturally and closely I would associate her husband with that party.
Underneath24 all our talk there had been, on both sides, I dare say, a sense of awkward constraint25. There were so many things which we must not speak of--things which threatened incessantly26 to force their way to the surface.
I thought of them all, and wondered how much she knew of the events that preceded my departure--how much she guessed of the heart-breaking grief with which I had seen her go to another. It came back to me now, very vividly27, as I touched the satin fold of her gown with my shoe, and said to myself, "This is really she."
The two years had not passed so uncomfortably, it is true; work and pre-occupation and the change of surroundings had brought me back my peace of mind and taken the keen edge from my despair--which was to have been life-long, and had faded in a month. Yet now her simple presence--with the vague added feeling that she was unhappy--sufficed to wipe out the whole episode of Albany, and transport me bodily back to the old Valley days. I felt again all the anguish28 at losing her, all the bitter wrath29 at the triumph of my rival--emphasized and intensified30 now by the implied confession31 that he had proved unworthy.
To this gloom there presently succeeded, by some soft, subtle transition, the consciousness that it was very sweet to sit thus beside her. The air about us seemed suddenly filled with some delicately be-numbing influence. The chattering32, smiling, moving throng33 was here, close upon us, enveloping34 us in its folds. Yet we were deliciously isolated35. Did she feel it as I did?
I looked up into her face. She had been silent for I know not how long, following her thoughts as I had followed mine. It was almost a shock to me to find that the talk had died away, and I fancied that I read a kindred embarrassment36 in her eyes. I seized upon the first subject which entered my head.
"Tulp would be glad to see you," I said, foolishly enough.
She colored slightly, and opened and shut her fan in a nervous way. "Poor Tulp!" she said, "I don't think he ever liked me as he did you. Is he well?"
"He has never been quite the same since--since he came to Albany. He is a faithful body-servant now--nothing more."
"Yes," she said, softly, with a sigh; then, after a pause, "Philip spoke of offering to make good to you your money loss in Tulp, but I told him he would better not."
"It was better not," I answered.
Silence menaced us again. I did not find myself indignant at this insolent37 idea of the Englishman's. Instead, my mind seemed to distinctly close its doors against the admission of his personality. I was near Daisy, and that was enough; let there be no thoughts of him whatsoever38.
"You do Tulp a wrong," I said. "Poor little fellow! Do you remember--" and so we drifted into the happy, sunlit past, with its childish memories for both of games and forest rambles39, and innocent pleasures making every day a little blissful lifetime by itself, and all the years behind our parting one sweet prolonged delight.
Words came freely now; we looked into each other's faces without constraint, and laughed at the pastimes we recalled. It was so pleasant to be together again, and there was so much of charm for us both in the time which we remembered together.
Sir John Johnson and his party had left the punch--or what remained of it--and came suddenly up to us. Behind the baronet I saw young Watts40, young De Lancey, one or two others whom I did not know, and, yes!--it was he--Philip Cross.
He had altered in appearance greatly. The two years had added much flesh to his figure, which was now burly, and seemed to have diminished his stature41 in consequence. His face, which even I had once regarded as handsome, was hardened now in expression, and bore an unhealthy, reddish hue42. For that matter, all these young men were flushed with drink, and had entered rather boisterously43, attracting attention as they progressed. This attention was not altogether friendly. Some of the ladies had drawn45 in their skirts impatiently, as they passed, and beyond them I saw a group of Dutch friends of mine, among them Teunis, who were scowling46 dark looks at the new-comers.
Sir John recognized me as he approached, and deigned47 to say, "Ha! Mauverensen--you here?" after a cool fashion, and not offering his hand.
I had risen, not knowing what his greeting would be like. It was only decent now to say: "I was much grieved to hear of your honored father's death last summer."
"Well you might be!" said polite Sir John. "He served you many a good purpose. I saw you talking out yonder with Schuyler, that coward who dared not go to Philadelphia and risk his neck for his treason. I dare say he, too, was convulsed with grief over my father's death!"
"Perhaps you would like to tell Philip Schuyler to his face that he is a coward," I retorted, in rising heat at the unprovoked insolence48 in his tone. "There is no braver man in the Colony."
"But he didn't go to Philadelphia, all the same. He had a very pretty scruple49 about subscribing50 his name to the hangman's list."
"He did not go for a reason which is perfectly51 well known--his illness forbade the journey."
"Yes," sneered52 the baronet, his pale eyes shifting away from my glance; "too ill for Philadelphia, but not too ill for New York, where, I am told, he has been most of the time since your--what d'ye call it?--Congress assembled."
I grew angry. "He went there to bury General Bradstreet. That, also, is well known. Information seems to reach the Valley but indifferently, Sir John. Everywhere else people understand and appreciate the imperative53 nature of the summons which called Colonel Schuyler to New York. The friendship of the two men has been a familiar matter of knowledge this fifteen years. I know not your notions of friendship's duties; but for a gentleman like Schuyler, scarcely a mortal illness itself could serve to keep him from paying the last respect to a friend whose death was such an affliction to him."
Johnson had begun some response, truculent54 in tone, when an interruption came from a most unexpected source. Philip Cross, who had looked at me closely without betraying any sign of recognition, put his hand now on Sir John's shoulder.
"Bradstreet?" he said. "Did I not know him? Surely he is the man who found his friend's wife so charming that he sent that friend to distant posts--to England, to Quebec, to Oswego, and Detroit--and amused himself here at home during the husband's absence. I am told he even built a mansion55 for her while the spouse56 was in London on business. So he is dead, eh?"
I had felt the bitter purport57 of his words, almost before they were out. It was a familiar scandal in the mouths of the Johnson coterie--this foul58 assertion that Mrs. Schuyler, one of the best and most faithful of helpmates, as witty59 as she was beautiful, as good as she was diligent60, in truth, an ideal wife, had pursued through many years a course of deceit and dishonor, and that her husband, the noblest son of our Colony, had been base enough to profit by it. Of all the cruel and malignant61 things to which the Tories laid their mean tongues, this was the lowest and most false. I could not refrain from putting my hand on my sword-hilt as I answered:
"Such infamous62 words as these are an insult to every gentleman, the world over, who has ever presented a friend to his family!"
Doubtless there was apparent in my face, as in the exaggerated formality of my bow to Cross, a plain invitation to fight. If there had not been, then my manner would have wofully belied63 my intent. It was, in fact, so plain that Daisy, who sat close by my side, and, like some others near at hand, had heard every word that had passed, half-started to her feet and clutched my sleeve, as with an appeal against my passionate64 purpose.
Her husband had not stirred from his erect65 and arrogant66 posture67 until he saw his wife's frightened action. I could see that he noted68 this, and that it further angered him. He also laid his hand on his sword now, and frigidly69 inclined his wigged70 head toward me.
"I had not the honor of addressing you, sir," he said, in a low voice, very much at variance71 with the expression in his eyes. "I had no wish to exchange words with you, or with any of your sour-faced tribe. But if you desire a conversation--a lengthy72 and more private conversation--I am at your disposition73. Let me say here, however,"--and he glanced with fierce meaning at Daisy as he spoke--"I am not a Schuyler; I do not encourage 'friends.'"
Even Sir John saw that this was too much.
"Come, come, Cross!" he said, going to his friend. "Your tongue runs away with you." Then, in a murmur74, he added: "Damn it, man! Don't drag your wife into the thing. Skewer75 the Dutchman outside, if you like, and if you are steady enough, but remember what you are about."
I could hear this muttered exhortation76 as distinctly as I had heard Cross's outrageous77 insult. Sir John's words appealed to me even more than they did to his companion. I was already ashamed to have been led into a display of temper and a threat of quarrelling, here in the company of ladies, and on such an occasion. We were attracting attention, moreover, and Teunis and some of his Dutch friends had drawn nearer, evidently understanding that a dispute was at hand. The baronet's hint about Daisy completed my mortification78. I should have been the one to think of her, to be restrained by her presence, and to prevent, at any cost, her name being associated with the quarrel by so much as the remotest inference.
So I stood irresolute79, with my hand still on my sword, and black rage still tearing at my heart, but with a mist of self-reproach and indecision before my eyes, in which lights, costumes, powdered wigs80, gay figures about me, all swam dizzily.
Stephen Watts, a man in manner, though a mere81 stripling in years, had approached me from the other group, a yard off, in a quiet way to avoid observation. He whispered:
"There must be no quarrel here, Mr. Mauverensen. And there must be no notice taken of his last words--spoken in heat, and properly due, I dare say, to the punch rather than to the man."
"I feel that as deeply as you can," I replied.
"I am glad," said Watts, still in a sidelong whisper. "If you must fight, let there be some tolerable pretext82."
"We have one ready standing," I whispered back. "When we last met I warned him that at our next encounter I should break every bone in his skin. Is not that enough?"
"Capital! Who is your friend?"
By some remarkable83 intuition my kinsman84 Teunis was prompted to advance at this. I introduced the two young men to each other, and they sauntered off, past where Sir John was still arguing with Cross, and into the outer hall. I stood watching them till they disappeared, then looking aimlessly at the people in front of me, who seemed to belong to some strange phantasmagoria.
It was Daisy's voice which awakened85 me from this species of trance. She spoke from behind her fan, purposely avoiding looking up at me.
"You are going to fight--you two!" she murmured.
I could not answer her directly, and felt myself flushing with embarrassment. "He spoke in heat," I said, stumblingly. "Doubtless he will apologize--to you, at least."
"You do not know him. He would have his tongue torn out before he would admit his wrong, or any sorrow for it."
To this I could find no reply. It was on my tongue's end to say that men who had a pride in combining obstinacy86 with insolence must reap what they sow, but I wisely kept silence.
She went on:
"Promise me, Douw, that you will not fight. It chills my heart, even the thought of it. Let it pass. Go away now--anything but a quarrel! I beseech87 you!"
"'Tis more easily said than done," I muttered back to her. "Men cannot slip out of du--out of quarrels as they may out of coats."
"For my sake!" came the whisper, with a pleading quaver in it, from behind the feathers.
"It is all on one side, Daisy," I protested. "I must be ridden over, insulted, scorned, flouted88 to my face--and pocket it all! That is a nigger's portion, not a gentleman's. You do not know what I have borne already."
"Do I not? Ah, too well! For my sake, Douw, for the sake of our memories of the dear old home, I implore89 you to avoid an encounter. Will you not--for me?"
"It makes a coward out of me! Every Tory in the two counties will cackle over the story that a Dutchman, a Whig, was affronted90 here under the Patroon's very roof, and dared not resent it."
"How much do you value their words? Must a thing be true for them to say it? The real manhood is shown in the strength of restraint, not the weakness of yielding to the impulse of the moment. And you can be strong if you choose, Douw!"
While I still pondered these words Teunis Van Hoorn returned to me, having finished his consultation91 with Watts, whom I now saw whispering to Sir John and the others who clustered about Cross.
The doctor was in good spirits. He sidled up to me, uttering aloud some merry commonplace, and then adding, in a low tone:
"I was a match for him. He insisted that they were the aggrieved92 party, and chose swords. I stuck to it that we occupied that position, and had the right to choose pistols. You are no Frenchman, to spit flesh with a wire; but you can shoot, can't you? If we stand to our point, they must yield."
I cast a swift glance toward the sweet, pleading face at my side, and made answer:
"I will not fight!"
My kinsman looked at me with surprise and vexation.
"No," I went on, "it is not our way here. You have lived so long abroad that duelling seems a natural and proper thing. But we stay-at-homes no more recognize the right of these English fops to force their fighting customs upon us than we rush to tie our hair in queues because it is their fashion."
I will not pretend that I was much in love with the line of action thus lamely93 defended. To the contrary, it seemed to me then a cowardly and unworthy course; but I had chosen it, and I could not retreat.
There was upon the moment offered temptation enough to test my resolution sorely.
Many of the ladies had in the meantime left the room, not failing to let it be seen that they resented the wrangling94 scene which had been thrust upon them. Mistress Daisy had crossed the floor to where Lady Johnson stood, with others, and this frightened group were now almost our sole observers.
Philip Cross shook himself loose from the restraining circle of friends, and strode toward me, his face glowing darkly with passion, and his hands clinched95.
"You run away, do you?" he said. "I have a mind, then, to thrash you where you stand, you canting poltroon96! Do you hear me?--here, where you stand!"
"I hear you," I made answer, striving hard to keep my voice down and my resolution up. "Others hear you, too. There are ladies in the room. If you have any right to be among gentlemen, it is high time for you to show it. You are acting44 like a blackguard."
"Hear the preaching Dutchman!" he called out, with a harsh, scornful laugh, to those behind him. "He will teach me manners, from his hiding-place behind the petticoats.--Come out, you skunk-skin pedler, and I'll break that sword of yours over your back!"
Where this all would have ended I cannot tell. My friends gathered around beside me, and at my back. Cross advanced a step or two nearer to me, his companions with him. I felt, rather than saw, the gestures preceding the drawing of swords. I cast a single glance toward the group of women across the room--who, huddled97 together, were gazing at us with pale faces and fixed98 eyes--and I dare say the purport of my glance was that I had borne all I could, and that the results were beyond my control--when suddenly there came an unlooked-for interruption.
The dignified99, sober figure of Abraham Ten Broeck appeared in our wrathful circle. Some one had doubtless told him, in the outer hall, of the quarrel, and he had come to interfere100. A hush101 fell over us all at his advent102.
"What have we here, gentlemen?" asked the merchant, looking from one to another of our heated faces with a grave air of authority. "Are you well advised to hold discussions here, in what ought to be a pleasant and social company?"
No ready answer was forthcoming. The quarrel was none of my manufacture, and it was not my business to explain it to him. The Tories were secretly disgusted, I fancy, with the personal aspects of the dispute, and had nothing to say. Only Cross, who unfortunately did not know the new-comer, and perhaps would not have altered his manner if he had known him, said uncivilly:
"The matter concerns us alone, sir. It is no affair of outsiders."
I saw the blood mount to Mr. Ten Broeck's dark cheeks, and the fire flash in his eyes. But the Dutch gentleman kept tight bit on his tongue and temper.
"Perhaps I am not altogether an outsider, young sir," he replied, calmly. "It might be thought that I would have a right to civil answers here."
"Who is he?" asked Cross, contemptuously turning his head toward Sir John.
Mr. Ten Broeck took the reply upon himself. "I am the uncle and guardian103 of your boy-host," he said, quietly. "In a certain sense I am myself your host--though it may be an honor which I shall not enjoy again."
There was a stateliness and solidity about this rebuke104 which seemed to impress even my headstrong antagonist105. He did not retort upon the instant, and all who listened felt the tension upon their emotions relaxed. Some on the outskirts106 began talking of other things, and at least one of the principals changed his posture with a sense of relief.
Philip Cross presently went over to where the ladies stood, exchanged a few words with them, and then with his male friends left the room, affecting great composure and indifference107. It was departing time; the outer hall was beginning to display cloaks, hoods108, and tippets, and from without could be heard the voices of the negroes, bawling109 out demands for carriages.
I had only a momentary110 chance of saying farewell to Daisy. Doubtless I ought to have held aloof111 from her altogether, but I felt that to be impossible. She gave me her hand, looking still very pale and distrait112, and murmured only, "It was brave of you, Douw."
I did not entirely113 agree with her, so I said in reply: "I hope you will be happy, dear girl; that I truly hope. Give my love and duty to Mr. Stewart, and--and if I may be of service to you, no matter in how exacting114 or how slight a matter, I pray you command me."
We exchanged good-byes at this, with perfunctory words, and then she left me to join Lady Johnson and to depart with their company.
Later, when I walked homeward with Teunis, sauntering in the moonlight, he imparted something to me which he had heard, in confidence of course, from one of the ladies who had formed the anxious little group that watched our quarrel.
"After Ten Broeck came in, Cross went over to his wife, and brusquely said to her, in the hearing of her friends, that your acquaintance with her was an insult to him, and that he forbade her ever again holding converse115 with you!"
We walked a considerable time in silence after this, and I will not essay to describe for you my thoughts. We had come into the shadow of the old Dutch church in the square, I know, before Teunis spoke again.
"Be patient yet a little longer, Douw," he said. "The break must come soon now, and then we will drive all these insolent scoundrels before us into the sea!"
I shook hands with him solemnly on this, as we parted.
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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espousing
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portentous
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coerce
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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license
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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inflamed
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sinister
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underneath
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constraint
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incessantly
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vividly
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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wrath
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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enveloping
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isolated
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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insolent
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whatsoever
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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41
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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42
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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43
boisterously
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| adv.喧闹地，吵闹地 | |
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44
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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46
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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47
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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49
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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50
subscribing
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| v.捐助( subscribe的现在分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
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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54
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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55
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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56
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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57
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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58
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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59
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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60
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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61
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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62
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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65
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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67
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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wigged
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| adj.戴假发的 | |
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71
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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72
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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73
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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74
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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skewer
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| n.（烤肉用的）串肉杆；v.用杆串好 | |
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76
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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77
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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78
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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79
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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81
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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82
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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83
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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84
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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85
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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86
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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87
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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88
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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90
affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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91
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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92
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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93
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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94
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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95
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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96
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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97
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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99
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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100
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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101
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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102
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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103
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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104
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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105
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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106
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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107
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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108
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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109
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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110
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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111
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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112
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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113
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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114
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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115
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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