Yes, Ernest thought he could manage that.
Very well, then. The letter must be sent on alternate Wednesdays to the colonial newsagent’s address, and it would be duly forwarded by mail to the office of the Paramatta ‘Chronicle.’ A little suspicious, that item, Berkeley thought, but Ernest swallowed it like a child and made no comment. It must be addressed to ‘Paramatta, care of Lane & Co.,’ and the payments would be made fortnightly through the same agency. Arthur watched his friend’s face narrowly at this point again; but Ernest in his simple-minded, unsuspecting way, never noticed the obvious meaning of this little deception7. He thanked Arthur over and over again for his kindness, but he never guessed how far it extended. The letters kept him employed for two days a week, or thereabouts, and though they never got to Paramatta, nor any farther than Arthur Berkeley’s own study in the little house he had taken for himself at Chelsea, they were regularly paid for through the colonial newsagents, by means of a cheque which really owed its ultimate origin to Arthur Berkeley himself. Fifteen shillings a week is not a large fortune, certainly; but still it is considerably8 better than nothing, when you come to try both methods of living by practical experience.
Even so, however, Ernest and Edie had a hard struggle, with their habits of life and Ernest’s delicate health, to make both ends meet upon that modest income. They found the necessity for recourse to the imaginary pawnbroker9 growing upon them with alarming rapidity; and though the few small articles that they sent out for that purpose never really went beyond kind Mrs. Halliss’s kitchen dresser, yet so far as Ernest and Edie were concerned, the effect was much the same as if they had been really pledged to the licensed12 broker11. The good woman hid them away carefully in the back drawers of the dresser, sending up as much money for the poor little trinkets as she thought it at all credible14 that any man in his senses could possibly advance—if she had given altogether too much, she thought it probable that even the unsuspicious Le Bretons would detect the kindly deception—at the time remarking to John that ‘if ever them pore dear young creechurs was able to redeem15 ‘em again, why, well an’ good; an’ if not, why, they could just find some excuse to give ‘em back to the dear lady after pore Mr. Le Breting was dead an’ gone, as he must be, no doubt, afore many months was over.’ What wretched stuff that is that some narrow-minded cynics love to talk, after their cheap moralising fashion, about the coldness and cruelty of the world! The world is not cold and cruel; it is brimming over everywhere with kindliness16 and warmth of heart; and you have only got to put yourself into the proper circumstances in order to call forth17 at once on every hand, and in all classes, its tenderest and truest sympathies. None but selfish, unsympathetic people themselves ever find it otherwise in the day of trouble. It is not the world that is cold and heartless—it is not the individual members of the world that are cruel and unkind—it is the relentless18 march of circumstances—the faulty organisation19 which none of us can control, and for which none of us is personally responsible, that grinds us to powder under its Juggernaut wheels. Private kindliness is for ever trying, feebly and unsuccessfully, but with its best efforts, to undo20 the evil that general mismanagement is for ever perpetrating in its fateful course.
One day, a few weeks later, Arthur Berkeley called in again, and on the stairs he met a child playing—a neighbour’s child whom good Mrs. Halliss allowed to come in and amuse herself while the mother went out charing21. The girl had a bright gold object in her hand; and Arthur, wondering how she came by it, took it from her and looked at it curiously22. He recognised it in a moment for what it was—a gold bracelet23, a well remembered gold bracelet—the very one that he himself had given as a wedding present to poor Edie. He turned it over and looked closely at the inside: cut into the soft gold he saw the one word ‘Frustra,’ that he himself had carved into it with his penknife the night before the memorable24 wedding.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked the child.
‘Mrs. ‘Alliss give it me,’ the little one answered, beginning to cry.
Arthur ran lightly down the steps again, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Halliss’s kitchen, with the tell-tale bracelet in his hand. Mrs. Halliss opened the dcor to him respectfully, and after a faint attempt at innocent prevarication25, felt bound to let out all the pitiful little secret without further preamble26. So Arthur, good, kind-hearted, delicate-souled Arthur, took his seat sadly upon one of the hard wooden kitchen chairs, and waited patiently while Mrs. Halliss and honest John, in their roundabout inarticulate fashion, slowly unfolded the story how them two pore young creechurs upstairs had been druv that low through want of funs that Mrs. Le Breting, God bless ‘er ‘eart, ‘ad ‘ad to pawn10 her poor little bits of jewelry27 and such like: and how they ‘adn’t ‘ad the face to go an’ pawn it for her, and so ‘ad locked it up in their drawers, and waited hopefully for better times. Arthur listened to all this with an aching heart, and went home alone to ponder on the best way of still further assisting them.
The only thing that occurred to him was a plan for giving Edie, too, a little relief, in the way of what she might suppose to be money-getting occupation. She used to paint a little in water-colours, he remembered, in the old days; so he put an advertisement in a morning paper, which he got Mrs. Halliss to show Edie, asking for drawings of orchids28, the flowers to be supplied and accurately29 copied by an amateur at a reasonable price. Edie fell into the harmless friendly trap readily enough, and was duly supplied with orchids by a florist30 in Regent Street, who professed31 to receive his instructions from the advertiser. The pictures were all produced in due time, and were sent to a fixed32 address, where a gentleman in a hansom used to call for them at regular intervals33. Arthur Berkeley kept those poor little water-colours long afterwards locked up in a certain drawer all by themselves: they were sacred mementoes to him of that old hopeless love for the little Miss Butterfly of his Oxford34 days.
With the very first three guineas that Edie earned, carefully saved and hoarded35 out of her payments for the water-colours, she insisted in the pride of her heart that Ernest should go and visit a great London consulting physician. Sir Antony Wraxall was the best specialist in town on the subject of consumption, she had heard, and she was quite sure so clever a man must do Ernest a great deal of good, if he didn’t even permanently36 cure him.
‘It’s no use, Edie darling,’ Ernest said to her imploringly37. ‘You’ll only be wasting your hard-earned money. What I want is not advice or medicine; I want what no doctor on earth can possibly give me—relief from this terrible crushing responsibility.’
But Edie would bear no refusal. It was HER money, she said, the first she had ever earned in her whole life, and she should certainly do as she herself liked with it. Sir Antony Wraxall, she was quite confident, would soon be able to make him better.
So Ernest, overborne by her intreaties, yielded at last, and made an appointment with Sir Antony Wraxall. He took his quarter-hour in due form, and told the great physician all his symptoms as though he believed in the foolish farce38. Sir Antony held his head solemnly on one side, weighed him with puritanical39 scrupulosity40 to a quarter of an ounce on his delicate balance, listened attentively41 at the chest with his silver-mounted stethoscope, and perpended the net result of his investigation42 with professional gravity; then he gave Edie his full advice and opinion to the maximum extent of five minutes.
‘Your husband’s case is not a hopeful one, Mrs. Le Breton,’ he said solemnly, ‘but still, a great deal may be done for him.’ Edie’s face brightened visibly. ‘With care, his life may be prolonged for many years,—I may even say, indeed, quite indefinitely.’ Edie smiled with joy and gratitude43. ‘But you must strictly44 observe my rules and directions—the same that I’ve just given in a similar case to the Crown Prince of Servia who was here before you. In the first place, your husband must give up work altogether. He must be content to live perfectly46 and absolutely idle. Then, secondly47, he must live quite away from England. I should recommend the Engadine in summer, and Algeria or the Nile trip every winter; but, if that’s beyond your means—and I understand from Mr. Le Breton that you’re in somewhat straitened circumstances—I don’t object to Catania, or Malaga, or even Mentone and the Riviera. You can rent furnished villas48 for very little on the Riviera. But he must in no case come farther north, even in summer, than the Lake of Geneva. That, I assure you, is quite indispensable, if he wishes to live another twelvemonth. Take him south at once, in a coupé-lit of course, and break the journey once or twice at Lyons and Marseilles. Next, as to diet, he must live generously—very generously. Don’t let him drink claret; claret’s poor sour stuff; a pint49 of good champagne50 daily, or a good, full-bodied, genial51 vintage Burgundy would be far better and more digestible for him. Oysters52, game, sweetbreads, red mullet, any little delicacy53 of that sort as much as possible. Don’t let him walk; let him have carriage exercise daily; you can hire carriages for a mere54 trifle monthly at Cannes and Mentone. Above all things, give him perfect freedom from anxiety. Allow him to concentrate his whole attention on the act of getting well, and you’ll find he’ll improve astonishingly in no time. But if you keep him here in England and feed him badly and neglect my directions, I can’t answer for his getting through another winter....Don’t disturb yourself, I beg of you; don’t, pray, give way to tears; there is really no occasion for it, my dear madam, no occasion for it at all, if you’ll only do as I tell you....Quite right, thank you. Good morning.—Next case, McFarlane.—Good morning. Good morning.’
So that was the end of weeping little Edie’s poor hardly-spared three guineas.
The very next day Arthur Berkeley happened to mount the stairs quietly, at an earlier hour than usual, and knocked at the door of Ernest’s lodging55. There was no answer, so he turned the handle, and entered by himself. The remains56 of breakfast lay upon the table. Arthur did not want to spy, but he couldn’t help remarking that these remains were extremely meagre and scanty57. Half a loaf of bread stood upon a solitary58 plate in the centre; a teapot and two cups occupied one side; and—that was all. In spite of himself, he couldn’t restrain his curiosity, and he looked more closely at the knives and plates. Not a mark of anything but crumbs59 upon them, not even butter! He looked into the cups. Nothing but milkless tea at the bottom! Yes, the truth was only too evident; they had had no meat for breakfast, no butter, no milk, no sugar; it was quite clear that the meal had consisted entirely60 of dry bread with plain tea—call it hot water—and that for a dying man and a delicate over-worked lady! Arthur looked at that pitiable breakfast-table with a twinge of remorse61, and the tears rose sharply and involuntarily into his eyes. He had not done enough for them, then; he had not done enough for them.
Poor little Miss Butterfly! and had it really come to this! You, so bright, so light, so airy, in want, in positive want, in hunger even, with your good, impossible, impracticable Ernest! Had it come to this! Bread and water; dry bread and water! Down tears, down; a man must be a man; but, oh, what a bitter sight for Arthur Berkeley! And yet, what could he do to mend it? Money they would not take; he dare not even offer it; and he was at his wit’s end for any other contrivance for serving them without their knowledge. He must do what he could; but how he was to do it, he couldn’t imagine.
As he stood there, ruminating62 bitterly over that poor bare table, he thought he heard sounds above, as of Edie coming downstairs with Dot on her shoulder. He knew she would not like to know that he had surprised the secret of their dire45 poverty; and he turned silently and cautiously to descend63 the stair. There was only just time enough to get away, for Edie was even then opening the door of the nursery. Noiselessly, with cat-like tread, he crept down the steps once more, and heard Edie descending64, and singing as she came down to Dot. It was a plaintive65 little song, in a sad key—a plaintive little song of his own—but not wholly distressful67, Arthur thought; she could still sing, then, to her baby! With the hot tears rising a second time to his eyes, he groped his way to the foot of the staircase. There he brushed them hurriedly aside with his hand, and turned out into the open street. The children were playing and tumbling in the sun, and a languid young man in a faultless frock coat and smooth silk hat was buying a showy button-hole flower from the little suburban68 florist’s opposite.
With a heavy heart Arthur Berkeley turned homeward to his own cosy69 little cottage; that modest palace of art which he had once hoped little Miss Butterfly might have shared with him. He went up the steps, and turned quickly into his own small study. The Progenitor70 was there, sitting reading in an easy-chair. ‘At least,’ Arthur thought to himself, ‘I have made HIS old age happy. If I could only do as much for little Miss Butterfly! for little Miss Butterfly! for little Miss Butterfly! If I could only do as much for her, oh, how happy and contented71 I should be!’
He flung himself down on his own sofa, and brushed big eyes nervously72 with his handkerchief before he dared lookup again towards the Progenitor. ‘Father,’ he said, clutching his watchchain hard and playing with it nervously to keep down his emotion, ‘I’m afraid those poor Le Bretons are in an awfully73 bad way. I’m afraid, do you know, that they actually haven’t enough to eat! I went into their rooms just now, and, would you believe it, I found nothing on the table for breakfast but dry bread and tea!’
The Progenitor looked up quietly from the volume of Morley’s ‘Voltaire’ which he was at that moment placidly74 engaged in devouring75. ‘Nothing but dry bread and tea,’ he said, in what seemed to Arthur a horribly unconcerned tone. ‘Really, hadn’t they? Well, I dare say they ARE very badly off, poor people. But after all, you know, Artie, they can’t be really poor, for Le Breton told me himself he was generally earning fifteen shillings or a pound a week, and that, you see, is really for three people a very good income, now isn’t it?’
Arthur, delicate-minded, gentle, chivalrous76 Arthur, gazed in surprise and sudden distress66 at that dear, good, unselfish old father of his. How extraordinary that the kindly old man couldn’t grasp the full horror of the situation! How strange that he, who would himself have been so tender, so considerate, so womanly in his care and sympathy towards anything that seemed to him like real poverty or real suffering, should have been so blinded by his long hard workingman life towards the peculiar77 difficulties and trials of classes other than his own as not to recognise the true meaning of that dreadful disclosure! Arthur was not angry with him—he felt too fully13 at that moment what depths of genuine silent hardship uncomplainingly endured were implied in the stoically calm frame of mind which could treat Edie Le Breton’s penury78 of luxuries as a comparatively slight matter: after all, his father was right at bottom; such mere sentimental79 middle-class poverty is as nothing to the privations of the really poor; yet he could not help feeling a little disappointed for all that. He wanted sympathy in his pity, and he could clearly expect none here. ‘Why, father,’ he cried bitterly, ‘you don’t throw yourself into the position as you ought to do. A pound a week, paid regularly, would be a splendid income of course for people brought up like you or me. But just consider how those two young people have been brought up! Consider their wants and their habits! Consider the luxury they have been accustomed to! And then think of their being obliged to want now almost for food in their last extremity80!’
His father answered in the same quiet tone—not hardly, but calmly, as though he were discussing a problem in political economy instead of the problem of Edie Le Breton’s happiness—‘Well, you see, it’s all a matter of the standard of comfort. These two friends of yours have been brought up above their future; and now that they’re got to come down to their natural level, why, of course, they feel it, depend upon it, they feel it. Their parents, of course, shouldn’t have accustomed them to a style of life above their station. Good dry bread, not too stale, does nobody any harm: still, I dare say they don’t like coming down to it. But bless your heart, Artie, if you’d seen the real want and poverty that I’ve seen, my boy—the actual hunger and cold and nakedness that I’ve known honest working people brought down to by no work, and nothing but the House open before them, or not that even, you wouldn’t think so much of the sentimental grievances81 of people who are earning fifteen shillings a week in ease and comfort.’
‘But, Father,’ Arthur went on, scarcely able to keep down the rising tone of indignation at such seeming heartlessness, ‘Ernest doesn’t earn even that always. Sometimes he earns nothing, or next to nothing; and it’s the uncertainty82 and insecurity that tells upon them even more than the poverty itself. Oh, Father, Father, you who have always been so good and kind, I never heard you speak so cruelly about anyone before as you’re speaking now about that poor, friendless, helpless, penniless, heart-broken little woman!’
The old shoemaker caught at the word suddenly, and looking him through and through with an unexpected gleam of discovery, laid down the life of Voltaire on the table with a bang, and sat straight upright in his chair, nodding his head, and muttering slowly to himself, ‘Little woman—he said “little woman!” Poor Artie, Poor Artie!’ in a tone of inexpressible pity. At last he turned to Arthur and cried with a voice of womanly tenderness, ‘My boy, my boy, I didn’t know before it was the lassie you were thinking of; I thought it was only poor young Le Breton. I see it all now; I’ve surprised your secret; you’ve let it out to me without knowing it. Oh, Artie, if that’s She, I’m sorry for her, and I’m sorry for you, my boy, from the bottom of my heart. If that’s She, Artie, we’ll put our heads together, and see what plan we can manage to save her from what she has never been accustomed to. Don’t think too hardly of your old Progenitor, Artie; he hasn’t mixed with these people all his life, and learned to sympathise with them as you’ve done, my son; he doesn’t understand them or know their troubles as you do: but if that’s her that you told me about one day, we shall find the means to make her happy and comfortable yet, if we have to starve for it. Dear Arthur, do not think I could be harsh or unfeeling for a moment to the woman that you ever once in passing fixed your heart upon. Let’s talk it over and think it over, and sooner or later we’ll surely find the way to accomplish it.’
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
precarious
|
|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
casually
|
|
| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
ruse
|
|
| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
deception
|
|
| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
considerably
|
|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
pawnbroker
|
|
| n.典当商，当铺老板 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
pawn
|
|
| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
broker
|
|
| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
licensed
|
|
| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
credible
|
|
| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
redeem
|
|
| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
relentless
|
|
| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
organisation
|
|
| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
undo
|
|
| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
charing
|
|
| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
bracelet
|
|
| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
memorable
|
|
| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
prevarication
|
|
| n.支吾；搪塞；说谎；有枝有叶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
preamble
|
|
| n.前言；序文 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
jewelry
|
|
| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
orchids
|
|
| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
accurately
|
|
| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
florist
|
|
| n.花商；种花者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
hoarded
|
|
| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
permanently
|
|
| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
imploringly
|
|
| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
farce
|
|
| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
puritanical
|
|
| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
scrupulosity
|
|
| n.顾虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
41
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
investigation
|
|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
dire
|
|
| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
secondly
|
|
| adv.第二，其次 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
villas
|
|
| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
pint
|
|
| n.品脱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
champagne
|
|
| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
oysters
|
|
| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
lodging
|
|
| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
scanty
|
|
| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
crumbs
|
|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
ruminating
|
|
| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
descend
|
|
| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
plaintive
|
|
| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
distressful
|
|
| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
suburban
|
|
| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
cosy
|
|
| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
progenitor
|
|
| n.祖先，先驱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
placidly
|
|
| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
devouring
|
|
| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
chivalrous
|
|
| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
penury
|
|
| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
extremity
|
|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
grievances
|
|
| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
uncertainty
|
|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |