“Bai Jove, Vining! that you?” languidly exclaimed a little, thin, carefully-dressed man, ambling1 gently along on one of the most thoroughly2-broken of ladies’ mares, whose pace was so easy that not a curl of her master’s jetty locks was disarranged, or a crease4 formed in his tightly-buttoned surtout. His figure said “stays” as plainly as figure could speak; he wore an eyeglass screwed into the brim of his very glossy6 hat; his eyes were half closed; his moustache was waxed and curled up at the ends like old-fashioned skates; and his carefully-trained whiskers lightly brushed their tips against his shoulders. And to set off such arrangements to the greatest advantage, he displayed a great deal of white wristband and shirt-front; his collar came down into the sharpest of peaks; and he rode in lemon-kid gloves and patent-leather boots.
“Hallo, Max!” exclaimed Charley, looking like some Colossus as he reined7 in by the side of the dandy, who was going in the same direction along a shady lane. “How are you? When did you come down?”
“So, so—so, so, mai dear fellow! Came down la-a-ast night. But pray hold in that confounded great beast of yours: she’s making the very deuce of a dust! I shall be covered!”
Charley patted and soothed9 his fiery10 curveting steed into a walk, which was quite sufficient to keep it abreast11 of Maximilian Bray12’s ambling jennet, which kept up a dancing, circus-horse motion, one evidently approved by its owner for its aid in displaying his graceful13 horsemanship.
“Nice day,” said Charley, scanning with a side glance his companion’s “get-up,” and evidently with a laughing contempt.
“Ya-a-s, nice day,” drawled Bray, “but confoundedly dusty!”
“Rain soon,” said Charley maliciously14. “Lay it well.”
“Bai Jove, no—surely not!” exclaimed the other, displaying a great deal of trepidation15. “You don’t think so, do you?”
“Black cloud coming up behind,” said Charley coolly.
“Bai Jove, mai dear fellow, let’s push on and get home! You’ll come and lunch, won’t you?”
“No, not to-day,” said Charley. “But I’m going into the town to see the saddler. I’ll ride with you.”
“Tha-a-anks!” drawled Bray, with a grin of misery16. “But, mai dear fellow, hadn’t you better go on the grass? You’re covering me with dust!”
“Confounded puppy! Nice brother-in-law! Wring17 his neck!” muttered Charley, as he turned his mare3 on to the grass which skirted the side of the road, as did Bray on the other, when, the horses’ paces being muffled18 by the soft turf, conversation was renewed.
“Bai Jove, Vining, you’ll come over to the flower-show to-morrow, won’t you? There’ll be some splendid girls there! Good show too, for the country. You send a lot of things, don’t you?—Covent-garden stuff and cabbages, eh?”
“Humph!” growled19 Charley. “The governor’s going to have some sent, I s’pose; our gardener’s fond of that sort of thing. Think perhaps I shall go.”
“Ya-a-s, I should go if I were you. It does you country fellows a deal of good, I always think, to get into society.”
“Does it?” said Charley, raising his eyebrows20 a little.
“Bai Jove, ya-a-s! You’d better go. Laura’s going, and the Lingon’s girls are coming to lunch. You’d better come over to lunch and go with us,” drawled the exquisite21.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Charley, hesitating; for he was thinking whether it would not be better than going quite alone—“I don’t know what to say.”
“Sa-a-ay? Sa-a-ay ya-a-s,” drawled Bray. “Come in good time and have a weed first in my room; and then we’ll taste some sherry the governor has got da-awn. He always leaves it till I come da-awn from ta-awn. Orders execrable stuff himself, as I often tell him. Wouldn’t have a drop fit to drink if it weren’t for me. You’d better come.”
“Well, really,” said Charley again, half mockingly, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Why, sa-a-ay ya-a-as, and come.”
“Well, then, ‘ya-a-as’!” drawled Charley, in imitation of the other’s tone.
But Maximilian Bray’s skin was too thick for the little barb22 to penetrate23; and he rode gingerly on, petting his whiskers, and altering the sit of his hat; when, being thoroughly occupied with his costume, horse and man nearly came headlong to the ground, in consequence of the mare stumbling over a small heap of road-scrapings. But the little animal saved herself, though only by a violent effort, which completely unseated Maximilian Bray, who was thrown forward upon her neck, his hat being dislodged and falling with a sharp bang into the dusty road.
“All right! No bones broken! You’ve better luck than I have!” laughed Charley, as he fished up the fallen hat with his hunting-whip. “Nip her well with your knees, man, and then you won’t be unseated again in that fashion. Here, take your hat.”
“Bai Jove!” ejaculated the breathless dandy, “it’s too bad! That fellow who left the sweepings24 by the roadside ought to be shot! Mai dear fellow, your governor, as a magistrate25, ought to see to it! Tha-a-anks!”
He took his hat, and began ruefully to wipe off the dust with a scented26 handkerchief before again covering his head; but though he endeavoured to preserve an outward appearance of calm, there was wrath27 in his breast as he gazed down at one lemon-coloured tight glove split to ribbons, and a button burst away from his surtout coat. He could feel too that his moustache was coming out of curl, and it only wanted the sharp shower which now came pattering down to destroy the last remains28 of his equanimity29.
“Bai Jove, how beastly unfortunate!” he exclaimed, urging his steed into a smart canter.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Charley coolly, in his rough tweed suit that no amount of rain would have injured. “Better to-day than to-morrow. Do no end of good, and bring on the hay.”
“Ya-a-as, I suppose so,” drawled Bray; “but do a confounded deal of harm!” and he gazed at the sleeves of his glossy Saville-row surtout.
“O, never mind your coat, man!” laughed Charley. “See how it lays the dust!”
“Ya-a-as, just so,” drawled Bray. “I shall take this short cut and get home. Only a shower! Bye-bye! See you to-morrow! Come to lunch.”
The ragged30 lemon glove was waved to Charley as its owner turned down a side lane; and now that his costume was completely disordered and wet, he made no scruple31 about digging his spurs into his mare’s flanks, and galloping32 homewards; while, heedless of the sharply-falling rain, Charley gently cantered on towards the town.
“Damsels in distress33!” exclaimed the young man suddenly. “‘Bai Jove!’ as Long-ears says. Taken refuge from the rain beneath a tree! Leaves, young and weak, completely saturated—impromptu shower—bath! What shall I do? Lend them my horse? No good. They would not ride double, like Knight34 Templars. Ride off, then, for umbrellas, I suppose. Why didn’t that donkey stop a little longer? and then he could have done it.”
So mused35 Charley Vining as he cantered up to where, beneath a spreading elm by the roadside, two ladies were waiting the cessation of the rain—faring, though, very little better than if they had stood in the open. One was a fashionably-dressed, tall, dark, bold beauty, black of eye and tress, and evidently in anything but the best of tempers with the weather; the other a fair pale girl, in half-mourning, whose yellow hair was plainly braided across her white forehead, but only to be knotted together at the back in a massive cluster of plaits, which told of what a glorious golden mantle36 it could have shed over its owner, rippling37 down far below the waist, and ready, it seemed, to burst from prisoning comb and pin. There was something ineffably38 sweet in her countenance39, albeit40 there was a subdued41, even sorrowful look as her shapely little head was bent42 towards her companion, and she was evidently speaking as Charley cantered up.
“Sorry to see you out in this, Miss Bray,” he cried, raising his low-crowned hat. “What can I do?—Fetch umbrellas and shawls? Speak the word.”
“O, how kind of you, Mr Vining!” exclaimed the dark maiden43, with brightening eyes and flushing cheeks. “But really I should not like to trouble you.”
“Trouble? Nonsense!” cried Charley. “Only speak before you get wet through.”
“Well, if you really—really, you know—would not mind,” hesitated Laura Bray, who, in spite of the rain, was in no hurry to bring the interview to a close.
“Wouldn’t mind? Of course not!” echoed Charley, whose bold eyes were fixed44 upon Laura Bray’s companion, who timidly returned his salute45, and then shrank back, as he again raised his little deer-stalker hat from its curly throne. “Now, then,” he exclaimed, “what’s it to be?—shawls and Sairey Gamps of gingham and tape?”
“No, no, Mr Vining! How droll46 you are!” laughed the beauty. “But if you really wouldn’t mind—really, you know—”
“I tell, you, Miss, Bray, that, I, shall, only, be, too, happy,” said Charley, in measured tones.
“Then, if you wouldn’t mind riding to the Elms, and asking them to send the brougham, I should be so much obliged!”
“All right!” cried Charley, turning his mare. “Max has only just left me.”
“But it seems such a shame to send you away through all this rain!” said Laura loudly.
“Fudge!” laughed Charley, as, putting his mare at the hedge in front, she skimmed over it like a bird, and her owner galloped48 across country, to the great disadvantage of several crops of clover.
“What a pity!” sighed Laura to herself, as she watched the retreating form. “And the rain will be over directly. I wonder whether he’ll come back!”
“Do you think we need wait?” said her companion gently. “The rain has ceased now, and the sun is breaking; through the clouds.”
“O, of course, Miss Bedford!” said Laura pettishly49. “It would be so absurd if the carriage came and found us gone;” when, seeing that the dark beauty evidently wished to be alone with her thoughts, the other remained silent.
“Who in the world can that be with her?” mused Charley, as he rode along. “Might have had the decency50 to introduce me, anyhow. Don’t know when I’ve seen a softer or more gentle face. Splendid hair too! No sham47 there: no fear of her moulting a curl here and a tress there, if her back hair came undone51. No, she don’t seem as if there were any sham about her—quiet, ladylike, and nice. ’Pon my word, I believe Laura Bray would make a better man than Max. Seem to like those silver-grey dresses with a black-velvet52 jacket, they look so—There, what a muff I am, going right out of the way, while that little darling is getting wet as a sponge! Easy, lass! Now, then—over!” he cried to his mare, as she skimmed another hedge. “Wonder what her name is! Some visitor come to the flower-show, I suppose—fiancée of Long-ears probably. Steady, then, Beauty!” he cried again to the mare, who, warming to her work, was beginning to tear furiously over the ground; for, preoccupied53 by thought, Charley had inadvertently been using his spurs pretty freely.
But he soon reduced his steed to a state of obedience54, and rode on, musing55 upon his late encounter.
“Can’t be!” he thought. “A girl with a head like that would never take up with such a donkey! Ah, there he goes, drenched56 like a rat! Ha, ha, ha! How miserably57 disgusted the puppy did look! Patronising me, too—a gnat58! Advising me to go into society, etcetera! Well, I can’t help it: I do think him a conceited59 ass5! But perhaps, after all, he thinks the same of me; and I deserve it.
“Dear old dad,” he mused again after awhile. “Like to see me married and settled, would he? What should I be married for?—a regular woman-hater! Why, in the name of all that’s civil, didn’t Laura introduce me to that little blonde? Like to know who she is—not that it matters to me! Over again, my lass!” he cried, patting the mare as she once more bounded over a hedge, this time to drop into a lane straight as a line, and a quarter of a mile down which Maximilian Bray could be seen hurrying along—Charley’s short cut across the fields having enabled him to gain upon the fleeing dandy.
“May as well catch up to him, and tell him what I’ve seen,” said Charley, urging on his mare. “No, I won’t,” he said, checking. “Better too, perhaps. No, I won’t. Why should I send the donkey back to them? Not much fear, though: he’ll be too busy for a couple of hours restoring his damaged plumes—a conceited popinjay!”
He cantered gently on now, seeming to take the shower with him, for he could see, on turning, that it was getting fine and bright. But the rain had quite ceased as he rode up to the door of the Brays’ seat—a fine old red-brick mansion60 known as the Elms—just as a groom61 was leading the ambling palfrey to its stable at the King’s Arms—there not being accommodation in the paternal62 stables—a steed not much more than half the size of the great rawboned hunter favoured by Max’s masculine sister.
“Why, here’s Mr Charley Vining!” cried a shrill63 loud voice, from an open window. “How de do, Mr Vining—how de do? Come to lunch, haven’t you? So glad! And so sorry Laura isn’t at home! Caught in the shower, I’m afraid.”
The owner of the voice appeared at the window, in the shape of a very big bony lady in black satin—bony not so much in figure as in face, which seemed fitted with too much skull64, displaying a great deal of cheek prominence65, and a macaw-beaked nose, with the skin stretched over it very tightly, forming on the whole an organ of a most resonant66 character—one that it was necessary to hear before it could be thoroughly believed in. In fact, with all due reverence67 to a lady’s nose, it must be stated that the one in question acted as a sort of war-trump, which Mrs Bray blew with masculine force when about to engage in battle with husband or servant for some case of disputed supremacy68.
“Ring the bell, girls,” shrieked69 the lady; “and let some one take Mr Vining’s horse. Do come in, Mr Vining!”
“How do, Vining—how do?” cried a little pudgy man, appearing at the window, but hardly visible beside his lady—Mrs Bray in more ways than one eclipsing her lord. “How do? How’s Sir Philip?”
“Quite well, thanks; but not coming in,” cried Charley, from his horse’s back. “Miss Bray and some lady caught in the rain—under tree—bad shelter—want the brougham.”
“Dear me, how tiresome70!” screamed Mrs Bray. “But must we send it, Ness?”
Mr Bray, named at his baptism Onesimus, replied by stroking his cheek and looking thoughtfully at his lady.
“The rain’s about over now, and they might surely walk,” shrieked Mrs Bray. “Dudgeon grumbles71 so, too, when he has to go out like this, and he was ordered for two o’clock.”
“Better send, my dear,” whispered Mr Bray, with a meaning look. “Vining won’t like it if you don’t.”
Mrs Bray evidently approved of her husband’s counsel; for orders were given that the brougham should be in immediate72 readiness.
“They won’t be long,” she now screamed, all smiles once more. “But do come in and have some lunch, Mr Vining: don’t sit there in your wet clothes.”
“No—no. I’m all right,” cried Charley. “I’m off again directly.”
But for all that, he lingered.
“You’ll be at the flower-show to-morrow, won’t you?” said Mrs Bray.
“Well, yes, I think I shall go,” said Charley. “I suppose everybody will be there.”
“O, of course; Laura’s going. I suppose you send some things from the Court?”
“Yes,” said Charley; but he added, laughing, “What will be the use, when you are going to send such a prize blossom?”
“For shame, you naughty man!” said Mrs Bray. “I shall certainly tell Laura you’ve turned flatterer.”
“I say, Charley Vining,” squeaked73 a loud voice from the next window, “we’re going to beat you Court folks.”
“We are, are we?” laughed Charley, turning in the direction of the voice, which proceeded from a very tall angular young lady of sixteen—a tender young plant, nearly all stem, and displaying very little blossom or leaf. She was supported on either side by two other tender plants, of fourteen and twelve respectively, forming a trio known at the Elms as “the children.” “I’m very glad to hear it, Miss Nell; but suppose we wait till after the judge’s decision. But there goes the carriage. Good-bye, all!”
And turning his horse’s head, he soon overtook the brougham, when, after soothing74 Mr Dudgeon, the driver, with a shilling, the progress was pretty swift until they reached the tree, where, now finding shelter from the sun instead of the rain, yet stood Laura Bray and her companion.
“O, how good of you, Mr Vining! and to come back, too!” gushed75 Laura, with sparkling eyes. “I shall never be out of debt, I’m sure. I don’t know what I should have done if it had not been for you!”
“Walked home, and a blessed good job, too!” muttered Mr John Dudgeon.
“Don’t name it!” said Charley. “Almost a pity it’s left off raining.”
“For shame—no! How can you talk so!” exclaimed Laura, shaking her sunshade at the speaker. “But I really am so much obliged—I am indeed!”
Charley dismounted and opened the carriage-door, handing in first Miss Bray, who stepped forward, leaned heavily upon his arm, and then took her place, arranging her skirts so as to fill the back seat, talking gushingly76 the while as she made play at Charley with her great dark eyes.
But the glances were thrown away, Charley’s attention being turned to her companion, who bent slightly, just touched the proffered77 hand, and stepped into the brougham, taking her seat with her back to the horse.
“So much obliged—so grateful!” cried Laura, as Charley closed the door. “I shall never be able to repay you, I’m sure. Thanks! So much! Good-bye! See you at the flower-show to-morrow, of course? Good-bye!—good-bye!”
“She’s getting a precious deal too affectionate! Talk about wanting me to marry her, why she’ll run away with me directly!” grumbled78 Charley, as Mr Dudgeon impatiently drove off, leaving the young man with the impression of a swiftly passing vision of Laura Bray showing her white teeth in a great smile as she waved her hand, and of a fair gentle face bent slightly down, so that he could see once more the rich massive braids resting upon a shapely, creamy neck. “Have they been saying anything to her?” said Charley, as the brougham disappeared. “She’s getting quite unpleasant. Grows just like the old woman: regularly parrot-beaked. Why didn’t she introduce me? Took the best seat, too! Looks strange! I say, though, ‘bai Jove’—as that sweet brother says—this sort of thing won’t do! I should like to please the dad; but I don’t think I could manage to do it ‘that how,’ as they say about here. She quite frightens me! Heigho! what a bother life is when you can’t spend it just as you like! Wish I was out in Australia or Africa, or somewhere to be free and easy—to hunt and shoot and ride as one liked. Let’s see: I shall not go over to the town now—it’s nearly lunch-time, and I’m wet.”
He had mounted his horse, and was about to turn homeward, when something shining in the grass caught his eye, and leaping down, he snatched up from among the glistening79 strands80, heavy with raindrops, a little golden cross—one that had evidently slipped from velvet or ribbon as the ladies stood beneath that tree.
“That’s not Miss Laura’s—can’t be!” muttered Charley, as he gazed intently at the little ornament81. “Not half fine enough for her.”
Then turning it over, he found engraved82 upon the reverse:
“E.B. From her Mother, 1860.”
“E.B.—E.B.—E.B.! And pray who is E.B.?” muttered Charley, as, once more mounting, he turned his horse’s head homeward. “Eleanor B. or Eliza—no, that’s a housemaid’s name—Ernestine, Eva. Who can she be? Not introduced—given the back seat—hardly spoken to, and yet so ladylike, and—There, get on, Beauty! What am I thinking about? We sha’n’t be back to lunch.”
He cantered on for a mile: and then as they entered a sunny lane—a very arcade83 of gem-besprinkled verdure—he drew rein8, and taking the little cross from his pocket, once more read the inscription84.
“‘E.B. From her mother, 1860.’ And pray who is her mother? and who is E.B.? Nobody from about here, I’ll be bound. But what a contrast to that great, tall, dark woman! And they call her beautiful! Not half so beautiful as you, my lass!” he cried, rousing himself, and patting his mare’s arched neck. “You are my beauty, eh, lass? Get on, then!”
But as Charley Vining rode on he grew thoughtful, and more than once he absently muttered:
“Yes; I think I’ll go to the flower-show to-morrow!”
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1
ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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7
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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19
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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sweepings
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| n.笼统的( sweeping的名词复数 )；（在投票等中的）大胜；影响广泛的；包罗万象的 | |
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magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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38
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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pettishly
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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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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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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gnat
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| v.对小事斤斤计较，琐事 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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gushingly
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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83
arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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