Joan was a little overcome. Peter Gloucester was a producer quite worthy3 to be named in the same breath with Wilbrow.
"Well, he believes in the piece," Quard explained—"the same as me—and he says he'll give us ten afternoon rehearsals4 for a hundred and fifty. It'll be worth it."
"You must think so," said Joan, a little awed5.
"You bet I do. This means a lot to me, anyway; I gotta do something to keep my head above out-of-town stock—or the movies again." Mentioning his recent experience, he shuddered6 realistically. "But if this piece ain't actor-proof, I'm no judge. Gloucester says so, too. And to have him tune7 it up into a reg'lar classy act will be worth ... something, I tell you!"
His hesitation8 was due to the fact that Quard was secretly counting on the representations of his agent, Boskerk, who insisted that, properly presented, the sketch9 would earn at least four hundred and fifty dollars a week, instead of the sum he had named to Joan.
But Joan overlooked this lamely10 retrieved11 slip; she was all preoccupied12 with a glowing sense of gratification growing out of this endorsement13 of her first surmise14, that Quard had only waited on her consent to go ahead. The thought was unctuous15 flattery to her conceit16, inflating17 it tremendously even in the face of a shrewd suspicion that it was sentiment more than an exaggerated conception of her ability that made Quard reckon her co?peration indispensable. That the man was infatuated with her she was quite convinced; on the other hand, she didn't believe him sufficiently18 blinded by passion to imperil the success of his venture by giving her the chief part unless he believed she could play it—"actor-proof" or no.
"Lis'n, girlie," Quard pursued after one meditative19 moment: "could you begin rehearsing tomorrow?"
"Of course I could."
"Because if we don't, we lose three days...."
"How?"
"Well," Quard explained with a sheepish grin, "I guess I ain't any more nutty than the next actor you'll meet on Broadway; but I'd as lief slip my bank-roll to the waiter for a tip as start anything on a Friday. And Sat'day and Sunday's busy days for the Jinx, too. I got too much up to wish anything mean onto this piece!..."
At his suggestion they left the dining-room by the hotel entrance on Forty-fourth Street, and Joan waited in the lobby while Quard telephoned Gloucester.
"It's all right," he announced, beaming as he emerged from the booth—"Pete's ready to commence tomorrow aft'noon. Now I got to hustle20 and round up the rest of the bunch."
"Where will it be?" asked Joan.
"Don't know yet—I'll 'phone you where in the morning, at the latest...."
Hastening home, Joan plunged21 at once into the study of her part, with the greater readiness since the occupation was anodynous to an uneasy conscience. Though she was always what is known as a "quick study," this new r?le was a difficult one; by far the longest, and unquestionably the most important, it comprised fully22 half the total number of "sides" in the manuscript—nearly half as many again as were contained in Quard's part, the next in order of significance. And her application, that first day, was hindered by a perplexing interruption in the early evening, when a box was delivered to her containing a dozen magnificent red roses and nothing else—neither a card nor a line of identification. At first inclining to credit Quard with this extravagance, on second thought she remembered Marbridge, whom she felt instinctively23 to be quite capable of such overtures24. And her mind was largely distracted for the rest of the night by empty guesswork and futile25 attempts to decide whether or not she ought to run the risk of thanking Quard when next they met.
Eventually she made up her mind to let the sender furnish the clue; and inasmuch as Quard never said anything which the most ready imagination could interpret as a reference to the offering, she came in time to feel tolerably satisfied that the anonymous26 donor27 must have been Marbridge.
It was to be long, however, before this surmise could be confirmed; although, on getting home Saturday night, after a hard day's work and a late dinner with Quard, she was informed that a gentleman had called and asked for her during the afternoon, but had left neither word nor card. The same thing happened on Monday, under like circumstances; after which the attempts to see her were discontinued.
And then, Joan noticed that Venetia didn't call....
Interim28, the task of whipping "The Lie" into shape went on so steadily29 that she had little leisure to waste wondering about Marbridge or feeling flattered by his interest; and she even ceased, except at odd moments, to regard Quard as a man and therefore a possible conquest: Gloucester drilled the actors without mercy and spared himself as little.
A pursy body, with the childish, moon-like face of a born comedian30, he applied31 himself to the work with the extravagant32 solemnity of a minor33 poet mouthing his own perfumed verses at a literary dinner. During rehearsals his manner was immitigably austere34, aloof35, inspired; but however precious his methods, he achieved brilliant effects in the despised medium of clap-trap melodrama36; and under his tutelage even Joan achieved surprising feats37 of emotional portrayal—and this, singularly enough, without learning to despise him as she had despised Wilbrow.
She learned what either Wilbrow had lacked the time to teach her or she had then been unable to learn: how to assume the requisite38 mood the moment she left the wings and drop it like a mask as soon as she came off-stage again. She was soon able to hate and fear Quard with every fibre of her being throughout their long scenes of dialogue, and to chat with him in unfeigned amiability39 both before and after. And her liking40 and admiration41 for the man deepened daily, as Gloucester deftly42 moulded Quard's plastic talents into a rude but powerful impersonation.
Partly because of the brevity of the little play, which enabled them to run through it several times of an afternoon as soon as they were familiar with its lines, and partly because Gloucester was hard up and in a hurry to collect his fee, the company was prepared well within the designated ten days. And through the agent Boskerk's influence, they were favoured with an early opportunity to present it at a "professional try-out" matinée, a weekly feature of one of the better-class moving-picture and vaudeville houses.
The audiences attracted by such trial performances are the most singular imaginable in composition, and of a temper the most difficult—with the possible exceptions of a London first-night house bent43 on booing whatever the merits of the offering, and a body of jaded44 New York dramatic critics and apathetic45 theatre loungers assembled for the fourth consecutive46 first-night of a week toward the end of a long, hard winter.
On Tuesday afternoons and nights (as a rule) they foregather in the "combination houses" of New York, animated47 (save for a sprinkling of agents and bored managers) by a single motive48, the desire to laugh—preferably at, but at a pinch with, those attempting to win their approbation49. Their sense of humour has been nourished on the sidewalk banana-peel, the slap-stick and the patch on the southern exposure of the tramp's trousers; and while they will accept with the silence of curiosity, if not of respect, and at times even applaud, straight "legitimate50" acting51, the slightest slip or evidence of hesitation on the part of an actor, the faintest suggestion of bathos in a line, or even the tardy52 adjustment of one of the wings after the rise of the curtain, will be hailed with shrieks53 of delight and derision.
Before an assemblage of this character, "The Distinguished54 Romantic Actor, Chas. H. Quard & Company," presented "The Lie" as the fifth number of a matinée bill.
Waiting in the wings and watching the stage-hands shift and man?uvre flats and ceiling, and arrange furniture and properties at the direction of the David (who doubled that r?le with the duties of stage manager) Joan listened to the dreadful wails55 of a voiceless vocalist who, on the other side of the scene-drop, was rendering56 with sublime57 disregard for key and tempo58 a ballad59 of sickening sentimentality; heard the feet of the audience, stamping in time, drown out both song and accompaniment, the subsequent roar of laughter and hand-clapping that signalized the retirement60 of the singer, and experienced, for the first and only time, premonitory symptoms of stage-fright.
Through what seemed a wait of several minutes after the disappearance61 of the despised singer—who, half-reeling, half-running, with tears furrowing62 her enameled63 cheeks, brushed past Joan on her way to her dressing-room—the applause continued, rising, falling, dying out and reviving in vain attempts to lure64 the object of its ridicule65 back to the footlights.
At a word from David, the stage-hands vanished, and at his nod Joan moved on. David seated himself and opened a newspaper while the girl, trembling, took up a position near a property fireplace, with an after-dinner coffee-cup and saucer in her hands. She was looking her best in the evening frock purchased for the week-end at Tanglewood, and was in full command of her lines and business; but there was a lump in her throat and a sickly sensation in the pit of her stomach as the cheap orchestra took up the refrain of a time-worn melody which had been pressed into service as curtain music.
Peering over the edge of his newspaper, David spoke final words of kindly66 counsel: "Don't you mind, whatever happens. Make believe they ain't no audience."
The house was quiet, now, and the music very clear.
Kneeling within the recess67 of the fireplace, almost near enough to touch her hand, Quard begged plaintively68: "For the love of Gawd, don't let their kidding queer you, girlie. Remember, Boskerk promised he'd have Martin Beck out front!"
Joan nodded—gulped.
The curtain rose. Through the glare of footlights the auditorium69 was vaguely70 revealed, a vast and gloomy amphitheatre dotted with an infinite, orderly multitude of round pink spots, and still with the hush71 of expectancy72. Joan thought of a dotted lavender foulard she had recently coveted73 in a department-store; and the ridiculous incongruity74 of this comparison in some measure restored her assurance. Turning her head slowly, she looked at David, who was properly intent on his newspaper, smiled, and parted her lips to speak the opening line.
From the gallery floated a shrill75, boyish squeal76:
"Gee77! pipe the pippin!"
The audience rocked and roared. Joan's heart sank; then, suddenly, resentment78 kindled79 her temper; she grew coldly, furiously angry, and forgot entirely80 to be afraid of that stupid, bawling81 beast, the public. But her faint, charming smile never varied82 a fraction. Turning, she spoke the first line, heedless of the uproar83; and as if magically it was stilled. A feeling of contempt and superiority further encouraged her. She repeated the words, which were of no special value to the plot—merely a trick of construction to postpone84 the ringing of a telephone-bell long enough to let the audience grasp the relationship of those upon the stage.
In a respectful silence, David looked up from the newspaper and replied. The telephone-bell rang. Turning to the instrument on the table beside him, he lifted the receiver to his ear and—the plot began to unfold.
David, the husband, in his suburban85 home, was being called to New York on unexpected business with a client booked to sail for Europe in the morning. It was night; reluctant to go, he none the less yielded to pressure, rang for the coachman and ordered a carriage, in the face of the protests of Joan, his wife. She was to be left alone in the house with their little son; for the maids were out and the coachman slept beyond call in the stable. Reassuring86 her with his promise to return at the earliest possible moment, David departed....
A brief and affectionate passage between the two was rendered inaudible by derisive87 laughter; but this was almost instantly silenced when Quard showed himself at a window in the back of the set, peering furtively88 in at the lonely woman in the unguarded house.
An excellent actor when properly guided, and fresh from the hands of one of the most astute89 producers connected with the American stage, without uttering a word Quard contrived90 to infuse into this first brief appearance at the window a sense of criminal and sinister91 mystery which instantly enchained the imagination of the audience.
In the tense silence of the house, the nervous gasp92 of a high-strung woman was distinctly audible. But it passed without eliciting93 a single hoot94.
Darting95 round to the door, Quard entered and addressed Joan. She cried out strongly in mingled96 terror and horror. A few crisp and rapid lines uncovered the argument: Quard was the woman's first husband, who had married and deserted97 her all in a week and whom she had been given every reason to believe dead. Ashamed of that mad union with a dissolute blackguard, she had concealed98 it from the husband of her second marriage. Now she was confronted with the knowledge that her innocently bigamous position would be made public unless she submitted to blackmail99. Promising100 in her torment101 to give the man all he demanded, she induced him to leave before the return of the servant.... Alone she realized suddenly the illegitimacy of the child of her second marriage.
At this, a scene-curtain fell, and a notice was flashed upon it informing the audience that the short moment it remained down indicated a lapse102 of five hours in the action.
Already the interest of the audience had become so fixed103 that it applauded with sincerity104.
Hurrying to her dressing-room, Joan stepped out of her pretty frock and into a negligee. The removal of a few pins permitted her hair to fall down her back, a long, thick, plaited rope of bronze. Then grasping a revolver loaded with blanks, she ran back to the second left entrance.
The scene-curtain was already up; on the stage, in semi-darkness, the Thief, having broken into the house by way of the back window, was attempting to force the combination of a small safe behind a screen.... Quard, kneeling to peer through the fireplace, lifted a signalling hand to Joan. David stamped loudly, off-stage. In alarm, the Thief hid himself behind the screen; and Joan came on, with a line of soliloquy to indicate that she had been awakened105 by the noise of the burglar's entrance. As she turned up the lights by means of a wall-switch, Quard re-entered by way of the window, in a well-simulated state of semi-drunkenness which had ostensibly roused his distrust and brought him back to watch and threaten his wife anew....
Here happened one of those terrible blunders which seem almost inseparable from first performances.
As Joan wheeled round to recognize Quard, her hand nervously106 contracted on the revolver, and it exploded point-blank at Quard's chest. Had it been loaded he must inevitably107 have been killed then and there; and when, pulling himself together, Quard managed to go on with the business—springing upon Joan and wresting108 the weapon from her—the audience betrayed exquisite109 appreciation110 of the impossibility, and shrieked111 and whooped112 with joy unrestrained.
It was some minutes before they were able audibly to take up the dialogue. And this was fortunate, in a way; for the shock of that unexpected explosion had caused Quard to "dry up"—as the slang of the stage terms nervous dryness of the throat whether or not accompanied by forgetfulness. He required that pandemoniac pause in which to recover; and even when able to make himself heard, he repeated hoarsely113 and with extreme difficulty the line called to him by David—who was holding the prompt-book, in the fireplace.
But the instinct of one bred to the stage from childhood saved him. And with comparative quiet restored, he braced114 up and played out the scene with admirable verve and technique. Joan was well aware that, stronger though her r?le might be, the man was giving a performance that overshadowed it heavily.
He was drunk and he was brutal115: David had telephoned that he was at the railroad station and would be home in a few minutes; Quard, not content with promises, insisted on money, of which the woman had none to give him, or her jewels, which were locked away in the safe. When she refused to disclose the combination or to open the safe, Quard in besotted rage attempted to force her to open it. Struggling, they overturned the screen, exposing the Thief. Through a breathless and silent instant the two men faced one another, Quard bewildered, the Thief seeing his way of escape barred. Then simultaneously116 they fired—Quard using the woman's revolver. One shot only took effect—the Thief's—and that fatally. Quard fell. Joan seized the arm of the Thief and urged him from the house; as he vanished through the window, she picked up the revolver which Quard had dropped, and turned to the door. Frantic117 with alarm, David entered. Joan reeled into his arms, screaming: "I have killed a burglar!"
On this tableau118 the curtain fell—and rose and fell again and again at the direction of the house-manager deferring119 to an enthusiastic audience. Crude and raw as was this composition, the surprise of its last line and the strength with which it was acted, had won the unstinted approval of a public ever hungry for melodrama.
Quard, revivified, bowing and smiling with suave120 and deprecatory grace, Joan in tears of excitement and delight, and the subordinate members of the company in varying stages of gratification over the prospect121 of prompt booking and a long engagement, were obliged to hold the stage through nine curtain-calls....
On her way back to her dressing-room Joan was halted by a touch on her shoulder. She paused, to recognize Gloucester, of whose presence in the house she had been ignorant.
"Very well done, my dear," he said loftily; "very well done. You've got the makings of an actress in you, if you don't lose your head. Now run along and dry your eyes, like a good girl, and don't bother me with your silly gratitude122."
With this he brusquely turned his back to her.
But Quard, overtaking her in the gangway, without hesitation or apology folded her in his arms and kissed her on the lips. And Joan submitted without remonstrance123, athrill and elate.
"Girlie!" he cried exultantly—"you're a wonder!
"I knew you could do it!... But, O my Gawd! you nearly finished me when you let that gun off right in my face!..."
Somehow she found her way home alone, and shut herself up in the hall-bedroom to calm down and try to review the triumph sensibly.
Unquestionably she had done well.
Quard had done much better—but no wonder! She wasn't jealous: she was glad for his sake as well as for her own.
Of course, this meant a great change. There was to come the day of reckoning with Matthias.... She had four letters of his, not one of which she had answered.... If "The Lie" got booking, and she went on the road with it—as she knew in her soul she would: nothing now could keep her off the stage—she would almost certainly lose Matthias.
Quard, however, would remain to her; and of Quard she was very sure. That he loved her with genuine and generous devotion was now the one clear and indisputable fact in her unstable124 existence. If only he would refrain from drinking....
He was to telephone as soon as he received any encouraging news; and he had expected definite word from Boskerk before the afternoon was over. In anticipation125 of being called down-stairs at any minute, Joan remained in her street dress, aching for her bed though she was with reaction and simple fatigue126. But it was nearly eight o'clock before she was summoned.
"That you, girlie?" the answer came to her breathless "Hello?"
"Yes—yes, Charlie. What is it?"
"I've seen Boskerk—in fact, I'm eating with him now. It's all settled. We're to open next Monday somewhere in New England—Springfield, probably; and we get forty weeks solid on top of that."
"I'm so glad!"
"Sure you are. We're all glad, I guess."
"And—Charlie—" she stammered127.
"Hello?"
"Are you—are you all right?"
"Sure I'm all right. Good night, girlie. Take care of yourself. See you tomorrow."
"Good night," said Joan.
Hooking up the receiver, she leaned momentarily against the wall, feeling a little faint and ill.
Was it simply overtaxed imagination that had made her believe she detected a slight constraint128 in Quard's voice—a hesitation assumed to mask blurred129 enunciation130?
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1
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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12
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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13
endorsement
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| n.背书；赞成，认可，担保；签(注)，批注 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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inflating
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| v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的现在分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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interim
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| adj.暂时的，临时的；n.间歇，过渡期间 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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41
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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43
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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49
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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50
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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51
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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52
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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53
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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54
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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55
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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56
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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57
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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58
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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59
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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60
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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61
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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62
furrowing
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的现在分词 ) | |
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63
enameled
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| 涂瓷釉于，给…上瓷漆，给…上彩饰( enamel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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65
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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66
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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67
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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68
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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69
auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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70
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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71
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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72
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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73
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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74
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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75
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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76
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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77
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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78
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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79
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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80
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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81
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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82
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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83
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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84
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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85
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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86
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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87
derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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89
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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90
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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91
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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92
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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93
eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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94
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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95
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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96
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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97
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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98
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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99
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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100
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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101
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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102
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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103
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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104
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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105
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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106
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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107
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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108
wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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109
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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110
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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111
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
whooped
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| 叫喊( whoop的过去式和过去分词 )； 高声说； 唤起 | |
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113
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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114
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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115
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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116
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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117
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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118
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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119
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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120
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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121
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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122
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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123
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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124
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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125
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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126
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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127
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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129
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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130
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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