“Red-faced, grinning, and a naughty wink—I'll bet he sells coffins8 and undertakers' supplies,” mused9 Emma McChesney. “And the other one—the tall, lank10, funereal11 affair in black—I suppose his line would be sheet music, or maybe phonographs. Or perhaps he's a lyceum bureau reader, scheduled to give an evening of humorous readings for the Young Men's Sunday Evening Club course at the First M. E. Church.”
During those nine years on the road for the Featherloom Skirt Company Emma McChesney had picked up a side line or two on human nature.
She was not surprised to see the fat man in brown and the thin man in black leap out of the 'bus and into the hotel before she had had time to straighten her hat after the wheels had bumped up against the curbing12. By the time she reached the desk the two were disappearing in the wake of a bell-boy.
The sartorial13 triumph behind the desk, languidly read her signature upside down, took a disinterested14 look at her, and yelled:
“Front! Show the lady up to nineteen.”
Emma McChesney took three steps in the direction of the stairway toward which the boy was headed with her bags. Then she stopped.
“Wait a minute, boy,” she said, pleasantly enough; and walked back to the desk. She eyed the clerk, a half-smile on her lips, one arm, in its neat tailored sleeve, resting on the marble, while her right forefinger15, trimly gloved, tapped an imperative16 little tattoo17. (Perhaps you think that last descriptive sentence is as unnecessary as it is garbled18. But don't you get a little picture of her—trim, taut19, tailored, mannish-booted, flat-heeled, linen-collared, sailor-hatted?)
“You've made a mistake, haven't you?” she inquired.
“Mistake?” repeated the clerk, removing his eyes from their loving contemplation of his right thumb-nail. “Guess not.”
“Oh, think it over,” drawled Emma McChesney. “I've never seen nineteen, but I can describe it with both eyes shut, and one hand tied behind me. It's an inside room, isn't it, over the kitchen, and just next to the water butt20 where the maids come to draw water for the scrubbing at 5 A.M.? And the boiler21 room gets in its best bumps for nineteen, and the patent ventilators work just next door, and there's a pet rat that makes his headquarters in the wall between eighteen and nineteen, and the housekeeper22 whose room is across the hail is afflicted23 with a bronchial cough, nights. I'm wise to the brand of welcome that you fellows hand out to us women on the road. This is new territory for me—my first trip West. Think it over. Don't—er—say, sixty-five strike you as being nearer my size?”
The clerk stared at Emma McChesney, and Emma McChesney coolly stared back at the clerk.
“Our aim,” began he, loftily, “is to make our guests as comfortable as possible on all occasions. But the last lady drummer who—”
“That's all right,” interrupted Emma McChesney, “but I'm not the kind that steals the towels, and I don't carry an electric iron with me, either. Also I don't get chummy with the housekeeper and the dining-room girls half an hour after I move in. Most women drummers are living up to their reputations, but some of us are living 'em down. I'm for revision downward. You haven't got my number, that's all.”
A slow gleam of unwilling24 admiration25 illumined the clerk's chill eye. He turned and extracted another key with its jangling metal tag, from one of the many pigeonholes26 behind him.
“You win,” he said. He leaned over the desk and lowered his voice discreetly27. “Say, girlie, go on into the cafe and have a drink on me.”
“Wrong again,” answered Emma McChesney. “Never use it. Bad for the complexion28. Thanks just the same. Nice little hotel you've got here.”
In the corridor leading to sixty-five there was a great litter of pails, and mops, and brooms, and damp rags, and one heard the sigh of a vacuum cleaner.
“Spring house-cleaning,” explained the bellboy, hurdling29 a pail.
Emma McChesney picked her way over a little heap of dust-cloths and a ladder or so.
“House-cleaning,” she repeated dreamily; “spring house-cleaning.” And there came a troubled, yearning30 light into her eyes. It lingered there after the boy had unlocked and thrown open the door of sixty-five, pocketed his dime31, and departed.
Sixty-five was—well, you know what sixty-five generally is in a small Middle-Western town. Iron bed—tan wall-paper—pine table—pine dresser—pine chair—red carpet—stuffy32 smell—fly buzzing at window—sun beating in from the west. Emma McChesney saw it all in one accustomed glance.
“Lordy, I hate to think what nineteen must be,” she told herself, and unclasped her bag. Out came the first aid to the travel-stained—a jar of cold cream. It was followed by powder, chamois, brush, comb, tooth-brush. Emma McChesney dug four fingers into the cold cream jar, slapped the stuff on her face, rubbed it in a bit, wiped it off with a dry towel, straightened her hat, dusted the chamois over her face, glanced at her watch and hurriedly whisked downstairs.
“After all,” she mused, “that thin guy might not be out for a music house. Maybe his line is skirts, too. You never can tell. Anyway, I'll beat him to it.”
Saturday afternoon and spring-time in a small town! Do you know it? Main Street—on the right side—all a-bustle; farmers' wagons33 drawn34 up at the curbing; farmers' wives in the inevitable35 rusty36 black with dowdy37 hats furbished up with a red muslin rose in honor of spring; grand opening at the new five-and-ten-cent store, with women streaming in and streaming out again, each with a souvenir pink carnation38 pinned to her coat; every one carrying bundles and yellow paper bags that might contain bananas or hats or grass seed; the thirty-two automobiles39 that the town boasts all dashing up and down the street, driven by hatless youths in careful college clothes; a crowd of at least eleven waiting at Jenson's drug-store corner for the next interurban car.
Emma McChesney found herself strolling when she should have been hustling40 in the direction of the Novelty Cloak and Suit Store. She was aware of a vague, strangely restless feeling in the region of her heart—or was it her liver?—or her lungs?
Reluctantly she turned in at the entrance of the Novelty Cloak and Suit Store and asked for the buyer. (Here we might introduce one of those side-splitting little business deal scenes. But there can be paid no finer compliment to Emma McChesney's saleswomanship than to state that she landed her man on a busy Saturday afternoon, with a store full of customers and the head woman clerk dead against her from the start.)
As she was leaving:
“Generally it's the other way around,” smiled the boss, regarding Emma's trim comeliness41, “but seeing you're a lady, why, it'll be on me.” He reached for his hat. “Let's go and have—ah—a little something.”
“Not any, thanks,” Emma McChesney replied, a little wearily.
On her way back to the hotel she frankly42 loitered. Just to look at her made you certain that she was not of our town. Now, that doesn't imply that the women of our town do not dress well, because they do. But there was something about her—a flirt43 of chiffon at the throat, or her hat quill44 stuck in a certain way, or the stitching on her gloves, or the vamp of her shoe—that was of a style which had not reached us yet.
As Emma McChesney loitered, looking in at the shop windows and watching the women hurrying by, intent on the purchase of their Sunday dinners, that vaguely45 restless feeling seized her again. There were rows of plump fowls46 in the butcher-shop windows, and juicy roasts. The cunning hand of the butcher had enhanced the redness of the meat by trimmings of curly parsley. Salad things and new vegetables glowed behind the grocers' plate-glass. There were the tender green of lettuces47, the coral of tomatoes, the brown-green of stout48 asparagus stalks, bins49 of spring peas and beans, and carrots, and bunches of greens for soup. There came over the businesslike soul of Emma McChesney a wild longing50 to go in and select a ten-pound roast, taking care that there should be just the right proportion of creamy fat and red meat. She wanted to go in and poke51 her fingers in the ribs52 of a broiler. She wanted to order wildly of sweet potatoes and vegetables, and soup bones, and apples for pies. She ached to turn back her sleeves and don a blue-and-white checked apron53 and roll out noodles.
She still was fighting that wild impulse as she walked back to the hotel, went up to her stuffy room, and, without removing hat or coat, seated herself on the edge of the bed and stared long and hard at the tan wall-paper.
There is this peculiarity54 about tan wall-paper. If you stare at it long enough you begin to see things. Emma McChesney, who pulled down something over thirty-two hundred a year selling Featherloom Petticoats, saw this:
A kitchen, very bright and clean, with a cluttered55 kind of cleanliness that bespeaks56 many housewifely tasks under way. There were mixing bowls, and saucepans, and a kettle or so, and from the oven there came the sounds of sputtering57 and hissing58. About the room there hung the divinely delectable59 scent60 of freshly baked cookies. Emma McChesney saw herself in an all-enveloping checked gingham apron, her sleeves rolled up, her hair somewhat wild, and one lock powdered with white where she had pushed it back with a floury hand. Her cheeks were surprisingly pink, and her eyes were very bright, and she was scraping a baking board and rolling-pin, and trimming the edges of pie tins, and turning with a whirl to open the oven door, stooping to dip up spoonfuls of gravy61 only to pour the rich brown liquid over the meat again. There were things on top of the stove that required sticking into with a fork, and other things that demanded tasting and stirring with a spoon. A neighbor came in to borrow a cup of molasses, and Emma urged upon her one of her freshly baked cookies. And there was a ring at the front-door bell, and she had to rush away to do battle with a persistent62 book agent....
The buzzing fly alighted on Emma McChesney's left eyebrow63. She swatted it with a hand that was not quite quick enough, spoiled the picture, and slowly rose from her perch64 at the bedside.
“Oh, damn!” she remarked, wearily, and went over to the dresser. Then she pulled down her shirtwaist all around and went down to supper.
The dining-room was very warm, and there came a smell of lardy things from the kitchen. Those supping were doing so languidly.
“I'm dying for something cool, and green, and fresh,” remarked Emma to the girl who filled her glass with iced water; “something springish and tempting65.”
“Well,” sing-songed she of the ruffled66, starched68 skirt, “we have ham'n-aigs, mutton chops, cold veal69, cold roast—”
“Two, fried,” interrupted Emma hopelessly, “and a pot of tea—black.”
Supper over she passed through the lobby on her way upstairs. The place was filled with men. They were lolling in the big leather chairs at the window, or standing6 about, smoking and talking. There was a rattle70 of dice71 from the cigar counter, and a burst of laughter from the men gathered about it. It all looked very bright, and cheery, and sociable72. Emma McChesney, turning to ascend73 the stairs to her room, felt that she, too, would like to sit in one of the big leather chairs in the window and talk to some one.
Some one was playing the piano in the parlor74. The doors were open. Emma McChesney glanced in. Then she stopped. It was not the appearance of the room that held her. You may have heard of the wilds of an African jungle—the trackless wastes of the desert—the solitude75 of the forest—the limitless stretch of the storm-tossed ocean; they are cozy76 and snug when compared to the utter and soul-searing dreariness77 of a small town hotel parlor. You know what it is—red carpet, red plush and brocade furniture, full-length walnut78 mirror, battered79 piano on which reposes80 a sheet of music given away with the Sunday supplement of a city paper.
A man was seated at the piano, playing. He was not playing the Sunday supplement sheet music. His brown hat was pushed back on his head and there was a fat cigar in his pursy mouth, and as he played he squinted81 up through the smoke. He was playing Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Not as you have heard it played by sweet young things; not as you have heard it rendered by the Apollo String Quartette. Under his fingers it was a fragrant82, trembling, laughing, sobbing83, exquisite84 thing. He was playing it in a way to make you stare straight ahead and swallow hard.
Emma McChesney leaned her head against the door. The man at the piano did not turn. So she tip-toed in, found a chair in a corner, and noiselessly slipped into it. She sat very still, listening, and the past-that-might-have-been, and the future-that-was-to-be, stretched behind and before her, as is strangely often the case when we are listening to music. She stared ahead with eyes that were very wide open and bright. Something in the attitude of the man sitting hunched85 there over the piano keys, and something in the beauty and pathos86 of the music brought a hot haze87 of tears to her eyes. She leaned her head against the back of the chair, and shut her eyes and wept quietly and heart-brokenly. The tears slid down her cheeks, and dropped on her smart tailored waist and her Irish lace jabot, and she didn't care a bit.
The last lovely note died away. The fat man's hands dropped limply to his sides. Emma McChesney stared at them, fascinated. They were quite marvelous hands; not at all the sort of hands one would expect to see attached to the wrists of a fat man. They were slim, nervous, sensitive hands, pink-tipped, tapering88, blue-veined, delicate. As Emma McChesney stared at them the man turned slowly on the revolving89 stool. His plump, pink face was dolorous90, sagging91, wan-eyed.
He watched Emma McChesney as she sat up and dried her eyes. A satisfied light dawned in his face.
“Thanks,” he said, and mopped his forehead and chin and neck with the brown-edged handkerchief.
“You—you can't be Paderewski. He's thin. But if he plays any better than that, then I don't want to hear him. You've upset me for the rest of the week. You've started me thinking about things—about things that—that-”
The fat man clasped his thin, nervous hands in front of him and leaned forward.
“About things that you're trying to forget. It starts me that way, too. That's why sometimes I don't touch the keys for weeks. Say, what do you think of a man who can play like that, and who is out on the road for a living just because he knows it's a sure thing? Music! That's my gift. And I've buried it. Why? Because the public won't take a fat man seriously. When he sits down at the piano they begin to howl for Italian rag. Why, I'd rather play the piano in a five-cent moving picture house than do what I'm doing now. But the old man wanted his son to be a business man, not a crazy, piano-playing galoot. That's the way he put it. And I was darn fool enough to think he was right. Why can't people stand up and do the things they're out to do! Not one person in a thousand does. Why, take you—I don't know you from Eve, but just from the way you shed the briny92 I know you're busy regretting.”
“Regretting?” repeated Emma McChesney, in a wail93. “Do you know what I am? I'm a lady drummer. And do you know what I want to do this minute? I want to clean house. I want to wind a towel around my head, and pin up my skirt, and slosh around with a pail of hot, soapy water. I want to pound a couple of mattresses94 in the back yard, and eat a cold dinner off the kitchen table. That's what I want to do.”
“Well, go on and do it,” said the fat man.
“Do it? I haven't any house to clean. I got my divorce ten years ago, and I've been on the road ever since. I don't know why I stick. I'm pulling down a good, fat salary and commissions, but it's no life for a woman, and I know it, but I'm not big enough to quit. It's different with a man on the road. He can spend his evenings taking in two or three nickel shows, or he can stand on the drug-store corner and watch the pretty girls go by, or he can have a game of billiards95, or maybe cards. Or he can have a nice, quiet time just going up to his room, and smoking a cigar and writing to his wife or his girl. D'you know what I do?”
“No,” answered the fat man, interestedly. “What?”
“Evenings I go up to my room and sew or read. Sew! Every hook and eye and button on my clothes is moored96 so tight that even the hand laundry can't tear 'em off. You couldn't pry97 those fastenings away with dynamite98. When I find a hole in my stockings I'm tickled99 to death, because it's something to mend. And read? Everything from the Rules of the House tacked100 up on the door to spelling out the French short story in the back of the Swell101 Set Magazine. It's getting on my nerves. Do you know what I do Sunday mornings? No, you don't. Well, I go to church, that's what I do. And I get green with envy watching the other women there getting nervous about 11:45 or so, when the minister is still in knee-deep, and I know they're wondering if Lizzie has basted102 the chicken often enough, and if she has put the celery in cold water, and the ice-cream is packed in burlap in the cellar, and if she has forgotten to mix in a tablespoon of flour to make it smooth. You can tell by the look on their faces that there's company for dinner. And you know that after dinner they'll sit around, and the men will smoke, and the women folks will go upstairs, and she'll show the other woman her new scalloped, monogrammed, hand-embroidered guest towels, and the waist that her cousin Ethel brought from Paris. And maybe they'll slip off their skirts and lie down on the spare-room bed for a ten minutes' nap. And you can hear the hired girl rattling103 the dishes in the kitchen, and talking to her lady friend who is helping104 her wipe up so they can get out early. You can hear the two of them laughing above the clatter105 of the dishes—”
The fat man banged one fist down on the piano keys with a crash.
“I'm through,” he said. “I quit to-night. I've got my own life to live. Here, will you shake on it? I'll quit if you will. You're a born housekeeper. You don't belong on the road any more than I do. It's now or never. And it's going to be now with me. When I strike the pearly gates I'm not going to have Saint Peter say to me, 'Ed, old kid, what have you done with your talents?'”
“You're right,” sobbed106 Emma McChesney, her face glowing.
“By the way,” interrupted the fat man, “what's your line?”
“Petticoats. I'm out for T. A. Buck's Featherloom Skirts. What's yours?”
“Suffering cats!” shouted the fat man. “D' you mean to tell me that you're the fellow who sold that bill to Blum, of the Novelty Cloak and Suit concern, and spoiled a sale for me?”
“You! Are you—”
“You bet I am. I sell the best little skirt in the world. Strauss's Sans-silk Petticoat, warranted not to crack, rip, or fall into holes. Greatest little skirt in the country.”
Emma McChesney straightened her collar and jabot with a jerk, and sat up.
“Oh, now, don't give me that bunk107. You've got a good little seller, all right, but that guaranty don't hold water any more than the petticoat contains silk. I know that stuff. It looms108 up big in the window displays, but it's got a filler of glucose109, or starch67 or mucilage or something, and two days after you wear it it's as limp as a cheesecloth rag. It's showy, but you take a line like mine, for instance, why—”
“My customers swear by me. I make DeKalb to-morrow, and there's Nussbaum, of the Paris Emporium, the biggest store there, who just—”
“I make DeKalb, too,” remarked Emma McChesney, the light of battle in her eye.
“You mean,” gently insinuated110 the fat man, “that you were going to, but that's all over now.”
“Huh?” said Emma.
“Our agreement, you know,” the fat man reminded her, sweetly. “You aren't going back on that. The cottage and the Sunday dinner for you, remember.”
“Of course,” agreed Emma listlessly. “I think I'll go up and get some sleep now. Didn't get much last night on the road.”
“Won't you—er—come down and have a little something moist? Or we could have it sent up here,” suggested the fat man.
“You're the third man that's asked me that to-day,” snapped Emma McChesney, somewhat crossly. “Say, what do I look like, anyway? I guess I'll have to pin a white ribbon on my coat lapel.”
“No offense,” put in the fat man, with haste. “I just thought it would bind111 our bargain. I hope you'll be happy, and contented112, and all that, you know.”
“Let it go double,” replied Emma McChesney, and shook his hand.
“Guess I'll run down and get a smoke,” remarked he.
He ran down the stairs in a manner wonderfully airy for one so stout. Emma watched him until he disappeared around a bend in the stairs. Then she walked hastily in the direction of sixty-five.
Down in the lobby the fat man, cigar in mouth, was cautioning the clerk, and emphasizing his remarks with one forefinger.
“I want to leave a call for six thirty,” he was saying. “Not a minute later. I've got to get out of here on that 7:35 for DeKalb. Got a Sunday customer there.”
As he turned away a telephone bell tinkled113 at the desk. The clerk bent114 his stately head.
“Clerk. Yes, ma'am. No, ma'am, there's no train out of here to-night for DeKalb. To-morrow morning. Seven thirty-five A.M. I sure will. At six-thirty? Surest thing you know.”
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depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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hogging
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| n.弯[翘]曲，挠度，扭曲；拱曲 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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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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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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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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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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sartorial
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| adj.裁缝的 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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garbled
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| adj.（指信息）混乱的，引起误解的v.对（事实）歪曲，对（文章等）断章取义，窜改( garble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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pigeonholes
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| n.鸽舍出入口( pigeonhole的名词复数 )；小房间；文件架上的小间隔v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的第三人称单数 )；把…留在记忆中；缓办；把…隔成小格 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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hurdling
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| n.跳栏赛跑 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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41
comeliness
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| n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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42
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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43
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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44
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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45
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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46
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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47
lettuces
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| n.莴苣，生菜（ lettuce的名词复数 ）；生菜叶 | |
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49
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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50
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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51
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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52
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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53
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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54
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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55
cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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56
bespeaks
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| v.预定( bespeak的第三人称单数 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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57
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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58
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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59
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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60
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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61
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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62
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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63
eyebrow
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| n.眉毛，眉 | |
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64
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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66
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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68
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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70
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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71
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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72
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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73
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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74
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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76
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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77
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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78
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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79
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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81
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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82
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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83
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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84
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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85
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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86
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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87
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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88
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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89
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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90
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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91
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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92
briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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93
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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94
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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95
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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96
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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97
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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98
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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99
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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100
tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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101
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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102
basted
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| v.打( baste的过去式和过去分词 )；粗缝；痛斥；（烤肉等时）往上抹[浇]油 | |
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103
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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104
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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105
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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106
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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107
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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108
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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109
glucose
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| n.葡萄糖 | |
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110
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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111
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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112
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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113
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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114
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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