The priest's massive frame filled the narrow door; the tones of his mellow1 voice seemed also suddenly to fill the air, drowning all other sounds. The grace of his manner, a grace that invested the simple act of his uncovering and the holding of his calotte in hand, with an air of homage2, made also our own errand the more difficult.
I had already begun to murmur3 the nature of our errand: we were passing, we had seen the manoir opposite, we had heard it was to rent, also that he, Monsieur le Curé, had the keys.
Yes, the keys were here. Then the velvet4 in Monsieur le Curé's eyes turned to bronze, as they looked out at us from beneath the fine dome5 of brow.
"I have the keys of the garden only, mesdames," he replied, with perfect but somewhat distant courtesy; "the gardener, down the road yonder, has the keys of the house. Do you really wish to rent the house?"
He had seen through our ruse6 with quick Norman penetration7. He had not, from the first, been in the least deceived.
It became the more difficult to smooth the situation into shape. "We had thought perhaps to rent a villa8, we were in one now at Villerville. If Monsieur le curé would let us look at the garden. Monsieur Renard, whom perhaps he remembered—
"M. Renard! Oh ho! Oh ho! I see it all now," and a deep, mellow laugh smote9 the air. The keenness in the fine eyes melted into mirth, a mirth that laid the fine head back on the broad shoulders, that the laugh that shook the powerful frame might have the fuller play.
"Ah, mes enfants, I see it all now—it is that scoundrel of a boy. I'll warrant he's there, over yonder, already. He was here yesterday, he was here the day before, and he is afraid, he is ashamed to ask again for the keys. But come, mes enfants, come, let us go in search of him." And the little door was closed with a slam. Down the broad roadway the next instant fluttered the old curé's soutane. We followed, but could scarcely keep pace with the brisk, vigorous strides. The sabots ploughed into the dust. The cane10 stamped along in company with the sabots, all three in a fury of impatience11. The curé's step and his manner might have been those of a boy, burning with haste to discover a playmate in hiding. All the keenness and shrewdness on the fine, ruddy face had melted into sweetness; an exuberance12 of mirth seemed to be the sap that fed his rich nature. It was easy to see he had passed the meridian13 of his existence in a realm of high spirits; an irrepressible fountain within, the fountain of an unquenchable good-humor, bathed the whole man with the hues14 of health. Ripe red lips curved generously over superb teeth; the cheeks were glowing, as were the eyes, the crimson15 below them deepening to splendor17 the velvet in the iris18. The one severe line in the face, the thin, straight nose, ended in wide nostrils19 in the quivering, mobile nostrils of the humorist. The swell20 of the gourmand's paunch beneath the soutane was proof that the curé was a true Norman he had not passed a lifetime in these fertile gardens forgetful of the fact that the fine art of good living is the one indulgence the Church has left to its celibate21 sons.
Meanwhile, our guide was peering with quick, excited gaze, through the thick foliage22 of the park; his fine black eyes were sweeping23 the parterre and terrace.
"Ah-h!" his rich voice cried out, mockingly; and he stopped, suddenly, to plant his cane in the ground with mock fierceness.
"Tiens, Monsieur le Curé!" cried Renard, from behind a tree, in a beautiful voice. It was a voice that matched with his well-acted surprise, when he appeared, confronting us, on the other side of the tree-trunk.
The curé opened his arms.
"Ah, mon enfant, viens, viens! how good it is to see thee once again!"
They were in each other's arms. The curé was pressing his lips to Renard's cheek, in hearty24 French fashion. The priest, however, administered his reproof25 before he released him. Renard's broad shoulders received a series of pats, which turned to blows, dealt by the curé's herculean hand.
"Why didn't you let me know you were here, yesterday, Hein? Answer me that. How goes the picture? Is it set up yet? You see, mesdames," turning with a reddened cheek and gleaming eyes, "it is thus I punish him—for he has no heart, no sensibilities—he only understands severities! And he defrauded26 me yesterday, he cheated me. I didn't even know of his being here till he had gone. And the picture, where is it?"
It was on an easel, sunning itself beneath the park trees. The old priest clattered27 along the gravelly walk, to take a look at it.
"Tiens—it grows—the figures begin to move—they are almost alive. There should be a trifle more shadow under the chin, what do you think?"
Henri raised his chin. Henri had undergone the process of transformation29 in our absence. He was now M. le Marquis de Pompadour—under the heart-shaped arch of the great trees, he was standing30, resplendent in laces, in glistening31 satins, leaning on a rusty32, dull-jewelled sword. Renard had mounted his palette; he was dipping already into the mounds33 of color that dotted the palette-board, with his long brushes. On the canvas, in colors laid on by the touch of genius, this archway beneath which we were standing reared itself aloft; the park trees were as tall and noble, transfixed in their image of immutable35 calm, on that strip of linen36, as they towered now above us; even the yellow cloud of the laburnum blossoms made the sunshine of the shaded grass, as it did here, where else no spot of sun might enter, so dense37 was the night of shade. The life of another day and time lived, however, beneath that shade; Charm and the curé, as they drooped38 over the canvas, confronted a graceful39, attenuated40 courtier, sickening in a languor41 of adoration42, and a sprightly43 coquette, whose porcelain44 beauty was as finished as the feathery edges of her lacy sleeves.
"Très bien très bien" said the curé, nodding his head in critical commendation. "It will be a little masterpiece. And now," waving his hand toward us, "what do you propose to do with these ladies while you are painting?"
"Oh, they can wander about," Renard replied, abstractedly. He had already reseated himself and had begun to ply45 his brushes; he now saw only Henri and the hilt of the sword he was painting in.
"I knew it, I could have told you—a painter hasn't the manners of a peasant when he's painting," cried the priest, lifting cane and hands high in air, in mock horror. "But all the better, all the better, I shall have you all to myself. Come, come with me. You can see the house later. I'll send for the gardener. It's too fine a day to be indoors. What a day, hein? Le bon Dieu sends us such days now and then, to make us ache for paradise. This way, this way—we'll go through the little door—my little door; it was made for me, you know, when the manoir was last inhabited. I and the children were too impatient—we suffered from that malady—all of us—we never could wait for the great gates yonder to be opened. So Monsieur de H—— built us this one." The little door opened directly on the road, and on the curé's house. There was a tangle46 of underbrush barring the way; but the curé pushed the briars apart with his strong hands, beating them down with his cane.
When the door opened, we passed directly beyond the roadway, to the steep steps leading to the church. The curé, before mounting the steps, swept the road, upward and downward, with his keen glance. It was the instinctive47 action of the provincial48, scenting49 the chance of novelty. Some distant object, in the meeting of two distant roadways, arrested the darting50 eyes; this time, at least, he was to be rewarded for his prudence51 in looking about him. The object slowly resolved itself into two crutches52 between which hung the limp figure of a one-legged man.
"Bonjour, Monsieur le curé." The crutches came to a standstill; the cripple's hand went up to doff53 a ragged54 worsted cap.
"Good-day, good-day, my friend; how goes it? Not quite so stiff, hein—in such a bath of sunlight as this? Good-day, good-day."
The crutches and their burden passed on, kicking a little cloud of dust about the lean figure.
"Un peu cassé, le bonhomme" he said, as he nodded to the cripple in a tone of reflection, as if the breakage that bad befallen his humble55 friend were a fresh incident in his experience. "Yes, he's a little broken, the poor old man; but then," he added, quickly renewing his tone of unquenchable high spirits—"one doesn't die of it. No, one doesn't die, fortunately. Why, we're all more or less cracked, or broken up here."
He shook another laugh out, as he preceded us up the stone steps. Then he turned to stop for a moment to point his cane toward the small house with whose chimneys we were now on a level. "There, mesdames, there is the proof that more breaking doesn't signify in this matter of life and death, Tenez, madame—" and with a charming gesture he laid his richly-veined, strong old hand on my arm—a hand that ended in beautiful fingers, each with its rim16 of moon-shaped dirt; "tenez—figure to yourself, madame, that I myself have been here twenty years, and I came for two! I bought out the bonhomme who lived over yonder.
"I bought him and his furniture out. I said to myself, 'I'll buy it for eight hundred, and I'll sell it for four hundred, in a year.'" Here he laid his finger on his nose—lengthwise, the Norman in him supplanting56 the priest in his remembrance of a good bargain. "And now it is twenty years since then. Everything creaks and cracks over there: all of us creak and crack. You should hear my chairs, elles se cassent les reins—they break their thighs57 continually. Ah! there goes another, I cry out, as I sit down in one in winter and hear them groan58. Poor old things, they are of the Empire, no wonder they groan. You should see us, when our brethren come to take a cup of soup with me. Such a collection of antiquities59 as we are! I catch them, my brothers, looking about, slyly peering into the secrets of my little ménage. 'From his ancestors, doubtless, these old chairs and tables, say these good frères, under their breath. And then I wink60 slyly at the chairs, and they never let on."
Again the mellow laugh broke forth61. He stopped again to puff62 and blow a little, from his toil63 up the steep steps. Then all at once, as the rough music of his clicking sabots and the playful taps of his cane ceased, the laugh on his mobile lips melted into seriousness. He lifted his cane, pointing to the cemetery64 just above us, and to the gravestones looking down over the hillsides between a network of roses.
"We are old, madame—we are old, but, alas65! we never die! It is difficult to people, that cemetery. There are only sixty of us in the parish, and we die—we die hard. For example, here is my old servant"—and he covered a grave with a sweep of his cane—for we were leisurely66 sauntering through the little cemetery now. The grave to which he pointed67 was a garden; heliotrope68, myosotis, hare-bells and mignonette had made of the mound34 a bed of perfume—"see how quietly she lies—and yet what a restless soul the flowers cover! She, too, died hard. It took her years to make up her mind; finally le bon Dieu had to decide it for her, when she was eighty-four. She complained to the last—she was poor, she was in my way, she was blind. 'Eh bien, tu n'as pas besoin de me faire les beaux yeux, toi'—I used to say to her. Ah, the good soul that she was!" and the dark eye glistened69 with moisture. A moment later the curé was blowing vigorously the note of his grief, in trumpet-tones, through the organ that only a Frenchman can render an effective adjunct to moments of emotion.
"You see, mes enfants, I am like that—I weep over my friends—when they are gone! But see," he added quickly, recovering himself—"see, over yonder there is my predecessor's grave. He lies well, hein?—comfortable, too—looking his old church in the face and the sun on his old bones all the blessed day. Soon, in a few years, he will have company. I, too, am to lie there, I and a friend." The humorous smile was again curving his lips, and the laughter-loving nostrils were beginning to quiver. "When my friend and I lie there, we shall be a little crowded, perhaps. I said to him, when he proposed it, proposed to lie there with us, 'but we shall be crunching70 each other's bones!' 'No,' he replied, 'only falling into each other's arms!' So it was settled. He comes over from Havre, every now and then, to talk our tombstones over; we drink a glass of wine together, and take a pipe and talk about our future—in eternity71! Ah, how gay we are! It is so good to be friends with God!"
The voice deepened into seriousness. He went on in a quieter key:
"But why am I always preaching and talking about death and eternity to two such ladies—two such children? Ah—I know, I am really old—I only deceive myself into pretending I'm young. You will do the same, both of you, some day. But come and see my good works. You know everyone has his little corner of conceit—I have mine. I like to do good, and then to boast of it. You shall see—you shall see."
He was hurrying us along the narrow paths now, past the little company of grave-stones, graves that were bearing their barbaric burdens of mortuary wreaths, of beaded crosses, and the motley assemblage, common to all French graveyards72, of hideous73 shrines74 encasing tin saints and madonnas in plaster.
Above the sunken graves and the tin effigies75 of the martyrs76 behind the church, arose a fair and glittering marble tomb. It was strangely out of keeping with the meagre and paltry77 surroundings of the peasant grave-stones. As we approached the tomb it grew in imposingness. It was a circular mortuary chapel78, with carved pediment and iron-wrought gateway79.
"It's fine, hein, and beautiful, hein? It is the Duke's!" The curé, it was easy to see, considered the chapel in the light of a personal possession. He stood before it, bare-headed, with a new earnestness on his mobile face. "It is the Duke's. Yes, the Duke's. I saved his soul, blessed be God! and he—he rebuilds my cellars for me: See"—and he pointed to the fine new base of stone, freshly cemented, on which the church rested—"see, I save his soul, and he preserves my buildings for me. It's a fair deal, isn't it? How does it come about, that he is converted? Ah, you see, although I am a man without science, without knowledge, devoid80 of pretensions81 and learning, the good God sometimes makes use of such humble instruments to work His will. It came about in the usual way. The Duke came here carrying his religion lightly, as one may say, not thinking of his soul. I—I dine with him. We talk, we argue; he does, that is—I only preach from my Bible. And behold82! one day he is converted. He is devout83. And from gratitude84, he repairs my crumbling85 old stones. And now see how solid, how strong is my church cellar!"
Again the fountain of his irrepressible merriment bubbled forth. For all the gayety, however, the severe line deepened as one grew to know the face better; the line in profile running from the nose into the firm upper lip and into the still more resolute86 chin, matched the impress of authority marked on the noble brow. It was the face of one who might have infinite charity and indulgence for a sin, and yet would make no compromise with it.
We had resumed our walk. It led us at last into the interior of the little church. The gloom and silence within, after the dazzling brilliancy of the noon-day sun and the noisy insect hum, invested the narrow nave87 and dim altar with an added charm. The old priest knelt for the briefest instant in reverence88 to the altar. When he turned there was surprise as well as a gentle reproach in the changeable eyes.
"And you, mesdames! How is this? You are not Catholics? And I was so sure of it! Quite sure of it, you were so sympathetic, so full of reverence. And you, my child"—turning to Charm—"you speak our tongue so well, with the very accent of a good Catholic. What! you are Protestant? La! La! What do I hear?" He shook his cane over the backs of the straw-bottomed chairs; the sweet, mellow accents of his voice melted into loving protest—a protest in which the fervor89 was not quenched90 in spite of the merry key in which it was pitched.
"Protestants? Pouffe! pouffe! What is that? What is it to be a Protestant? Heretics, heretics, that is what you are. So you are deux affreuses hérétiques? Ah, la! la! Horrible! horrible! I must cure you of all that. I must cure you!" He dropped his cane in the enthusiasm of his attack; it fell with a clanging sound on the stone pavement. He let it lie. He had assumed, unconsciously, the orator's, the preacher's attitude. He crowded past the chairs, throwing back his head as he advanced, striking into argumentative gesture:
"Tenez, listen, there is so little difference, after all. As I was saying to M. le comte de Chermont the other day, no later than Thursday—he has married an English wife, you know—can't understand that either, how they can marry English wives. However, that's none of my business—we have nothing to do with marrying, we priests, except as a sacrament for others. I said to M. le comte, who, you know, shows tendencies toward anglicism—astonishing the influence of women—I said: 'But, my dear M. le comte, why change? You will only exchange certainty for uncertainty91, facts for doubts, truth for lies.' 'Yes, yes,' the comte replied, 'but there are so many new truths introduced now into our blessed religion—the infallibility of the pope—the—' 'Ah, mon cher comte—ne m'en parlez pas. If that is all that stands in your way—faites comme le bon Dieu! Lui—il ferme les yeux et tend les bras. That is all we ask—we his servants—to have you close your eyes and open your arms.'"
The good curé was out of breath; he was panting. After a moment, in a deeper tone, he went on:
"You, too, my children, that is what I say to you—you need only to open your arms and to close your eyes. God is waiting for you."
For a long instant there was a great stillness—a silence during which the narrow spaces of the dim aisles92 were vibrating with the echoes of the rich voice.
The rustle93 of a light skirt sweeping the stone flooring broke the moment's silence. Charm was crossing the aisles. She paused before a little wooden box, nailed to the wall. There came suddenly on the ear the sound of coin rattling94 down into the empty box; she had emptied into it the contents of her purse.
"For your poor, monsieur le curé," she smiled up, a little tremulously, into the burning, glowing eyes. The priest bent95 over the fair head, laying his hand, as if in benediction96, upon it.
"My poor need it sadly, my child, and I thank you for them. God will bless you."
It was a touching97 little scene, and I preferred, for one, to look out just then at Henri's figure advancing toward us, up the stone steps.
When the priest spoke98 again, it was in a husky tone, the gold in his voice dusted with moisture; but the bantering99 spirits in him had reappeared.
"What a pity, that you must burn! For you must, dreadful heretics that you are! And this dear child, she seems to belong to us—I can never sit by, now, in Paradise, happy and secure, and see her burn!" The laugh that followed was a mingled100 caress101 and a blessing102. Henri came in for a part of the indulgence of the good curé's smile as he came up the steps.
"Ah, Henri, you have come for these ladies?"
"Oui, monsieur le curé, luncheon103 is served."
Our friend followed us to the topmost step, and to the very edge of the step. He stood there, talking down to us, as we continued to press him to return with us.
"No, my children—no—no, I can't join you; don't urge me; I can't, I must not. I must say my prayers instead; besides the children come soon, for their catechism. No, don't beg me, I don't need to be importuned104; I know what that dear Renard's wine is. Au revoir et a bient?t—and remember," and here he lifted his arms—cane and all, high in the air—"all you need do is to close your eyes and to open your arms. God himself is doing the same."
High up he stood, with uplifted hands, the smile irradiating a face that glowed with a saint's simplicity105. Behind the black lines of his robe, the sunlight lay streaming in noon glory; it aureoled him as never saint was aureoled by mortal brush. A moment only he lingered there, to raise his cap in parting salute106. Then he turned, the trail of his gown sweeping the gravel28 paths, and presently the low church door swallowed him up. Through the door, as we crossed the road, there came out to us the click of sabots striking the rude flagging; and a moment after, the murmuring echo of a deep, rich voice, saying the office of the hour.
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1
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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3
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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7
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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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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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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19
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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20
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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23
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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29
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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32
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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33
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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38
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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40
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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41
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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42
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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43
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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44
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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45
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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46
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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47
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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48
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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49
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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50
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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51
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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52
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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53
doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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54
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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56
supplanting
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| 把…排挤掉，取代( supplant的现在分词 ) | |
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57
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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58
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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59
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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60
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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62
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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64
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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65
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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66
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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68
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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71
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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72
graveyards
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| 墓地( graveyard的名词复数 )； 垃圾场； 废物堆积处； 收容所 | |
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73
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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76
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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77
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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78
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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81
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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82
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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83
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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84
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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85
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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86
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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87
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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88
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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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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90
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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91
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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92
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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93
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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95
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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96
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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97
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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98
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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99
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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100
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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101
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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102
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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103
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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104
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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105
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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106
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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