Madame Fouchet had made use of our absence to settle our destiny; she had rented her villa2. This was one of the bitter dregs. Another was to find that the life of the village seemed to pass us by; it gave us to understand, with unflattering frankness, that for strangers who made no bargains for the season, it had little or no civility to squander3. For the Villerville beach, the inn, and the villas4 were crowded. Mere5 Mouchard was tossing omelettes from morning till night; even Augustine was far too hurried to pay her usual visit to the creamery. A detachment of Parisian costumes and beribboned nursery maids was crowding out the fish-wives and old hags from their stations on the low door-steps and the grasses on the cliffs.
Even Fouchet was no longer a familiar figure in the foreground of his garden; his roses were blooming now for the present owners of his villa. He and madame had betaken themselves to a box of a hut on the very outskirts6 of the village—a miserable7 little hovel with two rooms and a bit of pasture land being the substitute, as a dwelling8, for the gay villa and its garden along the sea-cliffs. Pity, however, would have been entirely9 wasted on the Fouchet household and their change of habitation. Tucked in, cramped10, and uncomfortable beneath the low eaves of their cabin ceilings, they could now wear away the summer in blissful contentment: Were they not living on nothing—on less than nothing, in this dark pocket of a chaumière, while their fine house yonder was paying for itself handsomely, week after week? The heart beats high, in a Norman breast, when the pocket bulges12; gold—that is better than bread to feel in one's hand.
The whole village wore this triumphant13 expression—now that the season was beginning. Paris had come down to them, at last, to be shorn of its strength; angling for pennies in a Parisian pocket was better, far, than casting nets into the sea. There was also more contentment in such fishing—for true Norman wit.
Only once did the village change its look of triumph to one of polite regret; for though it was Norman, it was also French. It remembered, on the morning of our departure, that the civility of the farewell costs nothing, and like bread prodigally14 scattered15 on the waters, may perchance bring back a tenfold recompense.
Even the morning arose with a flattering pallor. It was a gray day. The low houses were like so many rows of pale faces; the caps of the fishwives, as they nodded a farewell, seemed to put the village in half mourning.
"You will have a perfect day for your drive—there's nothing better than these grays in the French landscape," Renard was saying, at our carriage wheels; "they bring out every tone. And the sea is wonderful. Pity you're going. Grand day for the mussel-bed. However, I shall see you, I shall see you. Remember me to Monsieur Paul; tell him to save me a bottle of his famous old wine. Good-by, good-by."
There was a shower of rose-leaves flung out upon us; a great sweep of the now familiar beret; a sonorous16 "Hui!" from our driver, with an accompaniment of vigorous whip-snapping, and we were off.
The grayness of the closely-packed houses was soon exchanged for the farms lying beneath the elms. With the widening of the distance between our carriage-wheels and Villerville, there was soon a great expanse of mouse-colored sky and the breath of a silver sea. The fields and foliage17 were softly brilliant; when the light wind stirred the grain, the poppies and bluets were as vivid as flowers seen in dreams.
It is easy to understand, I think, why French painters are so enamoured of their gray skies—such a background makes even the commonplace wear an air of importance. All the tones of the landscape were astonishingly serious; the features of the coast and the inland country were as significant as if they were meditating18 an outbreak into speech. It was the kind of day that bred reflection; one could put anything one liked into the picture with a certainty of its fitting the frame. We were putting a certain amount of regret into it; for though Villerville has seen us depart with civilized19 indifference20 or the stolidity21 of the barbarian—for they are one, we found our own attainments22 in the science of unfeelingness deficient23: to look down upon the village from the next hill top was like facing a lost joy.
Once on the highroad, however, the life along the shore gave us little time for the futility24 of regret. Regret, at best, is a barren thing: like the mule25, it is incapable26 of perpetuating27 its own mistakes; it appears to apologize, indeed, for its stupidity by making its exit as speedily as possible. With the next turn of the road we were in fitting condition to greet the wildest form of adventure.
Pedlars' carts and the lumbering28 Normandy farm wagons29 were, at first, our chief companions along the roadway. Here and there a head would peep forth30 from a villa window, or a hand be stretched out into the air to see if any rain was falling from the moist sky. The farms were quieter than usual; there was an air of patient waiting in the courtyards, among the blouses and standing31 cattle, as though both man and beast were there in attendance on the day and the weather, till the latter could come to the point of a final decision in regard to the rain.
Finally, as we were nearing Trouville, the big drops fell. The grain-fields were soon bent32 double beneath the spasmodic shower. The poppies were drenched33, so were the cobble paved courtyards; only the geese and the regiment34 of the ducks came abroad to revel35 in the downpour. The villas were hermetically sealed now—their summer finery was not made for a wetting. The landscape had no such reserves; it gave itself up to the light summer shower as if it knew that its raiment, like Rachel's, when dampened the better to take her plastic outlines, only gained in tone and loveliness the closer it fitted the recumbent figure of mother earth.
Our coachman could never have been mistaken for any other than a good Norman. He was endowed with the gift of oratory36 peculiar37 to the country; and his profanity was enriched with all the flavor of the provincial's elation38 in the committing of sin. From the earliest moment of our starting, the stream of his talk had been unending. His vocabulary was such as to have excited the envy and despair of a French realist, impassioned in the pursuit of "the word."
"Hui!—b-r-r-r!"—This was the most common of his salutations to his horse. It was the Norman coachman's familiar apostrophe, impossible of imitation; it was also one no Norman horse who respects himself moves an inch without first hearing. Chat Noir was a horse of purest Norman ancestry39; his Percheron blood was as untainted as his intelligence was unclouded by having no mixtures of tongues with which to deal. His owner's "Hui!" lifted him with arrowy lightness to the top of a hill. The deeper "Bougre" steadied his nerve for a good mile of unbroken trotting40. Any toil41 is pleasant in the gray of a cool morning, with a friend holding the reins42 who is a gifted monologist43; even imprecations, rightly administered, are only lively punctuations to really talented speech.
"Come, my beauty, take in thy breath—courage! The hill is before thee! Curse thy withered44 legs, and is it thus thou stumbleth? On—up with thee and that mountain of flesh thou carriest about with thee." And the mountain of flesh would be lifted—it was carried as lightly by the finely-feathered legs and the broad haunches as if the firm avoirdupois were so much gossamer45 tissue. On and on the neat, strong hoofs46 rang their metallic47 click, clack along the smooth macadam. They had carried us past the farm-houses, the cliffs, the meadows, and the Norman roofed manoirs buried in their apple-orchards. These same hoofs were now carefully, dexterously48 picking their way down the steep hill that leads directly into the city of the Trouville villas.
Presently, the hoofs came to a sudden halt, from sheer amazement49. What was this order, this command the quick Percheron hearing had overheard? Not to go any farther into this summer city—not to go down to its sand-beach—not to wander through the labyrinth51 of its gay little streets?—Verily, it is the fate of a good horse, how often! to carry fools, and the destiny of intelligence to serve those deficient in mind and sense.
The criticism on our choice of direction was announced by the hoofs turning resignedly, with the patient assent52 of the fatigue53 that is bred of disgust, into one of the upper Trouville by-streets. Our coachman contented54 himself with a commiserating55 shrug56 and a prolonged flow of explanation. Perhaps ces dames57, being strangers, did not know that Trouville was now beginning its real season—its season of baths? The Casino, in truth, was only opened a week since; but we could hear the band even now playing above the noise of the waves. And behold58, the villas were filling; each day some grande dame1 came down to take possession of her house by the sea.
How could we hope to make a Frenchman comprehend an instinctive59 impulse to turn our backs on the Trouville world? What, pray, had we just now to do with fashion—with the purring accents of boudoirs, with all the life we had run away from? Surely the romance—the charm of our present experiences would be put to flight once we exchanged salutations with the beau monde—with that world that is so sceptical of any pleasure save that which blooms in its own hot-houses, and so disdainful of all forms of life save those that are modelled on fashion's types. We had fled from cities to escape all this; were we, forsooth, to be pushed into the motley crowd of commonplace pleasure-seekers because of the scorn of a human creature, and the mute criticism of a beast that was hired to do the bidding of his betters? The world of fashion was one to be looked out upon as a part of the general mise-en-scène—as a bit of the universal decoration of this vast amphitheatre of the Normandy beaches.
Chat noir had little reverence61 for philosophic62 reflections; he turned a sharp corner just then; he stopped short, directly in front of the broad windows of a confectioner's shop. This time he did not appeal in vain to the strangers with a barbarian's contempt for the great world. The brisk drive and the salt in the air were stimulants63 to appetite to be respected; it is not every day the palate has so fine an edge.
"Du thé, mesdames—à l'Anglaise?" a neatly-corsetted shape, in black, to set off a pair of dazzling pink cheeks, shone out behind rows of apricot tarts64. There was also a cap that conveyed to one, through the medium of pink bows, the capacities of coquetry that lay in the depths of the rich brown eyes beneath them. The attractive shape emerged at once from behind the counter, to set chairs about the little table. We were bidden to be seated with an air of smiling grace, one that invested the act with the emphasis of genuine hospitality. Soon a great clatter65 arose in the rear of the shop; opinions and counter-opinions were being volubly exchanged in shrill66 French, as to whether the water should or should not come to a boil; also as to whether the leaves of oolong or of green should be chosen for our beverage67. The cap fluttered in several times to ask, with exquisite68 politeness—a politeness which could not wholly veil the hidden anxiety—our own tastes and preferences. When the cap returned to the battling forces behind the screen, armed with the authority of our confessed prejudices, a new war of tongues arose. The fate of nations, trembling on the turn of a battle, might have been settled before that pot of water, so watched and guarded over, was brought to a boil. When, finally, the little tea service was brought in, every detail was perfect in taste and appointment, except the tea; the action that had held out valiantly69, that the water should not boil, had prevailed, as the half-soaked tea-leaves floating on top of our full cups triumphantly70 proclaimed.
We sipped71 the beverage, agreeing Balzac had well named it ce boisson fade et mélancolique; the novelist's disdain60 being the better understood as we reflected he had doubtless only tasted it as concocted72 by French ineptitude73. We were very merry over the liver-colored liquid, as we sipped it and quoted Balzac. But not for a moment had our merriment deceived the brown eyes and the fluttering cap-ribbons. A little drama of remorse74 was soon played for our benefit. It was she, her very self, the cap protested—as she pointed75 a tragic76 finger at the swelling77, rounded line of her firm bodice—it was she who had insisted that the water should not boil; there had been ladies—des vraies anglaises—here, only last summer, who would not that the water should boil, when their tea was made. And now, it appears that they were wrong, "c'etait probablement une fantaisie de la part de ces dames." Would we wait for another cup? It would take but an instant, it was a little mistake, so easy to remedy. But this mistake, like many another, like crime, for instance, could never be remedied, we smilingly told her; a smile that changed her solicitous78 remorse to a humorist's view of the situation.
Another humorist, one accustomed to view the world from heights known as trapeze elevations79, we met a little later on our way out of the narrow upper streets; he was also looking down over Trouville. It was a motley figure in a Pierrot garb80, with a smaller striped body, both in the stage pallor of their trade. These were somewhat startling objects to confront on a Normandy high-road. For clowns, however, taken by surprise, they were astonishingly civil. They passed their "bonjour" to us and to the coachman as glibly81 as though accosting82 us from the commoner circus distance.
"They have come to taste of the fresh air, they have," laconically83 remarked our driver, as his round Norman eyes ran over the muscled bodies of the two athletes. "I had a brother who was one—I had; he was a famous one—he was; he broke his neck once, when the net had been forgotten. They all do it—ils se cassent le cou tous, t?t ou tard! Allons toi t'as peur, toi?" Chat noir's great back was quivering with fear; he had no taste, himself, for shapes like these, spectral84 and wan50 as ghosts, walking about in the sun. He took us as far away as possible, and as quickly, from these reminders85 of the thing men call pleasure.
We, meanwhile, were asking Pierre for a certain promised chateau86, one famous for its beauty, between Trouville and Cabourg.
"It is here, madame—the chateau," he said, at last.
Two lions couchant, seated on wide pedestals beneath a company of noble trees, were the only visible inhabitants of the dwelling. There was a sweep of gardens: terraces that picked their way daintily down the cliffs toward the sea, a mansard roof that covered a large mansion—these were the sole aspects of chateau life to keep the trees company. In spite of Pierre's urgent insistence87 that the view was even more beautiful than the one from the hill, we refused to exchange our first experiences of the beauty of the prospect88 for a second which would be certain to invite criticism; for it is ever the critic in us that plays the part of Bluebeard to our many-wived illusions.
We passed between the hedgerows with not even a sigh of regret. We were presently rewarded by something better than an illusion—by reality, which, at its best, can afford to laugh at the spectral shadow of itself. Near the chateau there lived on, the remnant of a hamlet. It was a hamlet, apparently89, that boasted only one farm-house; and the farm-house could show but a single hayrick. Beneath the sloping roof, modelled into shape by a pitchfork and whose symmetrical lines put Mansard's clumsy creation yonder to the blush, sat an old couple—a man and a woman. Both were old, with the rounded backs of the laborer90; the woman's hand was lying in the man's open palm, while his free arm was clasped about her neck with all the tenderness of young love. Both of the old heads were laid back on the pillow made by the freshly-piled grasses. They had done a long day's work already, before the sun had reached its meridian91; they were weary and resting here before they went back to their toil.
This was better than the view; it made life seem finer than nature; how rich these two poor old things looked, with only their poverty about them!
Meanwhile Pierre had quickly changed the rural mise-en-scène; instead of pink hawthorn92 hedges we were in the midst of young forest trees. Why is it that a forest is always a surprise in France? Is it that we have such a respect for French thrift93, that a real forest seems a waste of timber? There are forests and forests; this one seemed almost a stripling in its tentative delicacy94, compared to the mature splendor95 of Fontainebleau, for example. This forest had the virility96 of a young savage97; it was neither dense98 nor vast; yet, in contrast to the ribbony grain fields, and to the finish of the villa parks, was as refreshing99 to the eye as the right chord that strikes upon the ear after a succession of trills.
In all this fair Normandy sea-coast, with its wonderful inland contrasts, there was but one disappointing note. One looked in vain for the old Normandy costumes. The blouse and the close white cap—this is all that is left of the wondrous100 headgear, the short brilliant petticoats, the embroidered101 stomacher, and the Caen and Rouen jewels, abroad in the fields only a decade ago.
Pierre shrugged102 his shoulders when asked a question concerning these now pre-historic costumes.
"Ah! mademoiselle, you must see for yourself, that the peasant who
doesn't despise himself dresses now in the fields as he would in Paris."
As if in confirmation103 of Pierre's news of the fashions, there stepped forth from an avenue of trees, fringing a near farm-house, a wedding-party. The bride was in the traditional white of brides; the little cortege following the trail of her white gown, was dressed in costumes modelled on Bon Marché styles. The coarse peasant faces flamed from bonnets104 more flowery than the fields into which they were passing. The men seemed choked in their high collars; the agony of new boots was written on faces not used to concealing105 such form of torture. Even the groom106 was suffering; his bliss11 was something the gay little bride hanging on his arm must take entirely for granted. It was enough greatness for the moment to wear broadcloth and a white vest in the face of men.
"Laissez, laissez, Marguerite, it is clean here; it will look fine on the green!" cried the bride to an improvised107 train-bearer, who had been holding up the white alpaca. Then the full splendor of the bridal skirt trailed across the freshly mown grasses. An irrepressible murmur108 of admiration109 welled up from the wedding guests; even Pierre made part of the chorus. The bridegroom stopped to mop his face, and to look forth proudly, through starting eyeballs, on the splendor of his possessions.
"Ah! Lizette, thou art pretty like that, thou knowest. Faut l'embrasser, tu sais."
He gave her a kiss full on the lips. The little bride returned the kiss with unabashed fervor110. Then she burst into a loud fit of laughter.
"How silly you look, Jean, with your collar burst open."
The groom's enthusiasm had been too much for his toilet; the noon sun and the excitements of the marriage service had dealt hardly with his celluloid fastenings. All the wedding cortege rushed to the rescue. Pins, shouts of advice, pieces of twine111, rubber fastenings, even knives, were offered to the now exploding bridegroom; everyone was helping112 him repair the ravages113 of his moment of bliss; everyone excepting the bride. She sat down upon her train and wept from pure rapture114 of laughter.
Pierre shook his head gravely, as he whipped up his steed.
"Jean will repent115 it; he'll lose worse things than a button, with
Lizette. A woman who laughs like that on the threshold of marriage will
cry before the cradle is rocked, and will make others weep. However,
Jean won't be thinking of that—to-night."
"Where are they going—along the highroad?"
"Only a short distance. They turn in there," and he pointed with his whip to a near lane; "they go to the farm-house now—for the wedding dinner. Ah! there'll be some heavy heads to-morrow. For you know, a Norman peasant only really eats and drinks well twice in his life—when he marries himself and when his daughter marries. Lizette's father is rich—the meat and the wines will be good to-night."
Our coachman sighed, as if the thought of the excellence116 of the coming banquet had disturbed his own digestion117.
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1
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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bulges
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| 膨胀( bulge的名词复数 )； 鼓起； （身体的）肥胖部位； 暂时的激增 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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perpetuating
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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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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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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monologist
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| n.独白者，自言自语者 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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51
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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52
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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53
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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54
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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55
commiserating
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| v.怜悯，同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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56
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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57
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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58
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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59
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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60
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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61
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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62
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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63
stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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64
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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65
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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66
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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67
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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71
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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73
ineptitude
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| n.不适当；愚笨，愚昧的言行 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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77
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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78
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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79
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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81
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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82
accosting
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的现在分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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laconically
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| adv.简短地，简洁地 | |
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84
spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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85
reminders
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| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
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86
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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87
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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88
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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91
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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92
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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93
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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97
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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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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99
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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100
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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101
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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102
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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103
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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104
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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105
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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106
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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107
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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108
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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109
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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110
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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111
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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112
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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113
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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114
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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115
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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116
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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117
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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