Peter managed to get away from the Foreign Office next day, in the absence of anything to detain him, an hour or so before his usual time, and arriving at the gilded1 gates of the battlemented lodge2 of Howes while the warm October twilight3 still lingered in the sky, he got out to walk across the mile of park that separated him from the house. His truant4 evening in town last night, the plunge5 into the froth and noise and chatter6, had quieted some sort of restlessness, had assuaged7 some sort of hunger, and he was still licking the chops of memory, content in a few minutes now to “wipe his mouth and go his journey” again. He just had the sense of having enjoyed an evening out, of having lolled in the old familiar tap-room, with the usual habitués, over a pot of beer, while a friendly barmaid (this was Mrs. Trentham) made the usual jokes over the counter as she served him. Some of these seemed to have sounded better by electric light, so to speak, than did the timbre8 of their memory in the dusky crimson9 of the dying day, and he recalled the welcome of screams and shrieks10 she had given to Nellie and himself when, at his insistence11, they had visited her in the box opposite. She threatened when she learned they had already dined alone (appearing so very late at the play) to send anonymous12 letters to Silvia and Philip. There was a judge in the divorce court, she added, who was much devoted13 to her, and would no doubt give her admission for the two cases when they came on. The robust14 wit of Lord Poole had ably seconded her.{257}
Then, with the exception of Nellie, who had to go home to put an end to Philip’s solitary15 evening, they had all gone back to Wardour House, where Peter promised some sort of scratch supper, and Nellie, finding that her husband had already gone to bed, joined them again. It had been altogether a pleasant ridiculous evening which had made itself in this impromptu16 and accidental manner an ordinary human evening. Just twice there had for Peter been a slight check, a signal momentarily against him—once when he found that Nellie had left again, very soon after her reappearance at supper, without a word to him; once when, without warning, it had entered his mind that at just about this time, the night before, he had seen his bedroom door open, and Silvia’s face look in on him as he lay with closed eyelids17, feigning18 sleep. That was rather a dreadful thing to have done....
He paused a moment on the bridge that crossed the lake, looking at the image of the house duskily reflected on its far margin19. There was someone coming towards him along the path that led by the edge of the lake, and joined the road here, and before his eyes had time to tell him who it was, she waved a hand at him, without the screams, without the violent gesticulations by which Mrs. Trentham the night before had made herself known. She quickened her pace as he answered her signal, and in three minutes more he had joined her.
“The chauffeur20 told me you had walked from the lodge,” she said, “so I came to meet you. You’re early.”
Peter kissed her.
“I’ll go away again, shall I?” he said.
“No; as you’ve come, you can stop,” she said.{258}
“And what did you do with yourself last night? Not all alone, I hope: you found somebody?”
Peter smiled at her.
“Somebody?” he said. “Crowds! First of all, Nellie rang up at the F.O., saying that she had been going to the play with Philip, but that he had a cold. So would I? We dined at home, and talked so long with elbows on the table that we didn’t get to the play till towards the end of the second act.”
“Ah, that was luck to find Nellie,” said Silvia. “I was afraid you might have a horrid21 lonely evening. And then?”
“Then just one act of Downstairs. But one act was better than four. There had been railway whistles and flags waving from the box opposite.”
“That was Mrs. Trentham,” said Silvia.
“It was. So we swept in her lot—the usual one—with Lord Poole, who told me to kiss you for him, and they all came to supper at home. Really, that plan of keeping the house open was an admirable one. It’s awful fun; we talked and smoked and laughed until everyone melted away.”
She saw (and loved to see) the brightness and briskness22 of him; she heard (and loved to hear) his cheerfulness and alacrity23.
“Oh, I am glad you had a nice evening,” she said. “I nearly telephoned to say I was coming up to keep you company. But then I thought I had better stop and—and try to make myself disagreeable at home.”
“Did you succeed, darling?” asked Peter.
Exactly then it struck Silvia that if Peter had dined, had sat “so long” with elbows on the table, and had got to the theatre in time for anything at all, he could not have been detained very late at the{259} Foreign Office. She instantly drew down, with a rush and a rattle24, some mental blind in front of that. She shut it out: she did not choose to see it.
“Yes, pretty well,” she said. “Mother went to bed at ten, anyhow, which is early for her, so I must have been fairly successful.”
“Not proved,” said Peter. “She may have been sleepy. It’s a sleepy place, you know.”
“I know,” she said. “Two nights ago I came and looked into your room, as I had not heard you come to bed, and there you were, fast asleep.”
“Snoring, I suppose you’ll tell me?” said he.
This point about detention25 at the Foreign Office, with time yet to dine and confabulate and go to the theatre, had struck him too. He had meant it to be assumed that he had telephoned to signify the knowledge that he would be detained, and now by this stupid inadvertence in giving the account of his evening, he had shown, for all who cared to think, that he had not been detained. But Silvia apparently26 had quite missed that, or she would surely have said something to that effect; as it was, she had passed it by: it was out of sight by now, behind another—well, another misunderstanding.
She proceeded to put a further corner between her consciousness and it.
“No, I don’t say snoring,” she said. “Oh, Peter, your father has told me how delightful27, how angelic you were to him, about his stopping on here till we go back to London. It touched him very much.”
She took his arm. “It touched me too, dear,” she said, “and I must tell you that it furnished a reason—one out of several—why I came to meet you. I’ve got a confession28——”
Peter guessed what this reason was and what the{260} confession. When he made a plan he was quite accustomed to find it work itself out as he had meant. But now in the very apex29 of its success he felt ashamed of it. If it came to confessions30 he could make his contribution. He interrupted her.
“I don’t care about that reason,” he said. “Tell me the other ones instead.”
“The other ones will come afterwards,” she said, “if you want to hear them then. This has got to come first, so don’t interrupt, darling. I will tell you: it’s an affair of conscience.”
“And I’m a conscientious31 objector,” said he. As it became more and more certain in his mind what Silvia’s confession was, the less he wanted to hear it, though he himself, patting his own back for his cleverness, had contrived32 the plan of which this was the logical sequel. But when he did that he had not yet pretended to be asleep one night nor, on another, telephoned his detention in town.
Silvia went on with a gentle but perfectly33 determined34 firmness.
“I’ve misjudged you altogether, Peter,” she said, “and I’ve got to confess. For days now—more days than I like to number—I have been watching you, looking for something I missed in you. I thought you were unkind and sarcastic35 and cynical36 about your father, and what he told me of the manner in which you welcomed his proposal to stop on here convinced me how utterly37 I had been wronging you. It was owlishly stupid of me to suppose you could be like that, and, what was worse, it was brutally38 unloving.”
Peter laughed.
“Any more big words coming?” he asked. “Owlish, stupid, brutal39, unloving? That’s you all over. Have you murdered anybody?{261}”
She shook her head.
“It’s no use making light of it,” she said, “It was stupid, it was unloving of me. I thought that because you saw certain absurdities40 and unrealities about your father, you saw nothing but them, and were impatient and untender with him. Do you forgive me for being such a fool?”
Peter tried to imagine himself telling her that she had been perfectly right throughout: that only a piece of trickery on his part, in getting his father to give an account of the welcome his proposition had met with, had deluded41 her into thinking she was wrong. But his vanity, the thought of the sorry figure he would present, made it quite impossible to contemplate42 so fundamental an honesty. Short of being honest, he had better be superb.
He stopped, facing her, knowing well the effect his physical presence had on her.
“You darling, there’s one thing I don’t forgive you for,” he said, “and that is for being such a fool as to think there was anything for me to forgive.”
Even as he made this neat phrase, the truth of it came home to him. There was indeed nothing for him to forgive. She gave a long sigh.
“Oh, you must teach me to be generous,” she said.
Peter felt himself unutterably mean at that moment. But the thing was done; he had been superb as well as dishonest, and if honesty had been too high for his vanity to attain43 to, it was just as incapable44 of demolishing45 the golden image of himself that he had set up for Silvia. Then there was the point concerning his apparent slumber46 two nights ago; there was the point concerning his telephone last night.... He wished intensely that she hadn’t asked him to teach her generosity47.{262}
“Now for the other reasons why you came to meet me,” he said. There would be balsam and food for his vanity here. He had the grace to recognize that even while he asked it.
“Because I wanted to see you,” said she.
“I like that reason. Have you any more of that brand?”
He knew that the word which took lightly what was so immense would, after her confession, cause her to smile. It was of the species which she had thought cynical, and which she now knew was just the everyday garb48 in which affection and tenderness clothed themselves.
“Because it seemed so long since I saw you,” she said. “Oh, Peter, there’s only one reason really which matters. Because I love you.”
... And that brought home to him a meanness, a dishonesty against which all the rest was but feathers in a scale weighted on the other side with the world itself. Often before now he had known how unintelligibly49 great that was; now for the first time he was irritated at himself for his want of comprehension with regard to it. He was accustomed to understand things to which he gave his mind, but here his mind was brought to a dead stop by this great shining wall that was unscalable and impenetrable. But, to be honest, was his irritation50 quite confined to himself, or did that shining wall from its very incomprehensibility provoke a portion of it?
Silvia seemed to herself to miss something in his silence, but with Peter there, nothing could really be missing....
“How often I say that,” she whispered; “but how often I feel that there’s nothing else worth saying.”
“More of that brand,” said he.{263}
“Not a drop. We must go in. You haven’t seen your father yet, and after that you must have your bath.”
“And after that you must send your maid away, so that we can get a few minutes’ sensible conversation,” said Peter.
“I’ll begin it now,” said she. “Sometimes, you know, your bath goes to your head, and you’re not quite as serious as you might be.”
“Say I’m drunk and have done with it,” suggested he.
“Very well; sometimes your bath makes you tipsy. But while you’re sober, I want you to promise me something.”
“Shall I like it?” asked Peter prudently51. “It isn’t to spend a week with Uncle Abe or anything of that kind?”
“Nothing of that kind. Poor Uncle Abe! You’ll like it. At least, you’ll find you’ll like it; you’ll know it does you good.”
“That’s not the same thing,” objected he. “It does me good to get up bright and early, so as to start for town without hurrying, but I hate it.”
Silvia laughed.
“It will relieve you of that to some extent,” she said. “Oh, do be quick and promise instead of making such a fuss!”
“Right. But if you’ve deceived me, I’ll never trust you again. I promise.”
“Well, for as long as we are here I want you to spend at least one night in the week in town.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” said he. “I don’t care an atom about my promise. Pish for my promise! And how will it relieve me? Oh, I see. But I shan’t—unless you come too, that’s to say.{264}”
Silvia stopped.
“Now listen to me,” she said. “You enjoyed last night immensely. It’s perfectly natural that you should have. I should think you were ill if you hadn’t.”
“How do you know I enjoyed it? I never said so,” said he.
“You did better than that. You beamed all over your atrocious countenance52 when you told me about it. You were obliged to stop in town, and being obliged you found, and you know it perfectly well, that it was a sort of night out. You saw your friends: you had a beano.”
Silvia kept her finger on the cord of the blind she had chosen to pull down in her mind. She refused with a sublime53 intellectual dishonesty to look at the fact that Peter certainly could have come down here by dinner time if he had time to dine early in town; she would not see it. Already, so she told herself, she had once fallen into an owlishly stupid error and worse, by doubting him, by watching him; now at least she could repair that to some extent by the supreme54 honesty of trusting him without question. Something had happened to keep him in town, and it was no business of hers to think of that at all. He had said he was detained at the Foreign Office, and, for her, he was detained there. She held her eyes open to the intensest light of all, which was that of her own love, and the more it blinded her to everything else the better. It was only creatures like bats (and owls), things of the night, that were blinded by the dayspring.
“You enjoyed it: you had a beano,” she repeated. “Why not say so?”
Peter hesitated, but for a reason that she had{265} refused to entertain the existence of. The fact, now shiningly clear, that Silvia had never so remotely seen that he could easily have got down here in time for dinner, made it unintelligibly and unreasonably55 needful for him to tell her so. There was something sordid56 in not doing so. Had she shown the smallest suspicion of it, he would probably have explained it away in some ingenious manner.
“Yes, I enjoyed it,” he said. “That was why I did it. I could easily have got down here in time for dinner.”
Up went the blind at that with a snap and a whirr, and Silvia’s face, beaming and delighted, smiled out at him.
“Oh, Peter, how lovely of you to tell me,” she cried. “Of course, I guessed, only I wouldn’t guess. There’s just the joy of it all.”
That came from her like the stroke of a bird’s wing, that bore it through the sunny air. With another stroke she returned to him.
“Now you’ve got no excuse for refusing my beautiful plan,” she said. “And it was nice of you not to tell me at once: you knew you had to some time, and it was all the better for keeping. My dear, there’s the dressing57 bell. Just go and see your father for a minute: you can talk to him in the smoking-room after mother and I have gone to bed.”
As Silvia heard through her bedroom door the splashings and the rinsings and the gurglings which regulated her own speed of dressing, she was absorbed in the perception of the one thing that was great, and its myriad58 manifestations60. Up the trunk of the tree and through the branches and to the remotest ends of the twigs61 flowed the sap, and all—the firmness of the trunk, the vigour62 of the branches, the elasticity63 of the{266} twigs, the decoration of flower and leaf and fruit, which made the tree lovely—were manifestations and embodiments of the sap. If there was a wound in its bark, the sap healed it; if there was a nest among its boughs64, an external loveliness of life which visited it, it was still the sap which had fashioned its anchorage. The remotest leaf of that tower of forest greenery was nurtured65 by it, and all the being and the beauty sprang from it.... There was nothing big or little, if you looked at it in that way, though just now she had decided66 that only one thing was big and all the rest was little....
Then came a rare, an unusual splash. Occasionally when Peter began to stand up in his bath after the hot soaking, he fell down; his foot slipped on the smooth surface, and this made the rare and enormous splash. This always caused her a certain anxiety: he might hit his head against the edge of the bath....
“Just tap at the bathroom door, Wilton,” she said, “and ask if Mr. Mainwaring is all right.”... But before the chaste67 Wilton could get as far as the door, a new splashing began. “It doesn’t matter, Wilton,” she said.
“Your pearls, ma’am?” asked Wilton.
Then came the tap at the door, and Wilton slid out of the picture.
“I fell down,” said Peter. “I might have hurt myself, but I didn’t. I wish you weren’t so wonderful.”
“I can’t help that,” said she. “You should have thought of it before.”
Peter began drying his toes.
“I’ve had quite a long talk with my father,” he said, “and all about you. He thinks you’re wonder{267}ful, too. He adores you: they all adore you, particularly Lord Poole.”
“Peter, don’t be tipsy,” said she.
“I shall be as tipsy as I like. I want to know one thing. Why weren’t you annoyed with me for saying that I couldn’t get back last night?”
Silvia held out the pearls for him to clasp round her neck.
“If you don’t understand that, you must be tipsy,” she said.
“And if I do?” he asked.
She leaned her head a little back.
“Why, then you understand it all,” she said. “You understand, for instance, why I insist on your having a night in town every week.”
“Yes, I see. Just that you shall get rid of me now and then,” he said.
“Quite right. You’re as sober as—as a commoner, I suppose.”
She moved in her chair, and one end of her necklace slipped from his fingers.
“Am I putting them on for dinner,” he asked, “or am I taking them off for bedtime?”
“Whatever you’re doing, you are being wonderfully clumsy,” said she, as his fingers, warm and soft from his bath, touched the back of her neck.
She was down before him next morning to give him his breakfast, and, waiting for him, strolled out on to the terrace. There had been one of those exquisite68 early October frosts, and in the air was that ineffable69 fragrance70 derived71 from absence of smell, the odourless odour of frosted dew. The sun was already warm with promise of a hot, cloudless day; but as the heat had not set in motion the weaving of the{268} scents72 of earth and grass and flowers which would soon decorate and veil the virginal beauty of the morning. Last night, when she and Peter had lingered here in the end of the twilight, the air was not less clear and windless, but it had been charged with all the myriad scents distilled74 by the hot hours of autumn sun. Now there was a precision, a crystalline quality.... Some such sort of clear sparkle bathed her spirit also: her love basked75 in some such virginal beauty of young day, flamelike and scentless76.
All the evening before, from the time when she met Peter by the lake, she, body and soul and spirit, had been rising towards some new peak of passion, and the true topmost summit seemed to her now to be where she stood in this cool brightness, able to see that the upward path which led here was below her. They had dined after Peter had clasped her necklace for her; there had been the usual piquet for her and Mr. Mainwaring, and for the latter a triumphant77 p?an of achievement over some effect of lightning in the second cartoon, which positively78, as he stood aside as artist and became spectator, appalled79 him, and before they settled down to their cards he must needs conduct them to the masterpiece in question, and let them also feel the cold clutch of fear.
But whatever Mr. Mainwaring did or said, whatever her mother, it was Peter whom, in this rising tide of flame and self-surrender, Silvia watched, no longer looking for those signs of tenderness and affection which (owlish) she had missed, but in the rapturous contemplation of them. Often she had seen him charming to her mother and to his own father; but always, so she had thought, she could detect in him politeness and amenity80, the controlling hand of{269} breeding, the practice of pleasant behaviour. But this evening there had been no “behaviour” about him at all, he had been radiant with them both, divinely natural.... He had sat next Mrs. Wardour on the sofa, as the piquet was in progress, and entertained her with ludicrous but hopelessly recognizable caricatures of her and his father over their cards; he had held a skein of her wool, he had mixed her hot water and lemon juice for her. All these things he had often done before, and they were all trivial enough.... He was the same with his father, looking over his hand when so bidden, dutifully observing exactly how to play that puzzling game; eager to anticipate his wants, chaffing him sometimes, behaving to him—this again was the wrong word—being to him, rather, all that his own sonship implied, fulfilling in every word and gesture the welcome which he had given to the suggestion of his remaining with them till they went to London. And all that was “the world’s side” which anyone might see, and behind it in “lights and darks undreamed of” was that other aspect and reality of him, which was hers alone.... She was already in bed when she heard him, after his smoking-room chat with his father, come into his room, and presently, after tapping on her door, he looked in, coatless and shoeless. She pretended—in parody81 of what happened two nights before—to be asleep, and between her eyelids, nearly closed, she saw a broad smile overspread his face.
“I don’t believe a single word of it,” he remarked.
All this—all it was and all it meant—Silvia now, as she waited for him, looked at, looked down on even from this crowning pinnacle82, as on upward, ultimate slopes. Even, as in the cool scentless air of the{270} morning, the miracle of the sunshine on the windless world was more itself than when its beams had drawn83 that response of fragrance from all living things, so shone for her, untroubled with passion and desire, the essence itself of love in its own crystal globe. Not less precious, now that it was conveyed to her in no material manifestation59, would be the bodily presence of him through whom that essence was conveyed to her, who embodied84 love to her mortal sense, but for ever far more precious was it now that she, in this pause of content that crowned passion with a royal diadem85, could for the moment see that in loving him she loved not him alone, but Love itself that “moved the sun and the other stars,” and being all, gave all....
The duration of the moment in which Silvia reached that point, not theoretically, but as a felt and experienced reality, was infinitesimal, just as in significance it was infinite.... At the sound of Peter’s step on the bare boards of the dining-room just within, the atmosphere of the summit where she stood grew laden86 and fragrant87 with the scents of the world. She did not come down from it: it did not rise up above her. She was there still, but she was there in body as well as in spirit, the fragrance of material sweetness was near her, even as when now she stepped back into the dining-room, a waft88 of rose-scent73 from the sun-warmed wall smothered89 her nostrils90.
Peter was poking91 about among dishes on the side table, and gave her a grunt92, neither more nor less, in answer to her salutation. He held that to be in good spirits at breakfast-time was a symptom that could not be taken too seriously. By that test there was nothing wrong with him this morning.{271}
He sat down with an ill-used sigh.
“I’ve got a headache,” he remarked.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said she. “Where?”
“In my left ankle, of course,” said he.
Silvia, passing behind him, just tweaked the short hair at the back of his neck.
“Oh, don’t finger me,” said Peter angrily.
He gave her so quick a glance that she could scarcely tell whether he had actually looked at her or not, and went on without pause and without hurry, clinking out his words like newly-minted coins, separate and crisply cut and hot.
“Just let me alone sometimes,” he said. “You know how I hate dabbing93 and pressing and grasping. You’re the limit, you know.”
He had got her stiff and staring, and still without pause and in precisely94 the same voice he went on:
“Don’t let me have to speak to you like that again,” he said. “And don’t be so owlish, but confess that you’ve fallen into that trap.”
Still she stood staring, and he took one step towards her and flung his arms close round her neck, pressing her face to his, and then, more directly, finding and claiming her mouth.
“You utterly divine girl,” he said. “I never dreamed I should take you in. I did. Kiss me three times to signify ‘Yes,’ and three times more to signify that you are a darling, and once more to—well, once more.”
“Peter, I thought you were cross with me,” said she, when she could say anything.
“How perfectly splendid! That joke did come off, didn’t it?”
She could smile again.
“You brute95!” she said. “But never take me{272} in over that again, darling. Anything else; not that.”
Once more before his motor came round they strolled on the terrace outside. It was thick now with the web of scents, for the sun’s weaving was busy. The late roses gave their fragrance, and the verbena and the mignonette, but these were but strung like beads96 on to the smell of the damp, fruitful earth. By now Silvia could laugh at herself about that fierce phantom97 moment, for never had Peter seemed more utterly hers. Usually in these early half-hours he was rather silent, rather morose98; to-day, penitent99 perhaps, or consolatory100 for the fright—it was no less—that he had unwittingly given her, there was something of the bath-intoxication about him.
“If you were in any sense a devoted wife,” he said, “you would drive up with me, deposit me at the F.O., and then wait three hours for me in the motor till lunch time. I could give you an hour then, after which you would wait four hours more and drive back with me. Therefore shall a woman leave her father and her mother and cleave101 to her husband.”
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” said she, “if you want me to. You must just say you really want me.”
He took hold of her elbows from behind and ran her along the terrace.
“Motor-bike,” he observed. “I’m pushing you till you get your sense of humour working on its own account.”
“It’s working—I swear it’s working,” shrieked102 {273}Silvia. “Don’t be such a bully103.”
A seat on the balustrade of the terrace seemed indicated after this violent exercise.
“There’s another thing,” said Peter. “My mental power of association of ideas is decaying, which is a sign of softening104 of the brain. Aren’t you sorry?”
“Is that the brain in your head?” asked she.
“No; in the same place that ached when I had a headache. Left ankle. Don’t interrupt. But there’s something in this house front, and I believe it’s the cornice, or whatever they call it, which runs all along there underneath105 the windows on the first floor, which—that’s the cornice—reminds me of some other house.”
Peter pointed106 to the broad frieze-like band which projected some foot or so from the wall of the house. It was of Portland stone, amazingly carved with masks at intervals107, and ran, as he had said, just below the first floor windows from end to end of the fa?ade. Then he gave a yodel which, consciously or not, was a hoarse108 and surprising parody of his father’s favourite method of indicating a general sumptuousness109 of sensation.
“That’s done it,” he said. “Just speaking of it has reminded me what it was. And there’s the motor, bother and blight110 it, confound and curse it.”
“And what is the house it reminds you of?” she asked.
“The flat belonging to Nellie’s mother. Just below the windows there ran a band like that. I noticed it one day last summer. She had said something about it, but at that point there’s softening of the brain again. All I said about the motor holds, though.{274}”
“Send it away. Walk up to town instead,” suggested Silvia.
“Likely, with that headache in my ankle. But I would so much sooner sit here with you than do either.”
Silvia waved to him as he drove off, and waiting, waved again as he crossed the bridge over the lake. The air was thick with earthy fragrances111 now, and her mind with fragrant memories, and among them there was some new scent, not quite strange to her, but one from which she had always, whenever it presented itself, turned her head. Now it insisted on being analysed, on being recognized.
When, half an hour ago, she had just tweaked his hair as she passed him, his remonstrance112, to her ears, had been wholly instinctive113 and sincere; he objected to being “fingered.” He had piled that up, so she seemed to see, making of it a joke against her, until the joke grew preposterous114. Then, ever so convincingly, he had smothered her with kisses. Yesterday evening, too, how convincing had been, on some other plane, his “dearness”—that word must serve—with her mother and Mr. Mainwaring. On one side were bright tokens of affection, and to her of so much more than affection; on the other that one little hot coin that clinked with a true ring before, with admirable mimicry115 of himself, he had showered out a whole flood of such.
Which was the more real? And where, in these mists, was that austere116 and shining summit?
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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assuaged
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| v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 )；缓和；平息；使安静 | |
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timbre
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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18
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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19
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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20
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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21
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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24
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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25
detention
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| n.滞留，停留；拘留，扣留；(教育)留下 | |
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26
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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27
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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28
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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29
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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30
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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31
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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32
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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33
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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34
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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35
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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36
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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37
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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38
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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39
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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40
absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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41
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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43
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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44
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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45
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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46
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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47
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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48
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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49
unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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50
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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51
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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52
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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53
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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54
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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55
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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56
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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57
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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58
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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59
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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60
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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61
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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62
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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63
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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64
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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65
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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66
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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67
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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70
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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71
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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72
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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73
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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74
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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75
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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76
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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77
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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78
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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79
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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80
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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81
parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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82
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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85
diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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86
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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87
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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88
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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89
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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90
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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91
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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92
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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93
dabbing
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| 石面凿毛，灰泥抛毛 | |
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94
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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95
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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96
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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97
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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98
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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99
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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100
consolatory
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| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
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101
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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102
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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104
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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105
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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106
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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107
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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108
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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109
sumptuousness
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| 奢侈，豪华 | |
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110
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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111
fragrances
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| n.芳香，香味( fragrance的名词复数 )；香水 | |
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112
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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113
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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114
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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115
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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116
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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