“If airs and graces make an actress, ma’am, Magdalen’s performance will astonish us all.” With that reply, Miss Garth took out her work, and seated herself, on guard, in the center of the pit.
The manager perched himself, book in hand, on a stool close in front of the stage. He was an active little man, of a sweet and cheerful temper; and he gave the signal to begin with as patient an interest in the proceedings1 as if they had caused him no trouble in the past and promised him no difficulty in the future. The two characters which opened the comedy of The Rivals, “Fag” and “The Coachman,” appeared on the scene—looked many sizes too tall for their canvas background, which represented a “Street in Bath”—exhibited the customary inability to manage their own arms, legs, and voices—went out severally at the wrong exits—and expressed their perfect approval of results, so far, by laughing heartily2 behind the scenes. “Silence, gentlemen, if you please,” remonstrated3 the cheerful manager. “As loud as you like on the stage, but the audience mustn’t hear you off it. Miss Marrable ready? Miss Vanstone ready? Easy there with the ‘Street in Bath’; it’s going up crooked4! Face this way, Miss Marrable; full face, if you please. Miss Vanstone—” he checked himself suddenly. “Curious,” he said, under his breath—“she fronts the audience of her own accord!” Lucy opened the scene in these words: “Indeed, ma’am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don’t believe there’s a circulating library in Bath I haven’t been at.” The manager started in his chair. “My heart alive! she speaks out without telling!” The dialogue went on. Lucy produced the novels for Miss Lydia Languish5’s private reading from under her cloak. The manager rose excitably to his feet. Marvelous! No hurry with the books; no dropping them. She looked at the titles before she announced them to her mistress; she set down “Humphrey Clinker” on “The Tears of Sensibility” with a smart little smack6 which pointed7 the antithesis8. One moment—and she announced Julia’s visit; another—and she dropped the brisk waiting-maid’s courtesy; a third—and she was off the stage on the side set down for her in the book. The manager wheeled round on his stool, and looked hard at Miss Garth. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said. “Miss Marrable told me, before we began, that this was the young lady’s first attempt. It can’t be, surely!”
“It is,” replied Miss Garth, reflecting the manager’s look of amazement9 on her own face. Was it possible that Magdalen’s unintelligible10 industry in the study of her part really sprang from a serious interest in her occupation—an interest which implied a natural fitness for it.
The rehearsal11 went on. The stout12 lady with the wig13 (and the excellent heart) personated the sentimental14 Julia from an inveterately15 tragic16 point of view, and used her handkerchief distractedly in the first scene. The spinster relative felt Mrs. Malaprop’s mistakes in language so seriously, and took such extraordinary pains with her blunders, that they sounded more like exercises in elocution than anything else. The unhappy lad who led the forlorn hope of the company, in the person of “Sir Anthony Absolute,” expressed the age and irascibility of his character by tottering17 incessantly18 at the knees, and thumping19 the stage perpetually with his stick. Slowly and clumsily, with constant interruptions and interminable mistakes, the first act dragged on, until Lucy appeared again to end it in soliloquy, with the confession20 of her assumed simplicity21 and the praise of her own cunning.
Here the stage artifice22 of the situation presented difficulties which Magdalen had not encountered in the first scene—and here, her total want of experience led her into more than one palpable mistake. The stage-manager, with an eagerness which he had not shown in the case of any other member of the company, interfered23 immediately, and set her right. At one point she was to pause, and take a turn on the stage—she did it. At another, she was to stop, toss her head, and look pertly at the audience—she did it. When she took out the paper to read the list of the presents she had received, could she give it a tap with her finger (Yes)? And lead off with a little laugh (Yes—after twice trying)? Could she read the different items with a sly look at the end of each sentence, straight at the pit (Yes, straight at the pit, and as sly as you please)? The manager’s cheerful face beamed with approval. He tucked the play under his arm, and clapped his hands gayly; the gentlemen, clustered together behind the scenes, followed his example; the ladies looked at each other with dawning doubts whether they had not better have left the new recruit in the retirement24 of private life. Too deeply absorbed in the business of the stage to heed25 any of them, Magdalen asked leave to repeat the soliloquy, and make quite sure of her own improvement. She went all through it again without a mistake, this time, from beginning to end; the manager celebrating her attention to his directions by an outburst of professional approbation26, which escaped him in spite of himself. “She can take a hint!” cried the little man, with a hearty27 smack of his hand on the prompt-book. “She’s a born actress, if ever there was one yet!”
“I hope not,” said Miss Garth to herself, taking up the work which had dropped into her lap, and looking down at it in some perplexity. Her worst apprehension28 of results in connection with the theatrical29 enterprise had foreboded levity30 of conduct with some of the gentlemen—she had not bargained for this. Magdalen, in the capacity of a thoughtless girl, was comparatively easy to deal with. Magdalen, in the character of a born actress, threatened serious future difficulties.
The rehearsal proceeded. Lucy returned to the stage for her scenes in the second act (the last in which she appears) with Sir Lucius and Fag. Here, again, Magdalen’s inexperience betrayed itself—and here once more her resolution in attacking and conquering her own mistakes astonished everybody. “Bravo!” cried the gentlemen behind the scenes, as she steadily31 trampled32 down one blunder after another. “Ridiculous!” said the ladies, “with such a small part as hers.” “Heaven forgive me!” thought Miss. Garth, coming round unwillingly33 to the general opinion. “I almost wish we were Papists, and I had a convent to put her in to-morrow.” One of Mr. Marrable’s servants entered the theater as that desperate aspiration34 escaped the governess. She instantly sent the man behind the scene with a message: “Miss Vanstone has done her part in the rehearsal; request her to come here and sit by me.” The servant returned with a polite apology: “Miss Vanstone’s kind love, and she begs to be excused—she’s prompting Mr. Clare.” She prompted him to such purpose that he actually got through his part. The performances of the other gentlemen were obtrusively35 imbecile. Frank was just one degree better—he was modestly incapable36; and he gained by comparison. “Thanks to Miss Vanstone,” observed the manager, who had heard the prompting. “She pulled him through. We shall be flat enough at night, when the drop falls on the second act, and the audience have seen the last of her. It’s a thousand pities she hasn’t got a better part!”
“It’s a thousand mercies she’s no more to do than she has,” muttered Miss Garth, overhearing him. “As things are, the people can’t well turn her head with applause. She’s out of the play in the second act—that’s one comfort!”
No well-regulated mind ever draws its inferences in a hurry; Miss Garth’s mind was well regulated; therefore, logically speaking, Miss Garth ought to have been superior to the weakness of rushing at conclusions. She had committed that error, nevertheless, under present circumstances. In plainer terms, the consoling reflection which had just occurred to her assumed that the play had by this time survived all its disasters, and entered on its long-deferred career of success. The play had done nothing of the sort. Misfortune and the Marrable family had not parted company yet.
When the rehearsal was over, nobody observed that the stout lady with the wig privately37 withdrew herself from the company; and when she was afterward38 missed from the table of refreshments39, which Mr. Marrable’s hospitality kept ready spread in a room near the theater, nobody imagined that there was any serious reason for her absence. It was not till the ladies and gentlemen assembled for the next rehearsal that the true state of the case was impressed on the minds of the company. At the appointed hour no Julia appeared. In her stead, Mrs. Marrable portentously40 approached the stage, with an open letter in her hand. She was naturally a lady of the mildest good breeding: she was mistress of every bland41 conventionality in the English language—but disasters and dramatic influences combined, threw even this harmless matron off her balance at last. For the first time in her life Mrs. Marrable indulged in vehement42 gesture, and used strong language. She handed the letter sternly, at arms-length, to her daughter. “My dear,” she said, with an aspect of awful composure, “we are under a Curse.” Before the amazed dramatic company could petition for an explanation, she turned and left the room. The manager’s professional eye followed her out respectfully—he looked as if he approved of the exit, from a theatrical point of view.
What new misfortune had befallen the play? The last and worst of all misfortunes had assailed43 it. The stout lady had resigned her part.
Not maliciously45. Her heart, which had been in the right place throughout, remained inflexibly46 in the right place still. Her explanation of the circumstances proved this, if nothing else did. The letter began with a statement: She had overheard, at the last rehearsal (quite unintentionally), personal remarks of which she was the subject. They might, or might not, have had reference to her—Hair; and her—Figure. She would not distress47 Mrs. Marrable by repeating them. Neither would she mention names, because it was foreign to her nature to make bad worse. The only course at all consistent with her own self-respect was to resign her part. She inclosed it, accordingly, to Mrs. Marrable, with many apologies for her presumption48 in undertaking49 a youthful character, at—what a gentleman was pleased to term—her Age; and with what two ladies were rude enough to characterize as her disadvantages of—Hair, and—Figure. A younger and more attractive representative of Julia would no doubt be easily found. In the meantime, all persons concerned had her full forgiveness, to which she would only beg leave to add her best and kindest wishes for the success of the play.
In four nights more the play was to be performed. If ever any human enterprise stood in need of good wishes to help it, that enterprise was unquestionably the theatrical entertainment at Evergreen50 Lodge51!
One arm-chair was allowed on the stage; and into that arm-chair Miss Marrable sank, preparatory to a fit of hysterics. Magdalen stepped forward at the first convulsion; snatched the letter from Miss Marrable’s hand; and stopped the threatened catastrophe52.
“She’s an ugly, bald-headed, malicious44, middle-aged53 wretch54!” said Magdalen, tearing the letter into fragments, and tossing them over the heads of the company. “But I can tell her one thing—she shan’t spoil the play. I’ll act Julia.”
“Bravo!” cried the chorus of gentlemen—the anonymous55 gentleman who had helped to do the mischief56 (otherwise Mr. Francis Clare) loudest of all.
“If you want the truth, I don’t shrink from owning it,” continued Magdalen. “I’m one of the ladies she means. I said she had a head like a mop, and a waist like a bolster57. So she has.”
“I am the other lady,” added the spinster relative. “But I only said she was too stout for the part.”
“I am the gentleman,” chimed in Frank, stimulated58 by the force of example. “I said nothing—I only agreed with the ladies.”
Here Miss Garth seized her opportunity, and addressed the stage loudly from the pit.
“Stop! Stop!” she said. “You can’t settle the difficulty that way. If Magdalen plays Julia, who is to play Lucy?”
Miss Marrable sank back in the arm-chair, and gave way to the second convulsion.
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Magdalen, “the thing’s simple enough, I’ll act Julia and Lucy both together.”
The manager was consulted on the spot. Suppressing Lucy’s first entrance, and turning the short dialogue about the novels into a soliloquy for Lydia Languish, appeared to be the only changes of importance necessary to the accomplishment59 of Magdalen’s project. Lucy’s two telling scenes, at the end of the first and second acts, were sufficiently60 removed from the scenes in which Julia appeared to give time for the necessary transformations61 in dress. Even Miss Garth, though she tried hard to find them, could put no fresh obstacles in the way. The question was settled in five minutes, and the rehearsal went on; Magdalen learning Julia’s stage situations with the book in her hand, and announcing afterward, on the journey home, that she proposed sitting up all night to study the new part. Frank thereupon expressed his fears that she would have no time left to help him through his theatrical difficulties. She tapped him on the shoulder coquettishly with her part. “You foolish fellow, how am I to do without you? You’re Julia’s jealous lover; you’re always making Julia cry. Come to-night, and make me cry at tea-time. You haven’t got a venomous old woman in a wig to act with now. It’s my heart you’re to break—and of course I shall teach you how to do it.”
The four days’ interval62 passed busily in perpetual rehearsals63, public and private. The night of performance arrived; the guests assembled; the great dramatic experiment stood on its trial. Magdalen had made the most of her opportunities; she had learned all that the manager could teach her in the time. Miss Garth left her when the overture64 began, sitting apart in a corner behind the scenes, serious and silent, with her smelling-bottle in one hand, and her book in the other, resolutely65 training herself for the coming ordeal66, to the very last.
The play began, with all the proper accompaniments of a theatrical performance in private life; with a crowded audience, an African temperature, a bursting of heated lamp-glasses, and a difficulty in drawing up the curtain. “Fag” and “the Coachman,” who opened the scene, took leave of their memories as soon as they stepped on the stage; left half their dialogue unspoken; came to a dead pause; were audibly entreated67 by the invisible manager to “come off”; and went off accordingly, in every respect sadder and wiser men than when they went on. The next scene disclosed Miss Marrable as “Lydia Languish,” gracefully68 seated, very pretty, beautifully dressed, accurately69 mistress of the smallest words in her part; possessed70, in short, of every personal resource—except her voice. The ladies admired, the gentlemen applauded. Nobody heard anything but the words “Speak up, miss,” whispered by the same voice which had already entreated “Fag” and “the Coachman” to “come off.” A responsive titter rose among the younger spectators; checked immediately by magnanimous applause. The temperature of the audience was rising to Blood Heat—but the national sense of fair play was not boiled out of them yet.
In the midst of the demonstration71, Magdalen quietly made her first entrance, as “Julia.” She was dressed very plainly in dark colors, and wore her own hair; all stage adjuncts and alterations72 (excepting the slightest possible touch of rouge73 on her cheeks) having been kept in reserve to disguise her the more effectually in her second part. The grace and simplicity of her costume, the steady self-possession with which she looked out over the eager rows of faces before her, raised a low hum of approval and expectation. She spoke—after suppressing a momentary74 tremor—with a quiet distinctness of utterance75 which reached all ears, and which at once confirmed the favorable impression that her appearance had produced. The one member of the audience who looked at her and listened to her coldly, was her elder sister. Before the actress of the evening had been five minutes on the stage, Norah detected, to her own indescribable astonishment76, that Magdalen had audaciously individualized the feeble amiability77 of “Julia’s” character, by seizing no less a person than herself as the model to act it by. She saw all her own little formal peculiarities78 of manner and movement unblushingly reproduced—and even the very tone of her voice so accurately mimicked79 from time to time, that the accents startled her as if she was speaking herself, with an echo on the stage. The effect of this cool appropriation80 of Norah’s identity to theatrical purposes on the audience—who only saw results—asserted itself in a storm of applause on Magdalen’s exit. She had won two incontestable triumphs in her first scene. By a dexterous81 piece of mimicry82, she had made a living reality of one of the most insipid83 characters in the English drama; and she had roused to enthusiasm an audience of two hundred exiles from the blessings84 of ventilation, all simmering together in their own animal heat. Under the circumstances, where is the actress by profession who could have done much more?
But the event of the evening was still to come. Magdalen’s disguised re-appearance at the end of the act, in the character of “Lucy”—with false hair and false eyebrows85, with a bright-red complexion86 and patches on her cheeks, with the gayest colors flaunting87 in her dress, and the shrillest vivacity88 of voice and manner—fairly staggered the audience. They looked down at their programmes, in which the representative of Lucy figured under an assumed name; looked up again at the stage; penetrated89 the disguise; and vented90 their astonishment in another round of applause, louder and heartier91 even than the last. Norah herself could not deny this time that the tribute of approbation had been well deserved. There, forcing its way steadily through all the faults of inexperience—there, plainly visible to the dullest of the spectators, was the rare faculty92 of dramatic impersonation, expressing itself in every look and action of this girl of eighteen, who now stood on a stage for the first time in her life. Failing in many minor93 requisites94 of the double task which she had undertaken, she succeeded in the one important necessity of keeping the main distinctions of the two characters thoroughly95 apart. Everybody felt that the difficulty lay here—everybody saw the difficulty conquered—everybody echoed the manager’s enthusiasm at rehearsal, which had hailed her as a born actress.
When the drop-scene descended96 for the first time, Magdalen had concentrated in herself the whole interest and attraction of the play. The audience politely applauded Miss Marrable, as became the guests assembled in her father’s house: and good-humoredly encouraged the remainder of the company, to help them through a task for which they were all, more or less, palpably unfit. But, as the play proceeded, nothing roused them to any genuine expression of interest when Magdalen was absent from the scene. There was no disguising it: Miss Marrable and her bosom97 friends had been all hopelessly cast in the shade by the new recruit whom they had summoned to assist them, in the capacity of forlorn hope. And this on Miss Marrable’s own birthday! and this in her father’s house! and this after the unutterable sacrifices of six weeks past! Of all the domestic disasters which the thankless theatrical enterprise had inflicted98 on the Marrable family, the crowning misfortune was now consummated99 by Magdalen’s success.
Leaving Mr. Vanstone and Norah, on the conclusion of the play, among the guests in the supper-room, Miss Garth went behind the scenes; ostensibly anxious to see if she could be of any use; really bent100 on ascertaining101 whether Magdalen’s head had been turned by the triumphs of the evening. It would not have surprised Miss Garth if she had discovered her pupil in the act of making terms with the manager for her forthcoming appearance in a public theater. As events really turned out, she found Magdalen on the stage, receiving, with gracious smiles, a card which the manager presented to her with a professional bow. Noticing Miss Garth’s mute look of inquiry102, the civil little man hastened to explain that the card was his own, and that he was merely asking the favor of Miss Vanstone’s recommendation at any future opportunity.
“This is not the last time the young lady will be concerned in private theatricals103, I’ll answer for it,” said the manager. “And if a superintendent104 is wanted on the next occasion, she has kindly105 promised to say a good word for me. I am always to be heard of, miss, at that address.” Saying those words, he bowed again, and discreetly106 disappeared.
Vague suspicions beset107 the mind of Miss Garth, and urged her to insist on looking at the card. No more harmless morsel108 of pasteboard was ever passed from one hand to another. The card contained nothing but the manager’s name, and, under it, the name and address of a theatrical agent in London.
“It is not worth the trouble of keeping,” said Miss Garth.
Magdalen caught her hand before she could throw the card away—possessed herself of it the next instant—and put it in her pocket.
“I promised to recommend him,” she said—“and that’s one reason for keeping his card. If it does nothing else, it will remind me of the happiest evening of my life—and that’s another. Come!” she cried, throwing her arms round Miss Garth with a feverish109 gayety—“congratulate me on my success!”
“I will congratulate you when you have got over it,” said Miss Garth.
In half an hour more Magdalen had changed her dress; had joined the guests; and had soared into an atmosphere of congratulation high above the reach of any controlling influence that Miss Garth could exercise. Frank, dilatory110 in all his proceedings, was the last of the dramatic company who left the precincts of the stage. He made no attempt to join Magdalen in the supper-room—but he was ready in the hall with her cloak when the carriages were called and the party broke up.
“Oh, Frank!” she said, looking round at him as he put the cloak on her shoulders, “I am so sorry it’s all over! Come to-morrow morning, and let’s talk about it by ourselves.”
“In the shrubbery at ten?” asked Frank, in a whisper.
She drew up the hood111 of her cloak and nodded to him gayly. Miss Garth, standing112 near, noticed the looks that passed between them, though the disturbance113 made by the parting guests prevented her from hearing the words. There was a soft, underlying114 tenderness in Magdalen’s assumed gayety of manner—there was a sudden thoughtfulness in her face, a confidential115 readiness in her hand, as she took Frank’s arm and went out to the carriage. What did it mean? Had her passing interest in him as her stage-pupil treacherously116 sown the seeds of any deeper interest in him, as a man? Had the idle theatrical scheme, now that it was all over, graver results to answer for than a mischievous117 waste of time?
The lines on Miss Garth’s face deepened and hardened: she stood lost among the fluttering crowd around her. Norah’s warning words, addressed to Mrs. Vanstone in the garden, recurred118 to her memory—and now, for the first time, the idea dawned on her that Norah had seen the consequences in their true light.
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1
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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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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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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portentously
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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45
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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46
inflexibly
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| adv.不屈曲地，不屈地 | |
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47
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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49
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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50
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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51
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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52
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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53
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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54
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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56
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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59
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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64
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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80
appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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81
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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82
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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85
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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86
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartier
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| 亲切的( hearty的比较级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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95
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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96
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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100
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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101
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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102
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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103
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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104
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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105
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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106
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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107
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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108
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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109
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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110
dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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111
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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112
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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113
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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114
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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115
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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116
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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117
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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118
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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