At the same time, after the edge of her compunction and regret and soft yearning15 over the poor boy that loved her had become a little blunted, the padrona had reason enough to be put out and vexed16 by the disturbing influence of this unlucky event. Love,—vulgarly so called,—was, as we have said, as much out of her way as if she had been an elderly stockbroker. Love,—of another kind,—was, it is true, her whole life and strength; but yet no man, however steeled by the world, could have been less disposed to any sentimental17 play of emotion than was this woman. Before Laurie came that morning her mind had been full of a hundred fancies, all pleasant of their kind. They were not thoughts of the highest elevation18, perhaps. One of them was the{117} rude, material reflection that she had her work secured and clear before her for a year certain; her living secured; no doubt about the sale of a picture; no sharp reminder19 of the precariousness20 of her profession to keep her uneasy;—but her work safe and sure for twelve months. And then it was pleasant work, and such as her soul loved. She had been commended by her visitors,—some of whom were people whose praise was worth having,—as she had never been before. Things were going well with her. The children were well, and developing their characteristics every day. She could look the world in the face and know that she was doing her best for them. When all at once,—in a moment,—the bitter-sweet of this boy’s love was thrown into the crystal fountain, and the surface that had been so clear, reflecting the heavens, was in a moment troubled and turbid21. With a certain impatient pang22 she said to herself, as so many have said, that there was always something to lessen23 one’s satisfaction, always some twist in the web of life to obscure its colours at its best. And poor foolish Laurie, who had thrown away the best he had for nothing! Poor boy! how her heart ached for him! how it hurt her to think of his pain! and there was little, very little comfort in the thought that he was lost to her. His friendly talk, his ready heart-service, his difficulties and errors, and even his weakness, which it had been so pleasant to minister to, to reprove, and exhort24, and accept,{118}—that was all over now. A gap and dreary25 void was suddenly made in her closest surroundings,—a gap which was hard on him and hard on her, and yet inevitable,—to be made at all hazards. The padrona was very much downcast about the business altogether, and shed a few tears over it in her solitude26. Nothing could have prevented, nothing could mend it,—except, perhaps, Time; and Time is a slow healer, whom it is hard to trust when one’s wound is of to-day.
If such was the effect this incident had on the padrona, it may be imagined what sort of a tempest it was which swept through Laurie’s mind and spirit when he left her. He disappeared under the bitter waves. Not only was there no sign of life in his windows, but, so far as he was himself conscious, there was no sign left in life to represent what he had done with that distracted, incoherent day. The chances are that he did most of the ordinary things he was in the habit of doing,—was seen at his club, and talked to his friends somewhat in his usual strain. Indeed, I have heard a mot attributed to Laurie, which could have been spoken but on that special evening, if it was spoken at all. I do not suppose he made any exhibition of himself to the outer world; but I can only take up the tale at the moment when, worn out and weary, he got back to his room in Charlotte Street, and came to the surface, as it were, and looked himself in the face once more. The{119} agitation27 of the past three days had told upon him. He had been shaken by the strange sweet shock of his discovery that he loved her; and now upon that came the other discovery, involved in the first, that he had spent his strength for naught28, and wasted all his wealth of emotion on a dream. Of course he had known all along it must be a dream; so he said to himself. He had poured out his heart as a libation in her honour. What more had he ever hoped it could be? And now he was empty and drained of both strength and joy. His pain was even mingled29 with shame,—that shame of the sensitive mind when it discovers that its hopes have been beyond what ought to be hoped for. His cheeks burned when he remembered that he had dreamed it was possible for this woman, so much higher placed than himself in the dignity of life, so far before him in the road, to turn and stoop from her natural position, and love him in her turn. He would have dragged her down, taken her from her secure eminence30, placed her in a false position, exposed her to the jeers31 and laughter of the world,—all for the satisfaction of his selfish craving32! He would have gone in the face of nature, ignored all the sobering and maturing processes which had made her what she was, and drawn33 her back to that rudimentary place in the world which her own daughter was ready to fill. Was not this what he would have done had he had his will? A hot flush of shame{120} came over Laurie’s face in his solitude. He felt humiliated34 at the thought of his own vanity, his own folly35. When she had held out her hands to him, when she had given him that kiss of everlasting36 dismissal, nature had asserted itself. Youth is sweet; it has the best of everything; it is the cream of existence; but yet when the grave soul of maturity37 drops back to youth, and gives up its own place, and ignores all its painful advantages, is there not a certain shame in it? Had the padrona been able to make that sudden descent,—could she have done what on his knees he would have prayed her to do,—then she would no longer have been herself. This consciousness, unexpressed, flashed across his mind in heat and shame, aggravating38 all his sufferings. That it could not be was bad enough; but to be compelled to allow that it was best that it should not be,—to feel that success for him would have been humiliation39 and downfall for her,—was not that the hardest of all?
It would be vain to follow Laurie through that long, distracted monologue40, confused ‘In memoriam’ of the past, with jars and broken tones of the future stealing into it, through which every soul struggles, after one of those shocks and convulsions which are the landmarks41 of life. To be stopped every moment while forming forlorn plans of practicable life by mocking gleams of what might have been, by bitter-sweet recollections of what has been,—does not everybody know how it feels? Laurie’s life was snapped in{121} two, or so, at least, it seemed to him. What was he to do with it? Where was he to fasten the torn end of the thread? Could he stay here and turn his back upon the past, and work, and see her at intervals42 with eyes calmed out of all his old passion? But when he came to think of it, it had been for her he had come here. At the first, perhaps, when he had dreamed of that gigantic Edith and of fame, had he been permitted to go on, he might have found for himself a certain existence belonging to this place which could have been carried on in it after the other ties were broken. But he had not been allowed to go on; and Charlotte Street had become to him only a kind of lodge43 to the Square, a place where he could retire to sleep and muse44 in the intervals of the real life which was passed in her service or presence. He exaggerated, poor fellow! as was natural. It seemed to him at this moment as if in all his exertions45, even for Suffolk, who was his friend, it had been her work he was doing. One thing at least was certain,—it would never have been done without her. She was mixed up with every action, every thought, even fancy, that had ever come into his mind. He had done nothing but at her bidding, or by her means, or with her co-operation. His work had languished46 for months past. If he had pretended to study, it was to please her. And how could life go on here, when it had but one motive47, and that motive was taken away from it? There{122} are moments in a man’s life when everything that is painful surges up around him at once, rising, one billow after another, over his devoted head. That very morning, moved by some premonition of fate, he had been collecting his papers together, and putting his affairs in order; and though so vulgar a fact had made little impression on him in his state of excitement, still Laurie had been aware that his accounts were not in his favour, and that it might be necessary one day to look them full in the face, and put order in his life. He had gone on all the same, without pausing to think, in his mad love. That was perfectly48 true, though he was the same Laurie Renton who, six months ago, had put away the girl’s little notes whom he had begun to think might have been his wife. He had given up that hope then without a moment’s doubt or thought of resistance; and yet now, in a still worse position, he had rushed on blindly to make confession49 of his love and throw himself at another woman’s feet. I cannot account for the inconsistency.
But now,—whatever shock he may sustain, howsoever his hopes may perish, a man must go on living all the same. His life may be torn up by the roots; he may be thrown, like a transplanted seedling50, into any corner; but yet the quivering tendrils must catch at the earth again, and existence go on, however broken. Laurie was a man easily turned from his ambitions, as has been seen; a man not too much{123} given to thought, easily satisfied, of a facile temper,—and with more power to work for others than for himself; but still he had to live. Something had to be done to reconcile natural difficulties, something decided upon for the future tenor51 of existence. Nor was he even the sort of man who could come to an abrupt52 stop, and stand upon it. His thoughts were discursive53, and rushed forward. Even in the bitterest chords of that knell54 of the past there was the impatient whisper of the future. I think there can be no doubt, on the whole, that what would have been best for him would have been that government office, to which he would have been tied by the blind hand of routine, and which would still have left him leisure for his amateur tendencies. Had he been so fortunate as to possess such a prop55 of actual occupation, Laurie would probably have removed from Charlotte Street,—to which, indeed, he never need have come,—and gone on steadily56 with his work, composing his quivering nerves and healing his wounds. He would have gone on doing kindnesses to his neighbours, pleasing himself with little pensive57 sketches58, reading more than usual perhaps; subdued, like a man who had gone through a bad illness; and by degrees he would have come back, calmed and healed, and able to take up his old friendship. But that was impossible now. A change of some kind or other he must have been compelled to make, even had there{124} been no personal cause for change. He must work; he must spare; he must recall himself to a sense of the probation60 on which he had entered six months before with a light heart. And the natural thing to do was at the same time the wisest thing. Rightly or wrongly, the artist, whoever he may be, trusts in Italy as the country of renovation61, the fountain of strength. Laurie scarcely hesitated as to his alternative. He could stay no longer where he was; his experiment had failed, his position had become untenable. The readiest suggestion of all was that one in which there still lay a certain consolation,—he would go to Rome.
He resolved upon this step before he went to bed, and on the next morning he began to pack up. Miss Hadley, from the other side, watched his open windows with a curiosity much quickened by her sister’s surmises62 and doubts, and saw, to her amazement63, the great canvas moved from its position in the corner,—a step which she found it difficult to understand. ‘I suppose he is going to take to his painting again,’ she said to Jane, when she came home. Jane shook her head, with dubious64 looks. The truth was she did not understand it. The most strange of all possible orders had proceeded that morning from Mrs. Severn’s studio. It was that she was extremely busy, and that no one was to be admitted. No one! Miss Jane Hadley had her doubts that, though this was the audible command, an exception had been made in{125} Laurie’s favour, and that so unusual a step was taken by the padrona in order to secure to herself, without interruption, the society of her lover. Though Miss Hadley loved her friend truly in her way, and had a respect for her, and even believed in her, this was the evil thought which had crossed her mind; and consequently she was disposed to scoff65 at her sister’s suggestions. But there were soon other facts to report of a still more bewildering character. A van came to Laurie’s door, and carried off the big canvas; and a workman in a paper cap became visible to the elder sister’s curious eyes in the centre of Laurie’s room, packing in a vast packing-case the young man’s belongings66. ‘He is going away!’ Miss Hadley said, with dismay, when her sister came home. She could have cried as she said it. He was as good as a play to the invalid67 who never stirred out of her parlour. Laurie, with his kindly68 ways, had made himself a place in her heart. He had taken off his hat as he came out every day to the shadow of her cap between the curtains; he had waved his hand to her from his balcony; he had never found fault with her investigations69; and when he bought the flowers for his window he had sent her some pots of the earliest spring blossoms to cheer her. She, too, had grown fond of Laurie. ‘He is going away!’ she said, with the corners of her mouth drooping70. ‘And the very best thing he could do,’ said Miss Jane decidedly; upon which, though she was a very{126} model of decorum, old Miss Hadley felt for the minute as if she would have liked to fling her tea-cup at her sister’s head.
It did not take long to make Laurie’s preparations for this sudden change. He pushed them on with a certain feverish71 haste, glad to occupy himself, and eager to put himself at a distance from the house he could no longer go to as a privileged and perpetual guest. Somehow Charlotte Street, though it had two ends like other streets, seemed to converge72 from both upon the Square. It suggested the Square every time he looked out upon it; indeed, all roads led to that door which was shut upon him, which he knew must be shut. But he had not gone back to hear of the extraordinary barricade73 raised by the padrona against the world in general. Laurie had nobody to consult,—nothing to detain him now. He did not even see one of the ‘set’ for more than a week, during which all his preparations were made. The day on which by chance he met Suffolk in the street was ten days later, when everything was settled. Suffolk stopped eagerly, and turned with him, and took his arm.
‘What has become of you?’ he said; ‘and what did you mean by sending me that canvas? After all, I wish you had gone on with it. We waited, thinking you were coming to explain; and I have called twice, but you were always out; and you look like a ghost,—what does it mean?{127}’
‘It don’t mean anything,’ said Laurie, with as gay a look as he could muster74, ‘but that I’m off to Rome to-morrow; where, you’ll allow, a man cannot carry canvases with him measuring ten feet by six. I meant to have come to bid you good-bye to-night.’
‘Off to Rome!’ cried Suffolk, amazed, ‘without a word of warning? Why, nobody knows of it, eh? not the padrona, nor any of us? What do you mean, stealing a march upon your friends like this?’
‘My friends won’t mind it much,’ said Laurie. ‘No; I didn’t mean that. I should like you to miss me. I rather grudge75 going, indeed, till I know how they’ve hung the Saxon Maiden76——’
‘Oh, confound the Saxon Maiden!’ said Suffolk; ‘it is you I want to know about, running off like this without a word. It is not anything that has happened, Laurie?’
‘What could happen?’ said Laurie, with a forced smile. ‘The fact is I am doing nothing here. You all set upon me, you know, about that picture; and I must do something. It is no use ignoring the fact. I am going in for our old work in the Via Felice. And I shall be in time for the Holy Week,—it is so late this year;’ he said, with a half laugh, at his own vain attempt at deception,—quite vain, as he could see, in Suffolk’s eyes.
‘But you don’t care for the Holy Week,’ said{128} the painter. ‘I don’t understand you, Laurie. What does the padrona say?’
‘The padrona approves,’ said Laurie. He got out the words without faltering77, but he could not bear any more allusion78 to her. ‘Paint something on my poor canvas. I have got fond of it,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see something on it worth looking at.’
‘I won’t touch it!’ cried Suffolk. ‘By George, I won’t! I’ll beat Helen if she rubs out a line, whisking out and in. Laurie, think better of it. I don’t know the set at the Felice now; they are not equal to our old set. Stay, there’s a good fellow, and paint at home.’
‘I can’t,’ said Laurie; ‘I must not. I will not. And the worst is, you must take me at my word, and not ask why.’
‘I will never say another syllable79 on the subject,’ said Suffolk, humbly80, and they walked half a mile, arm in arm, without uttering a word. This was the first notice Laurie’s friends had of his new resolution. When he had parted from Suffolk, he went straight, without pause or hesitation81, to Mrs. Severn’s door. It was Forrester who opened it to him; and Forrester, being a privileged person, paused to look at Laurie as soon as he had closed the door.
‘You’ve been ill, sir,’ said Forrester; ‘the whites is all green, and the flesh tints82 yellow in your face, Mr. Renton. Master was asking about you just{129} yesterday. Don’t you say a word, sir. I can see as you’ve been ill.’
‘I can’t answer for my complexion,’ said Laurie; ‘but I’m not ill now, Forrester. I am going away, and I’ve been awfully83 busy. I want to see Mrs. Severn. I won’t disturb your master to-day.’
‘Master’s out, sir,’ said the man, ‘unfortunately; he’s at that blessed gallery, a hanging or a deciding on the poor gentlemen’s pictures. And a nice temper he do come home in, to be sure! And Mrs. Severn’s—— engaged, sir,’ said Forrester, making a stand in front of the stair.
‘Engaged!’ said Laurie, aghast.
‘Them’s the words, Mr. Renton,’ said the old man. ‘She’s a designing them twelve pictures, as far as I can hear. She’s busy, and can’t see nobody. It’s more than a week since them orders was give. And folks is astonished. It ain’t her way. But I can’t say but what I approve, Mr. Renton,’ said Forrester, stoutly84; ‘designing of a series is hard work. They’ve all to hang together, and there’s harmony to be studied as well as composition. And she ain’t going to repeat herself if she can help it and, on the whole, I approve——’
‘That will do,’ said Laurie, putting him aside; ‘I will make my own way; and I will tell Mrs. Severn you did your duty, and stopped me. This could not include me.{130}’
‘But, Mr. Renton!’ cried Forrester, making a step after him.
‘That is enough,—quite enough,’—said Laurie. ‘It could not include me.’
But his heart beat heavily as he went up the familiar stair. She had shut out all the world that she might make sure of shutting him out,—‘Though she might have known I would not molest85 her!’ poor Laurie said to himself, with a swelling86 heart. It was unkind of the padrona. Had he not been going away it would have wounded him deeply. He went up heavily, not with the half-stealthy eagerness of his last visit. It would not have troubled him had he encountered a dozen Miss Hadleys. ‘I must see Mrs. Severn alone;’ was what he would have said without flinching87 had he met her; but, as it happened, there was no one at all apprehensive88 or curious now. The order had been given, and the stream of callers had stopped, and there was an end of it. He went up without any haste, his foot sounding dully,—he thought,—through all the silent house. She would hear him coming, and she would know.
‘Come in,’ said the padrona.
She was standing89 at her easel, drawing, with a little sketch59 before her, putting in the outlines of her future picture. Somehow she looked lonely, deserted90, melancholy91; as if the stream of life that had flowed so warmly about her had met with some{131} interruption. In fact, she had felt the withdrawal92 of that daily current more than she could have told; and she had missed Laurie; and her mind had been full of wondering. Where was the poor boy? What was he doing? How was he bearing it? This was the thought that was uppermost in her mind as she put in the Sleeping Beauty. Somehow the picture was appropriate. Life seemed to have ebbed93 from her too, though it was her own doing. She did not feel quite sure sometimes that it was not a dream; and lo, all in a moment, without any warning, he appeared standing at the door!
The chalk dropped out of the padrona’s fingers. She trembled in spite of herself. It took her such an effort to master herself, and receive him with the tranquillity94 which was indispensable, that for some moments she did not say a word. Then she recovered herself, and let the chalk lie where she had dropped it, and made a step or two forward to meet him. ‘I am glad you have come,’ she said, holding out her hand. And it was quite true, notwithstanding that she had given orders to exclude the world for the sole purpose of excluding him, if he should come.
And thus they met, shaking hands with each other in the same room, under circumstances quite unchanged, except——
‘I am going away,’ said Laurie. ‘I would not have come,—you know I would not have annoyed{132} you. You need not have told the servants to keep everybody out. You might have trusted me.’
‘You know I do trust you, with all my heart,’ she said, ‘and that is why I tell you I am glad you are come; I am very glad;’ and then she sat down feeling somewhat breathless and giddy, and pointed95 him to a chair. He sat down, too, not knowing very well what he was about; and again there was a pause.
‘I am going away,’ he said, abruptly96. ‘Looking over everything, I found it would be better on the whole to go away——’
The padrona bowed her head, feeling her guilt;—it was her fault;—how could she say she was sorry, or appeal against his decision as any other friend would have done? It was she who was the cause.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
toiled
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
serenity
|
|
| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
stockbroker
|
|
| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
avowed
|
|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
deference
|
|
| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
subdued
|
|
| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
poignant
|
|
| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
ovations
|
|
| n.热烈欢迎( ovation的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
retirement
|
|
| n.退休，退职 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
shudder
|
|
| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
vexed
|
|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
elevation
|
|
| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
reminder
|
|
| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
precariousness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
turbid
|
|
| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
lessen
|
|
| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
exhort
|
|
| v.规劝，告诫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
agitation
|
|
| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
naught
|
|
| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
eminence
|
|
| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
jeers
|
|
| n.操纵帆桁下部（使其上下的）索具；嘲讽( jeer的名词复数 )v.嘲笑( jeer的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
craving
|
|
| n.渴望,热望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
humiliated
|
|
| 感到羞愧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
everlasting
|
|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
maturity
|
|
| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
aggravating
|
|
| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
monologue
|
|
| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
landmarks
|
|
| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
intervals
|
|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
lodge
|
|
| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
muse
|
|
| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
exertions
|
|
| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
languished
|
|
| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
seedling
|
|
| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
tenor
|
|
| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
abrupt
|
|
| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
discursive
|
|
| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
knell
|
|
| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
prop
|
|
| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
steadily
|
|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
pensive
|
|
| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
sketches
|
|
| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
probation
|
|
| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
renovation
|
|
| n.革新，整修 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
surmises
|
|
| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
amazement
|
|
| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
dubious
|
|
| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
scoff
|
|
| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
belongings
|
|
| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
investigations
|
|
| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
drooping
|
|
| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
feverish
|
|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
converge
|
|
| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
barricade
|
|
| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
muster
|
|
| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
grudge
|
|
| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
maiden
|
|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
faltering
|
|
| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
allusion
|
|
| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
humbly
|
|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
tints
|
|
| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
awfully
|
|
| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
stoutly
|
|
| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
molest
|
|
| vt.骚扰，干扰，调戏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
swelling
|
|
| n.肿胀 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
flinching
|
|
| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
apprehensive
|
|
| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
withdrawal
|
|
| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
ebbed
|
|
| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
tranquillity
|
|
| n. 平静, 安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |