“Mawnin', Miss Fanny. There's a gep'mun waitin' to see yo'.”
Fanny choked on a yawn. “A what!”
“Gep'mun. Says yo-all goin' picnickin'. He's in the settin' room, a-lookin' at yo' pictchah papahs. Will Ah fry yo' up a li'l chicken to pack along? San'wiches ain't no eatin' fo' Sunday.”
Fanny flung back her covers, swung around to the side of the bed, and stood up, all, seemingly, in one sweeping2 movement. “Do you mean to tell me he's in there, now?”
From the sitting room. “I think I ought to tell you I can hear everything you're saying. Say. Fanny, those sketches4 of yours are——Why, Gee5 Whiz! I didn't know you did that kind of thing. This one here, with that girl's face in the crowd——”
“For heaven's sake!” Fanny demanded, “what are you doing here at seven-thirty? And I don't allow people to look at those sketches. You said eight-thirty.”
“I was afraid you'd change your mind, or something. Besides, it's now twenty-two minutes to eight. And will you tell the lady that's a wonderful idea about the chicken? Only she'd better start now.”
Goaded6 by time bulletins shouted through the closed door, Fanny found herself tubbed, clothed, and ready for breakfast by eight-ten. When she opened the door Clarence was standing7 in the center of her little sitting room, waiting, a sheaf of loose sketches in his hand.
“Say, look here! These are the real thing. Why, they're great! They get you. This old geezer with the beard, selling fish and looking like one of the Disciples8. And this. What the devil are you doing in a mail order house, or whatever it is? Tell me that! When you can draw like this!”
“Good morning,” said Fanny, calmly. “And I'll tell you nothing before breakfast. The one thing that interests me this moment is hot coffee. Will you have some breakfast? Oh, well, a second one won't hurt you. You must have got up at three, or thereabouts.” She went toward the tiny kitchen. “Never mind, Princess. I'll wait on myself. You go on with that chicken.”
Princess was the kind of person who can fry a chicken, wrap it in cool, crisp lettuce9 leaves, box it, cut sandwiches, and come out of the process with an unruffled temper and an immaculate kitchen. Thanks to her, Fanny and Heyl found themselves on the eight fifty-three train, bound for the dunes11.
Clarence swung his rucksack up to the bundle rack. He took off his cap, and stuffed it into his pocket. He was grinning like a schoolboy. Fanny turned from the window and smiled at what she saw in his face. At that he gave an absurd little bounce in his place, like an overgrown child, and reached over and patted her hand.
“I've dreamed of this for years.”
“You're just fourteen, going on fifteen,” Fanny reproved him.
“I know it. And it's great! Won't you be, too? Forget you're a fair financier, or whatever they call it. Forget you earn more in a month than I do in six. Relax. Unbend. Loosen up. Don't assume that hardshell air with me. Just remember that I knew you when the frill of your panties showed below your skirt.”
“Clarence Heyl!”
But he was leaning past her, and pointing out of the window. “See that curtain of smoke off there? That's the South Chicago, and the Hammond and Gary steel mills. Wait till you see those smokestacks against the sky, and the iron scaffoldings that look like giant lacework, and the slag12 heaps, and the coal piles, and those huge, grim tanks. Gad13! It's awful and beautiful. Like the things Pennell does.” “I came out here on the street car one day,” said Fanny, quietly. “One Sunday.”
“You did!” He stared at her.
“It was hot, and they were all spilling out into the street. You know, the women in wrappers, just blobs of flesh trying to get cool. And the young girls in their pink silk dresses and white shoes, and the boys on the street corners, calling to them. Babies all over the sidewalks and streets, and the men who weren't in the mills—you know how they look in their Sunday shirtsleeves, with their flat faces, and high cheekbones, and their great brown hands with the broken nails. Hunkies. Well, at five the motor cars began whizzing by from the country roads back to Chicago. You have to go back that way. Just then the five o'clock whistles blew and the day shift came off. There was a great army of them, clumping14 down the road the way they do. Their shoulders were slack, and their lunch pails dangled15, empty, and they were wet and reeking16 with sweat. The motor cars were full of wild phlox and daisies and spiderwort.”
Clarence was still turned sideways, looking at her. “Get a picture of it?”
“Yes. I tried, at least.”
“Is that the way you usually spend your Sundays?”
“Well, I—I like snooping about.”
“M-m,” mused17 Clarence. Then, “How's business, Fanny?”
“Business?” You could almost feel her mind jerk back. “Oh, let's not talk about business on Sunday.”
“I thought so,” said Clarence, enigmatically. “Now listen to me, Fanny.”
“I'll listen,” interrupted she, “if you'll talk about yourself. I want to know what you're doing, and why you're going to New York. What business can a naturalist18 have in New York, anyway?”
“I didn't intend to be a naturalist. You can tell that by looking at me. But you can't have your very nose rubbed up against trees, and rocks, and mountains, and snow for years and years without learning something about 'em. There were whole weeks when I hadn't anything to chum with but a timber-line pine and an odd assortment19 of mountain peaks. We just had to get acquainted.”
“But you're going back, aren't you? Don't they talk about the spell of the mountains, or some such thing?” “They do. And they're right. And I've got to have them six months in the year, at least. But I'm going to try spending the other six in the bosom20 of the human race. Not only that, I'm going to write about it. Writing's my job, really. At least, it's the thing I like best.”
“Nature?”
“Human nature. I went out to Colorado just a lonesome little kid with a bum21 lung. The lung's all right, but I never did quite get over the other. Two years ago, in the mountains, I met Carl Lasker, who owns the New York Star. It's said to be the greatest morning paper in the country. Lasker's a genius. And he fries the best bacon I ever tasted. I took him on a four-weeks' horseback trip through the mountains. We got pretty well acquainted. At the end of it he offered me a job. You see, I'd never seen a chorus girl, or the Woolworth building, or a cabaret, or a broiled22 lobster23, or a subway. But I was interested and curious about all of them. And Lasker said, `A man who can humanize a rock, or a tree, or a chipmunk24 ought to be able to make even those things seem human. You've got what they call the fresh viewpoint. New York's full of people with a scum over their eyes, but a lot of them came to New York from Winnebago, or towns just like it, and you'd be surprised at the number of them who still get their home town paper. One day, when I came into Lee Kohl's office, with stars, and leading men, and all that waiting outside to see him, he was sitting with his feet on the desk reading the Sheffield, Illinois, Gazette.' You see, the thing he thinks I can do is to give them a picture of New York as they used to see it, before they got color blind. A column or so a day, about anything that hits me. How does that strike you as a job for a naturalist?”
“It's a job for a human naturalist. I think you'll cover it.”
If you know the dunes, which you probably don't, you know why they did not get off at Millers25, with the crowd, but rode on until they were free of the Sunday picnickers. Then they got off, and walked across the tracks, past saloons, and a few huddled26 houses, hideous27 in yellow paint, and on, and on down a road that seemed endless. A stretch of cinders28, then dust, a rather stiff little hill, a great length of yellow sand and—the lake! We say, the lake! like that, with an exclamation29 point after it, because it wasn't at all the Lake Michigan that Chicagoans know. This vast blue glory bore no relation to the sullen30, gray, turbid31 thing that the city calls the lake. It was all the blues32 of which you've ever heard, and every passing cloud gave it a new shade. Sapphire33. No, cobalt. No, that's too cold. Mediterranean34. Turquoise35. And the sand in golden contrast. Miles of sand along the beach, and back of that the dunes. Now, any dictionary or Scotchman will tell you that a dune10 is a hill of loose sand. But these dunes are done in American fashion, lavishly36. Mountains of sand, as far as the eye can see, and on the top of them, incredibly, great pine trees that clutch at their perilous37, shifting foothold with frantic38 root-toes. And behind that, still more incredibly, the woods, filled with wild flowers, with strange growths found nowhere else in the whole land, with trees, and vines, and brush, and always the pungent39 scent40 of the pines. And there you have the dunes—blue lake, golden sand-hills, green forest, in one.
Fanny and Clarence stood there on the sand, in silence, two ridiculously diminutive41 figures in that great wilderness42 of beauty. I wish I could get to you, somehow, the clear sparkle of it, the brilliance43 of it, and yet the peace of it. They stood there a long while, those two, without speaking. Then Fanny shut her eyes, and I think her lower lip trembled just a little. And Clarence patted her hand just twice.
“I thank you,” he said, “in the name of that much-abused lady known as Nature.”
Said Fanny, “I want to scramble44 up to the top of one of those dunes—the high one—and just sit there.”
And that is what they did. A poor enough Sunday, I suppose, in the minds of those of you who spend yours golfing at the club, or motoring along grease-soaked roads that lead to a shore dinner and a ukulele band. But it turned Fanny Brandeis back a dozen years or more, so that she was again the little girl whose heart had ached at sight of the pale rose and, orange of the Wisconsin winter sunsets. She forgot all about layettes, and obstetrical outfits45, and flannel46 bands, and safety pins; her mind was a blank in the matter of bootees, and catalogues, and our No. 29E8347, and those hungry bins47 that always yawned for more. She forgot about Michael Fenger, and Theodore, and the new furs. They scrambled48 up dunes, digging into the treacherous49 sand with heels, toes, and the side of the foot, and clutching at fickle50 roots with frantic fingers. Forward a step, and back two—that's dune climbing. A back-breaking business, unless you're young and strong, as were these two. They explored the woods, and Heyl had a fascinating way of talking about stones and shrubs51 and trees as if they were endowed with human qualities—as indeed they were for him. They found a hill-slope carpeted with dwarf52 huckleberry plants, still bearing tiny clusters of the blue-black fruit. Fanny's heart was pounding, her lungs ached, her cheeks were scarlet53, her eyes shining. Heyl, steel-muscled, took the hills like a chamois. Once they crossed hands atop a dune and literally54 skated down it, right, left, right, left, shrieking55 with laughter, and ending in a heap at the bottom. “In the name of all that's idiotic56!” shouted Heyl. “Silk stockings! What in thunder made you wear silk stockings! At the sand dunes! Gosh!”
They ate their dinner in olympic splendor57, atop a dune. Heyl produced unexpected things from the rucksack—things that ranged all the way from milk chocolate to literature, and from grape juice to cigarettes. They ate ravenously58, but at Heyl's thrifty59 suggestion they saved a few sandwiches for the late afternoon. It was he, too, who made a little bonfire of papers, crusts, and bones, as is the cleanly habit of your true woodsman. Then they stretched out, full length, in the noon sun, on the warm, clean sand.
“What's your best price on one-sixth doz. flannel vests?” inquired Heyl.
And, “Oh, shut up!” said Fanny, elegantly. Heyl laughed as one who hugs a secret.
“We'll work our way down the beach,” he announced, “toward Millers. There'll be northern lights to-night; did you know that? Want to stay and see them?”
“Do I want to! I won't go home till I have.”
These were the things they did on that holiday; childish, happy, tiring things, such as people do who love the outdoors.
The charm of Clarence Heyl—for he had charm—is difficult to transmit. His lovableness and appeal lay in his simplicity60. It was not so much what he said as in what he didn't say. He was staring unwinkingly now at the sunset that had suddenly burst upon them. His were the eyes of one accustomed to the silent distances.
“Takes your breath away, rather, doesn't it? All that color?” said Fanny, her face toward the blaze.
“Almost too obvious for my taste. I like 'em a little more subdued61, myself.” They were atop a dune, and he stretched himself flat on the sand, still keeping his bright brown eyes on lake and sky. Then he sat up, excitedly. “Heh, try that! Lie flat. It softens62 the whole thing. Like this. Now look at it. The lake's like molten copper63 flowing in. And you can see that silly sun going down in jerks, like a balloon on a string.”
They lay there, silent, while the scarlet became orange, the orange faded to rose, the rose to pale pink, to salmon64, to mauve, to gray. The first pale star came out, and the brazen65 lights of Gary, far to the north, defied it. Fanny sat up with a sigh and a little shiver.
“Fasten up that sweater around your throat,” said Heyl. “Got a pin?” They munched66 their sandwiches, rather soggy by now, and drank the last of the grape juice. “We'll have a bite of hot supper in town, at a restaurant that doesn't mind Sunday trampers. Come on, Fan. We'll start down the beach until the northern lights begin to show.”
“It's been the most accommodating day,” murmured Fanny. “Sunshine, sunset, northern lights, everything. If we were to demand a rainbow and an eclipse they'd turn those on, too.”
They started to walk down the beach in the twilight67, keeping close to the water's edge where the sand was moist and firm. It was hard going. They plunged68 along arm in arm, in silence. Now and again they stopped, with one accord, and looked out over the great gray expanse that lay before them, and then up at the hills and the pines etched in black against the sky. Nothing competitive here, Fanny thought, and took a deep breath. She thought of to-morrow's work, with day after to-morrow's biting and snapping at its heels.
Clarence seemed to sense her thoughts. “Doesn't this make you feel you want to get away from those damned bins that you're forever feeding? I watched those boys for a minute, the other day, outside your office. Jove!”
Fanny dug a heel into the sand, savagely69. “Some days I feel that I've got to walk out of the office, and down the street, without a hat, and on, and on, walking and walking, and running now and then, till I come to the horizon. That's how I feel, some days.”
“Then some day, Fanny, that feeling will get too strong for you, and you'll do it. Now listen to me. Tuck this away in your subconscious70 mind, and leave it there until you need it. When that time comes get on a train for Denver. From Denver take another to Estes Park. That's the Rocky Mountains, and they're your destination, because that's where the horizon lives and has its being. When you get there ask for Heyl's place. They'll just hand you from one to the other, gently, until you get there. I may be there, but more likely I shan't. The key's in the mail box, tied to a string. You'll find a fire already laid, in the fireplace, with fat pine knots that will blaze up at the touch of a match. My books are there, along the walls. The bedding's in the cedar71 chest, and the lamps are filled. There's tinned stuff in the pantry. And the mountains are there, girl, to make you clean and whole again. And the pines that are nature's prophylactic72 brushes. And the sky. And peace. That sounds like a railway folder73, but it's true. I know.” They trudged74 along in silence for a little while. “Got that?”
“M-m,” replied Fanny, disinterestedly75, without looking at him.
Heyl's jaw76 set. You could see the muscles show white for an instant. Then he said: “It has been a wonderful day, Fanny, but you haven't told me a thing about yourself. I'd like to know about your work. I'd like to know what you're doing; what your plan is. You looked so darned definite up there in that office. Whom do you play with? And who's this Fenger—wasn't that the name?—who saw that you looked tired?”
“All right, Clancy. I'll tell you all about it,” Fanny agreed, briskly.
“All right—who!”
“Well, I can't call you Clarence. It doesn't fit. So just for the rest of the day let's make it Clancy, even if you do look like one of the minor77 Hebrew prophets, minus the beard.”
And so she began to tell him of her work and her aims. I think that she had been craving78 just this chance to talk. That which she told him was, unconsciously, a confession79. She told him of Theodore and his marriage; of her mother's death; of her coming to Haynes-Cooper, and the changes she had brought about there. She showed him the infinite possibilities for advancement80 there. Slosson she tossed aside. Then, rather haltingly, she told him of Fenger, of his business genius, his magnetic qualities, of his career. She even sketched81 a deft82 word-picture of the limp and irritating Mrs. Fenger.
“Is this Fenger in love with you?” asked Heyl, startlingly.
Fanny recoiled83 at the idea with a primness84 that did credit to Winnebago.
“Clancy! Please! He's married.”
“Now don't sneak85, Fanny. And don't talk like an ingenue. So far, you've outlined a life-plan that makes Becky Sharp look like a cooing dove. So just answer this straight, will you?”
“Why, I suppose I attract him, as any man of his sort, with a wife like that, would be attracted to a healthily alert woman, whose ideas match his. And I wish you wouldn't talk to me like that. It hurts.”
“I'm glad of that. I was afraid you'd passed that stage. Well now, how about those sketches of yours? I suppose you know that they're as good, in a crude, effective sort of way, as anything that's being done to-day.”
“Oh, nonsense!” But then she stopped, suddenly, and put both hands on his arm, and looked up at him, her face radiant in the gray twilight. “Do you really think they're good!”
“You bet they're good. There isn't a newspaper in the country that couldn't use that kind of stuff. And there aren't three people in the country who can do it. It isn't a case of being able to draw. It's being able to see life in a peculiar86 light, and to throw that light so that others get the glow. Those sketches I saw this morning are life, served up raw. That's your gift, Fanny. Why the devil don't you use it!”
But Fanny had got herself in hand again. “It isn't a gift,” she said, lightly. “It's just a little knack87 that amuses me. There's no money in it. Besides, it's too late now. One's got to do a thing superlatively, nowadays, to be recognized. I don't draw superlatively, but I do handle infants' wear better than any woman I know. In two more years I'll be getting ten thousand a year at Haynes-Cooper. In five years——”
“Then what?”
Fanny's hands became fists, gripping the power she craved88. “Then I shall have arrived. I shall be able to see the great and beautiful things of this world, and mingle89 with the people who possess them.”
“When you might be making them yourself, you little fool. Don't glare at me like that. I tell you that those pictures are the real expression of you. That's why you turn to them as relief from the shop grind. You can't help doing them. They're you.”
“I can stop if I want to. They amuse me, that's all.”
“You can't stop. It's in your blood. It's the Jew in you.”
“The——Here, I'll show you. I won't do another sketch3 for a year. I'll prove to you that my ancestors' religion doesn't influence my work, or my play.”
“Dear, you can't prove that, because the contrary has been proven long ago. You yourself proved it when you did that sketch of the old fish vender90 in the Ghetto91. The one with the beard. It took a thousand years of suffering and persecution92 and faith to stamp that look on his face, and it took a thousand years to breed in you the genius to see it, and put it down on paper. Fan, did you ever read Fishberg's book?”
“No,” said Fanny, low-voiced.
“Sometime, when you can snatch a moment from the fascinations93 of the mail order catalogue, read it. Fishberg says—I wish I could remember his exact words—`It isn't the body that marks the Jew. It's his Soul. The type is not anthropological94, or physical; it's social or psychic95. It isn't the complexion96, the nose, the lips, the head. It's his Soul which betrays his faith. Centuries of Ghetto confinement97, ostracism98, ceaseless suffering, have produced a psychic type. The thing that is stamped on the Soul seeps99 through the veins100 and works its way magically to the face——'”
“But I don't want to talk about souls! Please! You're spoiling a wonderful day.”
“And you're spoiling a wonderful life. I don't object to this driving ambition in you. I don't say that you're wrong in wanting to make a place for yourself in the world. But don't expect me to stand by and let you trample101 over your own immortal102 soul to get there. Your head is busy enough on this infants' wear job, but how about the rest of you—how about You? What do you suppose all those years of work, and suppression, and self-denial, and beauty-hunger there in Winnebago were meant for! Not to develop the mail order business. They were given you so that you might recognize hunger, and suppression, and self-denial in others. The light in the face of that girl in the crowd pouring out of the plant. What's that but the reflection of the light in you! I tell you, Fanny, we Jews have got a money-grubbing, loud-talking, diamond-studded, get-there-at-any-price reputation, and perhaps we deserve it. But every now and then, out of the mass of us, one lifts his head and stands erect103, and the great white light is in his face. And that person has suffered, for suffering breeds genius. It expands the soul just as over-prosperity shrivels it. You see it all the way from Lew Fields to Sarah Bernhardt; from Mendelssohn to Irving Berlin; from Mischa Elman to Charlie Chaplin. You were a person set apart in Winnebago. Instead of thanking your God for that, you set out to be something you aren't. No, it's worse than that. You're trying not to be what you are. And it's going to do for you.”
“Stop!” cried Fanny. “My head's whirling. It sounds like something out of `Alice in Wonderland.'”
“And you,” retorted Heyl, “sound like some one who's afraid to talk or think about herself. You're suppressing the thing that is you. You're cutting yourself off from your own people—a dramatic, impulsive104, emotional people. By doing those things you're killing105 the goose that lays the golden egg. What's that old copy-book line? `To thine own self be true,' and the rest of it.”
“Yes; like Theodore, for example,” sneered106 Fanny.
At which unpleasant point Nature kindly107 supplied a diversion. Across the black sky there shot two luminous108 shafts110 of lights. Northern lights, pale sisters of the chromatic111 glory one sees in the far north, but still weirdly112 beautiful. Fanny and Heyl stopped short, faces upturned. The ghostly radiance wavered, expanded, glowed palely, like celestial113 searchlights. Suddenly, from the tip of each shaft109, there burst a cluster of slender, pin-point lines, like aigrettes set in a band of silver. Then these slowly wavered, faded, combined to form a third and fourth slender shaft of light. It was like the radiance one sees in the old pictures of the Holy Family. Together Fanny and Heyl watched it in silence until the last pale glimmer114 faded and was gone, and only the brazen lights of Gary, far, far down the beach, cast a fiery115 glow against the sky.
They sighed, simultaneously116. Then they laughed, each at the other.
“Curtain,” said Fanny. They raced for the station, despite the sand. Their car was filled with pudgy babies lying limp in parental117 arms; with lunch baskets exuding118 the sickly scent of bananas; with disheveled vandals whose moist palms grasped bunches of wilted119 wild flowers. Past the belching120 chimneys of Gary, through South Chicago, the back yard of a metropolis121, past Jackson Park that breathed coolly upon them, and so to the city again. They looked at it with the shock that comes to eyes that have rested for hours on long stretches of sand and sky and water. Monday, that had seemed so far away, became an actuality of to-morrow.
Tired as they were, they stopped at one of those frank little restaurants that brighten Chicago's drab side streets. Its windows were full of pans that held baked beans, all crusty and brown, and falsely tempting122, and of baked apples swimming in a pool of syrup123. These flanked by ketchup124 bottles and geometrical pyramids of golden grape-fruit.
Coffee and hot roast beef sandwiches, of course, in a place like that. “And,” added Fanny, “one of those baked apples. Just to prove they can't be as good as they look.”
They weren't, but she was too hungry to care. Not too hungry, though, to note with quick eye all that the little restaurant held of interest, nor too sleepy to respond to the friendly waitress who, seeing their dusty boots, and the sprig of sumac stuck in Fanny's coat, said, “My, it must have been swell125 in the country today!” as her flapping napkin precipitated126 crumbs127 into their laps.
“It was,” said Fanny, and smiled up at the girl with her generous, flashing smile. “Here's a bit of it I brought back for you.” And she stuck the scarlet sumac sprig into the belt of the white apron128.
They finished the day incongruously by taking a taxi home, Fanny yawning luxuriously129 all the way. “Do you know,” she said, as they parted, “we've talked about everything from souls to infants' wear. We're talked out. It's a mercy you're going to New York. There won't be a next time.”
“Young woman,” said Heyl, forcefully, “there will. That young devil in the red tam isn't dead. She's alive. And kicking. There's a kick in every one of those Chicago sketches in your portfolio130 upstairs. You said she wouldn't fight anybody's battles to-day. You little idiot, she's fighting one in each of those pictures, from the one showing that girl's face in the crowd, to the old chap with the fish-stall. She'll never die that one. Because she's the spirit. It's the other one who's dead—and she doesn't know it. But some day she'll find herself buried. And I want to be there to shovel131 on the dirt.”
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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6
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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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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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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slag
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| n.熔渣，铁屑，矿渣；v.使变成熔渣，变熔渣 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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clumping
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| v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的现在分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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18
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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19
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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20
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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21
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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22
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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23
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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24
chipmunk
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| n.花栗鼠 | |
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25
millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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26
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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27
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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28
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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29
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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30
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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31
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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32
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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33
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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34
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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35
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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36
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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37
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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38
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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39
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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40
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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41
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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42
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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43
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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44
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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45
outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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47
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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49
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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50
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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51
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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52
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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53
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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54
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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55
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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56
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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57
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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58
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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59
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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60
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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61
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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63
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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64
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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65
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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66
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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68
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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69
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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70
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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71
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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72
prophylactic
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| adj.预防疾病的；n.预防疾病 | |
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73
folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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74
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
disinterestedly
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76
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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77
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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78
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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79
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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80
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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81
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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83
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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84
primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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85
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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86
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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87
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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88
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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89
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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90
vender
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| n.小贩 | |
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91
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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92
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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93
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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94
anthropological
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| adj.人类学的 | |
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95
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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96
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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97
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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98
ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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99
seeps
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| n.（液体）渗( seep的名词复数 )；渗透；渗出；漏出v.（液体）渗( seep的第三人称单数 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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100
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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101
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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102
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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103
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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104
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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105
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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106
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
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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108
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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109
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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110
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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111
chromatic
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| adj.色彩的，颜色的 | |
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112
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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113
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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114
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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115
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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116
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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117
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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118
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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119
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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121
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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122
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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123
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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124
ketchup
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| n.蕃茄酱，蕃茄沙司 | |
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125
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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126
precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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127
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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128
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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129
luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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130
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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131
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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