“When I get back,” the girl said at last with a smile, “the racket of my typewriters will seem like the murmur10 of a gentle breeze down a leafy country lane.”
They laughed—but they had discovered it was not so hard to make oneself heard as they had supposed. Their voices intuitively found a level which served their personal needs, yet did not incommode the waiters yawning at the head of the stairway outside.
“Have you taken to the bicycle?” she was moved in sheer irrelevance11 to ask him. When he shook his head, she went on: “It is a wonderful thing for women. It has done more for them in three years, than all the progressive intellectual movements of civilization did in three hundred. We all use them, coming to and from the office. We have to store them down in the area, now—but I am going to find a better place.”
Christian rolled his bread crumbs12 into balls and stared at them in a brown study, from which this topic was powerless to arouse him.
“I wish,” he said, finally—“I wish very much that I knew how to convince you. But I seem never to produce any impression upon you. You are unyielding to the touch. It is I who get molded and kneaded about whenever I come close to you. And I don’t say that it is not for the best. Only—only now, you will not accept my own ideas of what I should do, and you will not tell me what your ideas are.”
“I am not sure that I have any ideas,” she assured him. “It is merely that, on general principles, I don’t care for the people who settle difficulties by turning tail and running away from them.”
“Very well,” he began, as if an important premise14 had been accepted. “But as to my special case, I have stated what must be my position if I remain in England. To me it seems that it must be impossible—intolerable. But you have some different view, evidently. That is what I beg you to explain to me. If I am to remain in England, what is it your idea that I should do?” She knitted her brows a little, and took time to her reply. “You seem to think so entirely15 of yourself,” she said, slowly, “it is very hard to know what to say to you. I cannot put myself, you see, so completely in your place, as you are always able to do.” He opened his eyes wide, and informed their gaze with a surprised reproach. “There you are surely unjust to me,” he urged, pleadingly. “I do not know anyone who thinks more about other people than I do. One hesitates to say these things about oneself—but truly you are mistaken in this matter. In fact, I wonder sometimes if it is not a fault, a weakness in my nature, that I am so readily moved by the sufferings and wrongs of unhappy people. Whenever I see injustice16, I am beside myself with a passion to set it right. I grow almost sick with indignation, and pity, when these things come before me. Last night, for example, at the Empire——”
Christian stopped abruptly17, with the sudden consciousness that the ground was not clear before him. He saw that he was entirely without a clue as to what his companion’s views on the subject might be. That was her peculiarity18: he knew concerning her thoughts and inclinations19 only what she chose to reveal to him. It was beyond his power to predict what her attitude would be on any new topic. Looking at her thoughtful, serene-eyed face, it decidedly seemed to him that the Empire, as an ethical22 problem, might with advantage be passed by. He hesitated for a moment, in the friendly shelter of the street noise, and then gave another termination to his speech: “It puzzles me that you should have that view of my temperament23.”
“Ah, that is just it—you have put the word into my mouth. It is ‘temperament’ that you are thinking of—and about that you are perfectly24 right. Your temperament is as open to the impulses of the moment—kindly, generous, compassionate25 and all that—as a flower is to the bees. But character is another matter. What good do your fine momentary27 sentiments, these rapid noble emotions of yours, do you or anybody else? You experience them—and forget them. The only thing that abides28 permanently29 with you is consideration for your own personal affairs.”
“This is all very unjust,” he said, disconsolately30. “I come to you for solace31 and friendship, and you turn upon me with beak32 and claws.” He sighed, with the beginning of tears in his bright eyes, as he added: “There is more reason than ever, it seems to me, why I should go away from England! It is not kind to me!”
His doleful tone and mien33 drove her to swift repentance34. “Oh, I have only been saying the disagreeable things first, to get them out of the way,” she sought to reassure35 him. “There isn’t another unpleasant word for you to hear, not one, I promise you.”
“It is my opinion that there have been enough,” he ventured to comment, with a rueful little smile. A measure of composure returned to him. “But if they must be said, I would rather they come from you than from any one else, for I think that you have also some pleasant thoughts about me.”
She nodded her head several times in assent36, regarding him with an amused twinkle in her eyes meanwhile. “Yes—the right kind of editor could make very interesting stuff indeed out of you,” she said, and smiled almost gaily37 at his visible failure to comprehend her figure. “What I mean is—you are too much sail, and too little boat. You drift before every new wind that blows. There is lacking that kind of balance—proportion—which gives stability. But, dear me, it is a thousand times better to be like that, than to have an excess of the other thing. The man of the solid qualities, without the imagination, simply sticks in the mud where he was born. But with you—if the right person chances to get hold of you, and brings the right influences steadily38 to bear upon you, then there is no telling what fine things you may not rise to.”
“You are that right person!”
He lifted his voice to utter these words, with the air of feeling them to be momentous39. His eyes glowed as they reaffirmed the declaration to her inquiring glance. But she seemed to miss the gravity of both words and look.
“Oh, there you’re wrong,” she said, half jestingly. “I’m too bad tempered and quarrelsome to exert any proper influence over any one. Why, I should nag40 all the joy and high spirits out of you in no time at all. No—you need an equable and happy person, really very wise and strong and sensible, but above all with an easy, smooth disposition—such a person, for example, as Emanuel’s wife is described to be.”
“No—I need no one but you!” he repeated with accentuated41 deliberation.
This time she appeared to feel something of his intention. She looked into the gaze he was bending upon her and then withdrew her eyes precipitately42, and made a show of active interest in her food.
“I am asking you to think of joining your life to mine,” he went on, in low, yet very distinct tones. “You cannot know a hundredth part as well as I do, how profoundly I need such help as you can give. You are the one woman in the world who means strength as well as happiness to me. If you could only dream with what yearning43 I long always to lean upon you—to be supported by your fine, calm, sweet wisdom! To be upheld by you—to be nourished and guided by you—oh, that is the vision which I tremble with joy to think of! I am my own master for the first time to-day—I have taken my life into my own hands—and I lay it at your feet—dear lady—at your feet.”
She rose abruptly while his last words were in the air, and turning, moved to the window. She had contrived44 by a gesture to bid him not to follow, and he could only gaze in mingled45 apprehension46 and hope at her back, the while she stood professing47 to scrutinize48 the shifting throng49 below.
The waiter brought in another dish, methodically rearranged the plates and went away again. To Christian’s bitter disgust, two men entered and took seats at a table at the other end of the small room—and still she did not turn. He meditated51 calling her, or joining her on the pretense52 of announcing the cutlets—and only stared in nervous excitement instead.
Then, as suddenly as she had left him she returned, and resumed her chair as if nothing unusual had happened. His strenuous53 gaze swept her face for tokens of her mood—of her inclination20 or decision—but beyond a spot of vivid red on each smooth cheek, there was no sign of any sort. Her frank, calm gray eyes met his with unruffled directness; they had in them that suggestion of benignant tolerance55 which he had discerned there more than once before.
“You do not answer me!” he pleaded, after a few mouthfuls. As his back shielded the action from the strangers, he put forth56 a cautious hand to touch the nearest of hers, but she drew it gently away beyond his reach. They automatically adjusted their voices to the conditions created by the newcomers.
“There could be only one possible answer,” she told him, softly, almost tenderly. “It is a very flattering dream—? to me—but it is a mere13 empty dream, none the less. I hope you will not want to talk about it any more.”
“But I swear that it is not empty at all!” he urged, in earnest tones. “Who has a right to say that it is a dream? I am my own master—so are you. We are of age—we are intelligent people. I deliberately57 come to you, and say to you that you are the one woman on earth whom I desire with all my heart for my wife. I open my mind to you. There is only the image of you inside it. You know my sincerity58. You must feel how supreme59 is the place you have in my thoughts. It is the logical end toward which I have been walking ever since I first saw you! You are all that there is of true friendship, of true womanhood, for me! I put out my hands to you, I pray to you! And why will you not come to me, dear, dear Frank?” There was a touch of pathos60 in the smile she gave him. “It isn’t the least bit of good, I assure you,” she made answer, in the confidential61 murmur that was necessary. “One can’t talk here—but please let us speak of something else. Or can we not go now?” He went on as if she had not spoken, his big, dark eyes challenging hers to an encounter which she evaded63. “Do not think we need go away from England, if you want to stay; there will always be money enough—with your wisdom in controlling it. Perhaps we may even be able to restore Caermere. But if we are not, still it can be one of the noblest and most beautiful residences in England, when we learn together to understand its charm, and make it our home. Oh, when you see the magnificent hills and forests shutting it in on all sides—and the grim, fine old walls and towers of the castle itself! But there we need live only when we choose to do so—and whenever the mood comes to us, off we can roam to the Alps or Algiers, or the wonderful India which one always dreams of. And we shall sail in our own yacht and you shall be the queen there, as everywhere else. And all our lives we will spend in doing good to others: do you not see what extraordinary opportunities for helping64 those who need help you will have? Where now you are of service to one person, then you can assist a hundred! An army of grateful people will give thanks because of you—and I will always be the chief of them—your foremost slave, your most reverent65 worshiper! And then—think of the joy of a life in which no one has a share who is not pleasant and welcome to us! We will have no one near us who is not our friend. Oh, I have not told you: that is why, this very morning, I decided21 to leave it all, and to make a new life for myself, and to spend it wholly with my real friends. It is loneliness, heart and soul loneliness, that has driven me to revolt. And in my despair I come to you—and I say to you that it is friendship that I cannot live without, and you are my oldest friend, my dearest, truest, most precious friend, and I beg you to come with me and we will go through the world together, hand in hand——”
She interrupted him by pushing back her chair and half rising. “If you will excuse me now,” she said, nervously66, “I think I must go. You mustn’t trouble to come—I will say good-bye here.”
He had risen as well, and now in trembling earnestness protested against her proposal. At the risk of attracting the attention of the strangers, he displayed such resentful opposition68 that she yielded. The waiter was summoned—and remained bowing in dazed meditation69 upon the magnitude of the change he had been bidden to keep for himself, after they had passed out and down the staircase.
She led the way at a hurried pace back across the Circus and to Blackfriars. At the rounded beginning of the Embankment she paused, and for the first time spoke62. “Really I would rather go back by myself,” she told him. “It is only unhappiness to both of us—what you insist on talking about.”
“But I do not think it is to be treated in this way,” he declared with dignity. “If we speak of nothing else it is the highest and most solemn honor that a man can pay to any woman, that I have paid to you. I have the feeling that it should be more courteously70 dealt with.”
“Yes, I know,” she admitted, nodding her ready compunction. She tightened71 her lips and looked away from him toward the bridge, her brows drawn72 together in troubled lines. “I don’t say the right thing to you—I know that better even than you do. You must not think I fail to appreciate it all—the honor, and the immense confidence, and all the rest of it. But when I have said that much—then I don’t know in the least how to say the rest. Why can’t we leave it unsaid altogether? I assure you, in all seriousness, that it can’t be—and mayn’t we leave it like that? Please!”
He regarded her with a patient yet proud sadness, waiting to speak till she had turned, and his glance caught hers. “I do not wish to become a nuisance to you,” he said, his voice choking a little, “but I think it would be better if you said everything to me. Then I shall not put my mind on the rack, to try and imagine your reasons.” He let his lip curl with a lingering ironical73 perception of the fantastic with which his tragedy was veined. “It is very sweet,” he went on—“your consideration for my feelings. But I have heard so many plain truths to-day, I think my sensibilities are in good training now—they will not suffer for a few more.” Suddenly, as if the sound of his voice had unnerved him, he seized her arm, and confronted her surprised gaze with a reddened and scowling74 face. “What are you afraid of?” he demanded hoarsely75. “Why not say it? I heard it only last night! It is forty years old, it is true, but they have wonderful memories in England. You are the one whom I have held to be my dearest friend—but go on! Say it to me! A little thing like friendship does not prevent you from thinking it! Why, then, you should have the courage to speak it out!”
Dimly, while she stared in his distracted countenance76, the meaning, of the wild talk dawned upon her. With a startled exclamation77, she dragged her arm from his clutch, and drew back a step. Trembling in her agitation78, her gray eyes distended79 themselves out of all likeness80 to their tranquil81 habit.
“Oh-h-h!” she murmured in dismay at him, and wrung82 her hands. “Oh-h! Stop! Stop! That is too horrible for you to think!”
Gaining coherence83 of thought and purpose, she moved impulsively84 to him, and in turn clasped her hand upon his arm. “Put that out of your mind!” she adjured85 him. “I could not look anybody in the face if you thought that of me. Oh, it is too terrible of you! How could you suppose that I could harbor such a thought? To blame you for something years before you were born!—to throw it into your face. And me of all people! Why, I have cried to myself at remembering what you said about your father when we first met—how your little-boy memory clung affectionately to the soldier-figure of him in the door-way! Look at me—I cry now to think of it! Why, it is the one thing about you that is sacred to me!—the one thing that you are perfect in—and then you imagine that I am capable of insulting you about it! Oh, heavens, why wouldn’t you leave me when I told you to?”
She threw his arm from her in a gust50 of physical impatience86, but the glance with which, on the instant, she corrected this demonstration87, was full of honest compassion26. He groveled before this benign54 gaze, with bowed head and outstretched, pleading hands.
“Forgive me! Forgive me!” he groaned88, brokenly. “I could not—at all—know what it was I said. I am too unhappy!”
“Well,” she began, with a vehement89 effort at calmness, “let us say good-bye here. There are some Germans watching us from the hotel windows. Or it is better perhaps—will you walk on past the school?” As they moved forward, she recovered more of her self-possession. “I hope you will be able to remember something pleasant out of our morning,” she said, and with a joyless laugh added, “but for the life of me, I don’t know what it can be. Or yes, you can remember when you woke up, and I stood and scolded you, from above the flowers. I pretended to bully90 you, but really all the while I was thinking how sweet of you the entire thing was. And later, too—oh, there were several intervals91 in which I behaved civilly to you for whole minutes at a time.”
He looked wistfully at her. Beneath the forced playfulness of her tone it seemed to him that something hopeful sounded. “Ah, dear friend,” he murmured, drawing close to her—“think!—think tenderly in my behalf! Ask yourself—your kindest self—if I must be really driven away. Why is it that I may not stay? I plead with you as if it were for my life—and is it not indeed for my life?—my very life?”
“No—Christian,” she said, gravely, “it is not your life, nor anything like your life. You give big labels to your emotions, but in good time you will see that the things themselves are not so big, or so vital. And you mustn’t yield so readily to all these impulses to mope and despair and to think yourself ill used. You must try to make for yourself a thicker skin—and to view things more calmly. And I don’t want you to go away thinking hard things of me. Is it true that I always nag you—there is something in you which calls out all the bully in me—but I wish you would think of me as your friend. It gives me great pleasure when you speak of me as your oldest friend in England—for I have always liked you, and I am interested in you, and—”
“And why will you not marry me?” He interposed the question bluntly, and with a directness which gave it the effect of an obstacle in her path, isolated92 but impassable.
She halted, and studied the pavement in consideration of her reply. When she looked up, it was with the veiled elation93 of a disputant who has his counter-stroke well in hand. “You said to-day that you had become your own master, and that you were a free man, with your life in your own hands. Very well. I also am my own master, and I am a free woman. My life is exclusively my own personal property, to live as I choose to live it. I value my liberty quite as highly as if I were a man. It does not suit me to merge94 any part of it in something else. There could be many other reasons given, no doubt, but they would be merely individual variations of this one chief reason—that I am a free woman, and intend to remain a free woman. I know what I want to do in the world, and I am going to try to do it, always my own way, always my own master.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, bowing his head in token of comprehension. “But if——” he began, and then checked himself, with a gesture of pained submission95.
“There are no ‘ifs,’” she said, with resolute96 calmness, and held out her hand to him. Her control of the situation was undisputed. “We say good-bye, now—and we are friends—good friends. I—I thank you—for everything!”
He stood looking at her as she walked away—a sedately97 graceful98 figure, erect99 and light of step, receding100 from him under the pallid101 green shelter of the young trees. Musingly102, he held up the hand which still preserved the sense of that farewell contact with hers—and upon a sudden impulse put it to his lips and kissed it. Something in the action wrought103 an instantaneous change in his thoughts. All at once it was apparent to him that many things which should have been said to her he had left unsaid. In truth, it seemed upon reflection that he had said and done everything wrong. The notion of running after her flamed up in him for a moment. She was still in sight—he could distinguish her in the distance, stopping to buy a paper from a boy near the Temple station. But then the memory of her unanswerable, irrevocable “No” swept back upon him—and with a long sigh he turned and strode in the other direction.
Frances, hastening mechanically toward her office, found relief from the oppressive confusion of her thoughts in the fortuitous spectacle of two small newsboys fighting in the gutter104 just at the end of the Temple Gardens. For the first time in her life, the sight aroused nothing within her save a pleased if unscientific interest. She paused, and almost smilingly observed the contest. She found something amusingly grotesque105 in the pseudo-Titanic rage on these baby faces. The dramatic fury of the embattled infants was in such ridiculous disproportion to the feather-weight blows they exchanged! She found herself chuckling106 aloud at some incongruous comparison which rose in her mind.
Then, as the combatants parted, apparently107 for no better reason than the general volatility108 of youth, she remembered that she had it in mind to look at the “Star.” One of her friends, Mary Leach109, had sent to that paper some days before an article on “Shopgirls’ Dormitories,” and she was interested in watching for its appearance. It happened that one of the boys had a “Star.” Acting67 upon some obscure whim110, she gave them each a penny, quite in the manner of a distributor of prizes for conspicuous111 merit—and grinned to herself at the thought when she had turned her back on them and moved on.
There was no sign of what she sought on the front page. Opening the sheet, her eye fell, as it were, upon a news paragraph in a middle column:
“Death of the Oldest Duke.—The Shrewsbury correspondent of the ‘Exchange Telegraph’ announces the death at Caermere Castle, at an early hour this morning, of the Duke of Glastonbury. His Grace, who was in his ninetieth year, had until last summer enjoyed the most vigorous health, and only now succumbs112 to the prostration113 then occasioned by the group of domestic bereavements which at the time created such a sensation. The deceased nobleman, who for the great part of his prolonged life, was one of the best known sportsmen in Shropshire, succeeded his father as eighth duke in his minority, and had been in possession of the title for no less than seventeen years when Her Majesty114 ascended115 the throne, thus constituting a record which is believed to be without parallel in the annals of the peerage. His successor is stated by Whitaker’s Almanac to be his grandson, Mr. Christian Tower, but the current editions of Burke, Debrett and others do not mention this gentleman, whose claims, it would appear, have but recently been admitted by the family.”
Frances read it all, as she stood at the corner, with a curious sense of mental sluggishness116. Her attention failing to follow one of the sentences, she went back, and laboriously117 traced its entire tortuous118 course, only to find that it meant no more than it had at first.
It seemed a long time before she connected the intelligence on the printed page with the realities of actual life. Then she turned swiftly, and strained her eyes in the wild hope of discovering Christian still on the Embankment. She even took a few hurried steps, as if to follow and overtake him—but stopped short, confronted by the utter futility119 of such an enterprise.
Then, walking slowly, her mind a maze120 of wondering thoughts, she went her way.
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1
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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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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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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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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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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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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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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abides
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| 容忍( abide的第三人称单数 )； 等候； 逗留； 停留 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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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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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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41
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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42
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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43
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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44
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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45
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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46
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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47
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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48
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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49
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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50
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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51
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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52
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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53
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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54
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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55
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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56
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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57
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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58
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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59
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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60
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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61
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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62
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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63
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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64
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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66
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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67
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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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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69
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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70
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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71
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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72
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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73
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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74
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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75
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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76
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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77
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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78
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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79
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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81
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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82
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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83
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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84
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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85
adjured
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| v.（以起誓或诅咒等形式）命令要求( adjure的过去式和过去分词 )；祈求；恳求 | |
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86
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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87
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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88
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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89
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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90
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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91
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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92
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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93
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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94
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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95
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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96
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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97
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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98
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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99
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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100
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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101
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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102
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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103
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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104
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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105
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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106
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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107
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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108
volatility
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| n.挥发性，挥发度，轻快，（性格）反复无常 | |
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109
leach
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| v.分离，过滤掉；n.过滤；过滤器 | |
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110
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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111
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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112
succumbs
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的第三人称单数 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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113
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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114
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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115
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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117
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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118
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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119
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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120
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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