When the red stuff in the thermometer waxes ambitious, so that fat men stand, bulging-eyed, before it and beginning with the ninety mark count up with a horrible satisfaction—ninety-one—ninety-two—ninety-three—NINETY FOUR! by gosh! and the cinders2 are filtering into your berth3, and even the porter is wandering restlessly up and down the aisle4 like a black soul in purgatory5 and a white duck coat, then the thing to do is to don those mercifully few garments which the laxity of sleeping-car etiquette6 permits, slip out between the green curtains and fare forth7 in search of draughts8, liquid and atmospheric9.
At midnight Emma McChesney, inured10 as she was to sleepers11 and all their horrors, found her lower eight unbearable13. With the bravery of desperation she groped about for her cinder-strewn belongings14, donned slippers15 and kimono, waited until the tortured porter's footsteps had squeaked16 their way to the far end of the car, then sped up the dim aisle toward the back platform. She wrenched17 open the door, felt the rush of air, drew in a long, grateful, smoke-steam-dust laden18 lungful of it, felt the breath of it on spine19 and chest, sneezed, realized that she would be the victim of a summer cold next day, and, knowing, cared not.
“Great, ain't it?” said a voice in the darkness. (Nay, reader. A woman's voice.)
Emma McChesney was of the non-screaming type. But something inside of her suspended action for the fraction of a second. She peered into the darkness.
“'J' get scared?” inquired the voice. Its owner lurched forward from the corner in which she had been crouching20, into the half-light cast by the vestibule night-globe.
Even as men judge one another by a Masonic emblem21, an Elk22 pin, or the band of a cigar, so do women in sleeping-cars weigh each other according to the rules of the Ancient Order of the Kimono. Seven seconds after Emma McChesney first beheld23 the negligee that stood revealed in the dim light she had its wearer neatly24 weighed, marked, listed, docketed and placed.
It was the kind of kimono that is associated with straw-colored hair, and French-heeled shoes, and over-fed dogs at the end of a leash25. The Japanese are wrongly accused of having perpetrated it. In pattern it showed bright green flowers-that-never-were sprawling26 on a purple background. A diamond bar fastened it not too near the throat.
It was one of Emma McChesney's boasts that she was the only living woman who could get off a sleeper12 at Bay City, Michigan, at 5 A.M., without looking like a Swedish immigrant just dumped at Ellis Island. Traveling had become a science with her, as witness her serviceable dark-blue silk kimono, and her hair in a schoolgirl braid down her back. The blonde woman cast upon Emma McChesney an admiring eye.
“Gawd, ain't it hot!” she said, sociably27.
“I wonder,” mused28 Emma McChesney, “if that porter could be hypnotized into making some lemonade—a pitcherful29, with a lot of ice in it, and the cold sweat breaking out all over the glass?
“Lemonade!” echoed the other, wonder and amusement in her tone. “Are they still usin' it?” She leaned against the door, swaying with the motion of the car, and hugging her plump, bare arms. “Travelin' alone?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” replied Emma McChesney, and decided30 it was time to go in.
“Lonesome, ain't it, without company? Goin' far?”
“I'm accustomed to it. I travel on business, not pleasure. I'm on the road, representing T. A. Buck's Featherloom Petticoats!”
The once handsome violet eyes of the plump blonde widened with surprise. Then they narrowed to critical slits31.
“On the road! Sellin' goods! And I thought you was only a kid. It's the way your hair's fixed32, I suppose. Say, that must be a hard life for a woman—buttin' into a man's game like that.”
“Oh, I suppose any work that takes a woman out into the world—” began Emma McChesney vaguely33, her hand on the door-knob.
“Sure,” agreed the other. “I ought to know. The hotels and time-tables alone are enough to kill. Who do you suppose makes up train schedules? They don't seem to think no respectable train ought to leave anywhere before eleven-fifty A.M., or arrive after six A.M. We played Ottumwa, Iowa, last night, and here we are jumpin' to Illinois.”
In surprise Emma McChesney turned at the door for another look at the hair, figure, complexion34 and kimono.
“Oh, you're an actress! Well, if you think mine is a hard life for a woman, why—”
“Me!” said the green-gold blonde, and laughed not prettily35. “I ain't a woman. I'm a queen of burlesque36.
“Burlesque? You mean one of those—” Emma McChesney stopped, her usually deft37 tongue floundering.
“One of those 'men only' troupes38? You guessed it. I'm Blanche LeHaye, of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles40. We get into North Bend at six to-morrow morning, and we play there to-morrow night, Sunday.” She took a step forward so that her haggard face and artificially tinted41 hair were very near Emma McChesney. “Know what I was thinkin' just one second before you come out here?”
“No; what?”
“I was thinkin' what a cinch it would be to just push aside that canvas thing there by the steps and try what the newspaper accounts call 'jumping into the night.' Say, if I'd had on my other lawnjerie I'll bet I'd have done it.”
Into Emma McChesney's understanding heart there swept a wave of pity. But she answered lightly: “Is that supposed to be funny?”
The plump blonde yawned. “It depends on your funny bone. Mine's got blunted. I'm the lady that the Irish comedy guy slaps in the face with a bunch of lettuce43. Say, there's something about you that makes a person get gabby and tell things. You'd make a swell44 clairvoyant45.”
Beneath the comedy of the bleached46 hair, and the flaccid face, and the bizarre wrapper; behind the coarseness and vulgarity and ignorance, Emma McChesney's keen mental eye saw something decent and clean and beautiful. And something pitiable, and something tragic47.
“I guess you'd better come in and get some sleep,” said Emma McChesney; and somehow found her hand resting on the woman's shoulder. So they stood, on the swaying, jolting48 platform. Blanche LeHaye, of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles, looked down, askance, at the hand on her shoulder, as at some strange and interesting object.
“Ten years ago,” she said, “that would have started me telling the story of my life, with all the tremolo stops on, and the orchestra in tears. Now it only makes me mad.”
Emma McChesney's hand seemed to snatch itself away from the woman's shoulder.
“You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in.”
“Wait a minute. Don't go away sore, kid. On the square, I guess I liked the feel of your hand on my arm, like that. Say, I've done the same thing myself to a strange dog that looked up at me, pitiful. You know, the way you reach down, and pat 'm on the head, and say, 'Nice doggie, nice doggie, old fellow,' even if it is a street cur, with a chawed ear, and no tail. They growl49 and show their teeth, but they like it. A woman—Lordy! there comes the brakeman. Let's beat it. Ain't we the nervy old hens!”
The female of the species as she is found in sleeping-car dressing-rooms had taught Emma McChesney to rise betimes that she might avoid contact with certain frowsy, shapeless beings armed with bottles of milky50 liquids, and boxes of rosy51 pastes, and pencils that made arched and inky lines; beings redolent of bitter almond, and violet toilette water; beings in doubtful corsets and green silk petticoats perfect as to accordion-plaited flounce, but showing slits and tatters farther up; beings jealously guarding their ten inches of mirror space and consenting to move for no one; ladies who had come all the way from Texas and who insisted on telling about it, despite a mouthful of hairpins52; doubtful sisters who called one dearie and required to be hooked up; distracted mothers with three small children who wiped their hands on your shirt-waist.
{Illustration: “'You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm going in'”}
So it was that Emma McChesney, hatted and veiled by 5:45, saw the curtains of the berth opposite rent asunder53 to disclose the rumpled54, shapeless figure of Miss Blanche LeHaye. The queen of burlesque bore in her arms a conglomerate55 mass of shoes, corset, purple skirt, bag and green-plumed56 hat. She paused to stare at Emma McChesney's trim, cool preparedness.
“You must have started to dress as soon's you come in last night. I never slep' a wink57 till just about half a hour ago. I bet I ain't got more than eleven minutes to dress in. Ain't this a scorcher!”
When the train stopped at North Bend, Emma McChesney, on her way out, collided with a vision in a pongee duster, rose-colored chiffon veil, chamois gloves, and plumed hat. Miss Blanche LeHaye had made the most of her eleven minutes. Her baggage attended to, Emma McChesney climbed into a hotel 'bus. It bore no other passengers. From her corner in the vehicle she could see the queen of burlesque standing42 in the center of the depot58 platform, surrounded by her company. It was a tawdry, miserable59, almost tragic group, the men undersized, be-diamonded, their skulls60 oddly shaped, their clothes a satire61 on the fashions for men, their chins unshaven, their loose lips curved contentedly62 over cigarettes; the women dreadfully unreal with the pitiless light of the early morning sun glaring down on their bedizened faces, their spotted63, garish64 clothes, their run-down heels, their vivid veils, their matted hair. They were quarreling among themselves, and a flame of hate for the moment lighted up those dull, stupid, vicious faces. Blanche LeHaye appeared to be the center about which the strife65 waged, for suddenly she flung through the shrill66 group and walked swiftly over to the 'bus and climbed into it heavily. One of the women turned, her face lived beneath the paint, to scream a great oath after her. The 'bus driver climbed into his seat and took up the reins67. After a moment's indecision the little group on the platform turned and trailed off down the street, the women sagging68 under the weight of their bags, the men, for the most part, hurrying on ahead. When the 'bus lurched past them the woman who had screamed the oath after Blanche LeHaye laughed shrilly69 and made a face, like a naughty child, whereupon the others laughed in falsetto chorus.
A touch of real color showed in Blanche LeHaye's flabby cheek. “I'll show'm she snarled70. That hussy of a Zella Dacre thinkin' she can get my part away from me the last week or so, the lyin' sneak71. I'll show'm a leadin' lady's a leadin' lady. Let 'em go to their hash hotels. I'm goin' to the real inn in this town just to let 'em know that I got my dignity to keep up, and that I don't have to mix in with scum like that. You see that there? She pointed72 at something in the street. Emma McChesney turned to look. The cheap lithographs73 of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles Company glared at one from the bill-boards.
“That's our paper,” explained Blanche LeHaye. “That's me, in the center of the bunch, with the pink reins in my hands, drivin' that four-in-hand of johnnies. Hot stuff! Just let Dacre try to get it away from me, that's all. I'll show'm.”
She sank back into her corner. Her anger left her with the suddenness characteristic of her type.
“Ain't this heat fierce?” she fretted74, and closed her eyes.
Now, Emma McChesney was a broad-minded woman. The scars that she had received in her ten years' battle with business reminded her to be tender at sight of the wounds of others. But now, as she studied the woman huddled75 there in the corner, she was conscious of a shuddering76 disgust of her—of the soiled blouse, of the cheap finery, of the sunken places around the jaw-bone, of the swollen77 places beneath the eyes, of the thin, carmined lips, of the—
Blanche LeHaye opened her eyes suddenly and caught the look on Emma McChesney's face. Caught it, and comprehended it. Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed shortly.
“Oh, I dunno,” drawled Blanche LeHaye. “I wouldn't go's far's that, kid. Say, when I was your age I didn't plan to be no bum78 burlesquer79 neither. I was going to be an actress, with a farm on Long Island, like the rest of 'em. Every real actress has got a farm on Long Island, if it's only there in the mind of the press agent. It's a kind of a religion with 'em. I was goin' to build a house on mine that was goin' to be a cross between a California bungalow80 and the Horticultural Building at the World's Fair. Say, I ain't the worst, kid. There's others outside of my smear81, understand, that I wouldn't change places with.”
A dozen apologies surged to Emma McChesney's lips just as the driver drew up at the curbing82 outside the hotel and jumped down to open the door. She found herself hoping that the hotel clerk would not class her with her companion.
At eleven o'clock that morning Emma McChesney unlocked her door and walked down the red-carpeted hotel corridor. She had had two hours of restful sleep. She had bathed, and breakfasted, and donned clean clothes. She had brushed the cinders out of her hair, and manicured. She felt as alert, and cool and refreshed as she looked, which speaks well for her comfort.
Halfway83 down the hail a bedroom door stood open. Emma McChesney glanced in. What she saw made her stop. The next moment she would have hurried on, but the figure within called out to her.
Miss Blanche LeHaye had got into her kimono again. She was slumped84 in a dejected heap in a chair before the window. There was a tray, with a bottle and some glasses on the table by her side.
“Gawd, ain't it hot!” she whined85 miserably86. “Come on in a minute. I left the door open to catch the breeze, but there ain't any. You look like a peach just off the ice. Got a gent friend in town?”
“No,” answered Emma McChesney hurriedly, and turned to go.
“Wait a minute,” said Blanche LeHaye, sharply, and rose. She slouched over to where Emma McChesney stood and looked up at her sullenly87.
“Why!” gasped88 Emma McChesney, and involuntarily put out her hand, “why—my dear—you've been crying! Is there—”
“No, there ain't. I can bawl89, can't I, if I am a bum burlesquer?” She put down the squat90 little glass she had in her hand and stared resentfully at Emma McChesney's cool, fragrant91 freshness.
“Say,” she demanded suddenly, “whatja mean by lookin' at me the way you did this morning, h'm? Whatja mean? You got a nerve turnin' up your nose at me, you have. I'll just bet you ain't no better than you might be, neither. What the—”
Swiftly Emma McChesney crossed the room and closed the door. Then she came back to where Blanche LeHaye stood.
“Now listen to me,” she said. “You shed that purple kimono of yours and hustle92 into some clothes and come along with me. I mean it. Whenever I'm anywhere near this town I make a jump and Sunday here. I've a friend here named Morrissey—Ethel Morrissey—and she's the biggest-hearted, most understanding friend that a woman ever had. She's skirt and suit buyer at Barker & Fisk's here. I have a standing invitation to spend Sunday at her house. She knows I'm coming. I help get dinner if I feel like it, and wash my hair if I want to, and sit out in the back yard, and fool with the dog, and act like a human being for one day. After you've been on the road for ten years a real Sunday dinner in a real home has got Sherry's flossiest efforts looking like a picnic collation93 with ants in the pie. You're coming with me, more for my sake than for yours, because the thought of you sitting here, like this, would sour the day for me.”
Blanche LeHaye's fingers were picking at the pin which fastened her gown. She smiled, uncertainly.
“What's your game?” she inquired.
“I'll wait for you downstairs,” said Emma McChesney, pleasantly. “Do you ever have any luck with caramel icing? Ethel's and mine always curdles94.”
“Do I?” yelled the queen of burlesque. “I invented it.” And she was down on her knees, her fingers fumbling95 with the lock of her suitcase.
Only an Ethel Morrissey, inured to the weird96 workings of humanity by years of shrewd skirt and suit buying, could have stood the test of having a Blanche LeHaye thrust upon her, an unexpected guest, and with the woman across the street sitting on her front porch taking it all in.
At the door—“This is Miss Blanche LeHaye of the—er—Simon—”
“Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles,” put in Miss LeHaye. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Come in,” said Miss Ethel Morrissey without batting an eye. “I just 'phoned the hotel. Thought you'd gone back on me, Emma. I'm baking a caramel cake. Don't slam the door. This your first visit here, Miss LeHaye? Excuse me for not shaking hands. I'm all flour. Lay your things in there. Ma's spending the day with Aunt Gus at Forest City and I'm the whole works around here. It's got skirts and suits beat a mile. Hot, ain't it? Say, suppose you girls slip off your waists and I'll give you each an all-over apron97 that's loose and let's the breeze slide around.”
Blanche LeHaye, the garrulous98, was strangely silent. When she stepped about it was in the manner of one who is fearful of wakening a sleeper. When she caught the eyes of either of the other women her own glance dropped.
When Ethel Morrissey came in with the blue-and-white gingham aprons99 Blanche LeHaye hesitated a long minute before picking hers up. Then she held it by both sleeves and looked at it long, and curiously100. When she looked up again she found the eyes of the other two upon her. She slipped the apron over her head with a nervous little laugh.
“I've been a pair of pink tights so long,” she said, “that I guess I've almost forgotten how to be a woman. But once I get this on I'll bet I can come back.”
She proved it from the moment that she measured out the first cupful of brown sugar for the caramel icing. She shed her rings, and pinned her hair back from her forehead, and tucked up her sleeves, and as Emma McChesney watched her a resolve grew in her mind.
The cake disposed of—“Give me some potatoes to peel, will you?” said Blanche LeHaye, suddenly. “Give 'em to me in a brown crock, with a chip out of the side. There's certain things always goes hand-in-hand in your mind. You can't think of one without the other. Now, Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and new potatoes and brown crocks is another.”
{Illustration: “'Now, Lillian Russell and cold cream is one; and new potatoes and brown crocks is another'”}
She peeled potatoes, sitting hunched101 up on the kitchen chair with her high heels caught back of the top rung. She chopped spinach102 until her face was scarlet103, and her hair hung in limp strands104 at the back of her neck. She skinned tomatoes. She scoured105 pans. She wiped up the white oilcloth table-top with a capable and soapy hand. The heat and bustle106 of the little kitchen seemed to work some miraculous107 change in her. Her eyes brightened. Her lips smiled. Once, Emma McChesney and Ethel Morrissey exchanged covert108 looks when they heard her crooning one of those tuneless chants that women hum when they wring109 out dishcloths in soapy water.
After dinner, in the cool of the sitting-room110, with the shades drawn111, and their skirts tucked halfway to their knees, things looked propitious112 for that first stroke in the plan which had worked itself out in Emma McChesney's alert mind. She caught Blanche LeHaye's eye, and smiled.
“This beats burlesquing113, doesn't it?” she said. She leaned forward a bit in her chair. “Tell me, Miss LeHaye, haven't you ever thought of quitting that—the stage—and turning to something—something—”
“Something decent?” Blanche LeHaye finished for her. “I used to. I've got over that. Now all I ask is to get a laugh when I kick the comedian's hat off with my toe.”
“But there must have been a time—” insinuated114 Emma McChesney, gently.
Blanche LeHaye grinned broadly at the two women who were watching her so intently.
“I think I ought to tell you,” she began, “that I never was a minister's daughter, and I don't remember ever havin' been deserted115 by my sweetheart when I was young and trusting. If I was to draw a picture of my life it would look like one of those charts that the weather bureau gets out—one of those high and low barometer116 things, all uphill and downhill like a chain of mountains in a kid's geography.”
She shut her eyes and lay back in the depths of the leather-cushioned chair. The three sat in silence for a moment.
“Look here,” said Emma McChesney, suddenly, rising and coming over to the woman in the big chair, “that's not the life for a woman like you. I can get you a place in our office—not much, perhaps, but something decent—something to start with. If you—”
“For that matter,” put in Ethel Morrissey, quickly, “I could get you something right here in our store. I've been there long enough to have some say-so, and if I recommend you they'd start you in the basement at first, and then, if you made good, they advance you right along.”
Blanche LeHaye stood up and, twisting her arm around at the back, began to unbutton her gingham apron.
“I guess you think I'm a bad one, don't you? Well, maybe I am. But I'm not the worst. I've got a brother. He lives out West, and he's rich, and married, and respectable. You know the way a man can climb out of the mud, while a woman just can't wade117 out of it? Well, that's the way it was with us. His wife's a regular society bug118. She wouldn't admit that there was any such truck as me, unless, maybe, the Municipal Protective League, or something, of her town, got to waging a war against burlesque shows. I hadn't seen Len—that's my brother—-in years and years. Then one night in Omaha, I glimmed him sitting down in the B. H. row. His face just seemed to rise up at me out of the audience. He recognized me, too. Say, men are all alike. What they see in a dingy119, half-fed, ignorant bunch like us, I don't know. But the minute a man goes to Cleveland, or Pittsburgh, or somewhere on business he'll hunt up a burlesque show, and what's more, he'll enjoy it. Funny. Well, Len waited for me after the show, and we had a talk. He told me his troubles, and I told him some of mine, and when we got through I wouldn't have swapped120 with him. His wife's a wonder. She's climbed to the top of the ladder in her town. And she's pretty, and young-looking, and a regular swell. Len says their home is one of the kind where the rubberneck auto121 stops while the spieler tells the crowd who lives there, and how he made his money. But they haven't any kids, Len told me. He's crazy about 'em. But his wife don't want any. I wish you could have seen Len's face when he was talking about it.”
She dropped the gingham apron in a circle at her feet, and stepped out of it. She walked over to where her own clothes lay in a gaudy122 heap.
“Exit the gingham. But it's been great.” She paused before slipping her skirt over her head. The silence of the other two women seemed to anger her a little.
{Illustration: '“Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a candy factory'”}
“I guess you think I'm a bad one, clear through, don't you? Well, I ain't. I don't hurt anybody but myself. Len's wife—that's what I call bad.”
“But I don't think you're bad clear through,” tried Emma McChesney. “I don't. That's why I made that proposition to you. That's why I want you to get away from all this, and start over again.”
“Me?” laughed Blanche LeHaye. “Me! In a office! With ledgers123, and sale bills, and accounts, and all that stuff! Why, girls, I couldn't hold down a job in a candy factory. I ain't got any intelligence. I never had. You don't find women with brains in a burlesque troupe39. If they had 'em they wouldn't be there. Why, we're the dumbest, most ignorant bunch there is. Most of us are just hired girls, dressed up. That's why you find the Woman's Uplift union having such a blamed hard time savin' souls. The souls they try to save know just enough to be wise to the fact that they couldn't hold down a five-per-week job. Don't you feel sorry for me. I'm doing the only thing I'm good for.”
Emma McChesney put out her hand. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I only meant it for—”
“Why, of course,” agreed Blanche LeHaye, heartily124. “And you, too.” She turned so that her broad, good-natured smile included Ethel Morrissey. “I've had a whale of a time. My fingers are all stained up with new potatoes, and my nails is full of strawberry juice, and I hope it won't come off for a week. And I want to thank you both. I'd like to stay, but I'm going to hump over to the theater. That Dacre's got the nerve to swipe the star's dressing-room if I don't get my trunks in first.”
They walked with her to the front porch, making talk as they went. Resentment125 and discomfiture126 and a sort of admiration127 all played across the faces of the two women, whose kindness had met with rebuff. At the foot of the steps Blanche LeHaye, prima donna of the Sam Levin Crackerjack Belles turned.
“Oh, say,” she called. “I almost forgot. I want to tell you that if you wait until your caramel is off the stove, and then add your butter, when the stuff's hot, but not boilin', it won't lump so. H'm? Don't mention it.”
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1
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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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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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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etiquette
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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atmospheric
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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laden
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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crouching
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emblem
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elk
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| n.麋鹿 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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24
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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25
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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26
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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27
sociably
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| adv.成群地 | |
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28
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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29
pitcherful
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| 一水壶量 | |
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30
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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31
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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32
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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33
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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34
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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35
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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36
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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37
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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38
troupes
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| n. （演出的）一团, 一班 vi. 巡回演出 | |
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39
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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40
belles
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| n.美女( belle的名词复数 )；最美的美女 | |
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41
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
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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43
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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44
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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45
clairvoyant
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| adj.有预见的；n.有预见的人 | |
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46
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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47
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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48
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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49
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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50
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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51
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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52
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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53
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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54
rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
conglomerate
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| n.综合商社，多元化集团公司 | |
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56
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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57
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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58
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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59
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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60
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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61
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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62
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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63
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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64
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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65
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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66
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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67
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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68
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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69
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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70
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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71
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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72
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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73
lithographs
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| n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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74
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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75
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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76
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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77
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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78
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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79
burlesquer
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| 滑稽戏演员，粗俗节目表演者 | |
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80
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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81
smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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82
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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83
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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84
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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85
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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86
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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87
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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88
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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89
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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90
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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91
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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92
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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93
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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94
curdles
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| v.（使）凝结( curdle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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95
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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96
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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97
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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98
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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99
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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100
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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101
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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102
spinach
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| n.菠菜 | |
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103
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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104
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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106
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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107
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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108
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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109
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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110
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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111
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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112
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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113
burlesquing
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| v.（嘲弄地）模仿，（通过模仿）取笑( burlesque的现在分词 ) | |
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114
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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115
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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116
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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117
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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118
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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119
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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120
swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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121
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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122
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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123
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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124
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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125
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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126
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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127
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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