There was a rush in the passage: the hissing3 and spitting sounds inseparable from the speaking of the German tongue. Some one was spitting louder than the rest, and squealing4 dully as well. They were females disputing among themselves the indignity5 of door-openers. The most anxious to please gained the day.
The door was pulled ajar; an arch voice said:
“Wer ist das?”
“Ich bin’s, Fr?ulein Lunken.”
The roguish and vivacious6 voice died away, however. The opening of the door showed in the dark vestibule Bertha Lunken with her rather precious movements and German robustness7.
His disordered hair, dusty boots and white patch on the jacket had taken effect.
“Who is it?” a voice cried from within.
“It’s Herr Kreisler,” Bertha answered with dramatic quietness. “Come in Herr Kreisler; there are still one or two to come.” She spoke9 in a businesslike way, and bustled10 to close the door, to efface[121] politely her sceptical reception of him by her handsome, wondering eyes.
“Ah, Herr Kreisler! I wonder where Fr?ulein Vasek is?” he heard some one saying.
He looked for a place to hang his hat. Fr?ulein Lunken preceded him into the room. Her expression was that of an embarrassed domestic foreseeing horror in his master’s eye. Otto appeared in his turn. The chatter11 seemed to him to swerve12 a little bit at his right. Bowing to two or three people he knew near the door, he went over to Fr?ulein Lipmann, and bending respectfully down, kissed her hand. Then with a na?ve air, but conciliatory, began:
“A thousand pardons, Fr?ulein Lipmann, for presenting myself like this. Volker and I have been at Fontenay-aux-Roses all the afternoon. We made a mistake about the time of the trains and I have only just got back; I hadn’t time to change. I suppose it doesn’t matter? It will be quite intime and bohemian, won’t it? Volker had something to do. He’s coming on to the dance later if he can manage it.”
This cunning, partly affected13, with a genuinely infantile glee, served him throughout the evening. While waiting at the door he had hit on this ridiculous fib. Knowing how welcome Volker was and almost sure of his not turning up, he would use him to cover the patch from the whitewashed14 wall. But he would get other patches and find other lies to cover them up till he could hardly move about for this plastering of small falsehoods.
Fr?ulein Lipmann had been looking at him with indecision.
“I am glad Herr Volker’s coming. I haven’t seen him for some weeks. You’ve plenty of time to change, you know, if you like. Herr Ekhart and several others haven’t turned up yet. You live quite near, don’t you, Herr Kreisler?”
“Yes, third to the right and second to the left, and keep straight on! But I don’t think I’ll trouble[122] about it. I will do like this. I think I’ll do, don’t you, Fr?ulein Lipmann?” He took a couple of steps and looked at himself complacently15 in a glass.
“You are the best judge of that.”
“Yes, that is so, isn’t it, Fr?ulein? I have often thought that. How curious the same notion should come to you!” Again Kreisler smiled, and affecting to consider the question as settled turned to a man standing16 near him, with whom he had worked at Juan Soler’s. His hostess moved away, in doubt as to whether he intended to go and change or not. He was, perhaps, just talking to his friend a moment before going.
The company was not “mondain” but “interesting.” It was rather on its mettle17 on this occasion, both men and women in their several ways, dressed. An Englishwoman who was friendly with Fr?ulein Lipmann was one of the organizers of the Bonnington Club. Through her they had been invited there. Five minutes later Kreisler found Fr?ulein Lipmann in his neighbourhood again.
This lady had a pale fawn-coloured face, looking like the protagonist18 of a crime passionel. She multiplied her social responsibilities at every turn. But her manner implied that the quite ordinary burdens of life were beyond her strength. The two rooms with folding doors, which formed her salon19 and where her guests were now gathered, had not been furnished at haphazard20. The “Concert” of Giorgione did not hang there for nothing. The books lying about had been flung down by a careful hand. Fr?ulein Lipmann required a certain sort of admiration21. But she had a great contempt for other people, and so drew up, as it were, a list of her attributes, carefully and distinctly underlining each. With each new friend she went over again the elementary points, as a schoolmistress would go over with each new pupil the first steps of grammar or geography, position of his locker22, where the rulers were put, etc. She took up her characteristic attitudes,[123] one after the other, as a model might; that is, those simplest and easiest to grasp.
Her room, dress and manner were a sort of chart to the way to admire Fr?ulein Lipmann; the different points in her soul one was to gush23 about, the different hints one was to let fall about her “rather” tragic24 life-story, the particular way one was to regard her playing of the piano. You felt that there was not a candlestick, or antimacassar in the room but had its lesson for you. To have two or three dozen people, her “friends,” repeating things after her in this way did not give her very much satisfaction. But she had a great many of the characteristics of the “school-marm,” and she continued uninterruptedly with her duties teaching “Lipmann” with the solemnity, resignation and half-weariness, with occasional bursts of anger, that a woman would teach “twice two are four, twice three are six.” Her best friends were her best pupils, of course.
The rooms were furnished with somewhat the severity of the schoolroom, a large black piano—for demonstrations—corresponded more or less to the blackboard.
“Herr Schnitzler just tells me that dress is de rigueur. Miss Bennett says it doesn’t matter; but it would be awkward if you couldn’t get in.” She was continuing their late conversation. “You see it’s not so much an artists’ club as a place where the English Société permanente in Paris meet.”
“Yes, I see; of course, that makes a difference! But I asked, I happened to ask, an English friend of mine to-day—a founder25 of the club, Master Lowndes” (this was a libel on Lowndes), “he told me it didn’t matter a bit. You take my word for it, Fr?ulein Lipmann, it won’t matter a bit,” he reiterated26 a little boisterously27, nodding his head sharply, his eyelids28 flapping like metal shutters29 rather than winking30. Then, in a maundering tone, yawning a little and rubbing his glasses as though they had now idled off into gossip and confidences:
“I’d go and dress only I left my keys at Soler’s. I[124] shall have to sleep out to-night, I shan’t be able to get my keys till the morning.” Suddenly in a new tone, the equivalent of a vulgar wink31:
“Ah, this life, Fr?ulein! It’s accidents often separate one from one’s ‘smokkin’ for days; sometimes weeks. My ‘smokkin’ leads a very independent life. Sometimes it’s with me, sometimes not. It was a very expensive suit. That has been its downfall.”
“Do you mean you haven’t got a frac?”
“No, not that. You misunderstand me.” He reflected a moment.
“Ah, before I forget, Fr?ulein Lipmann! If you still want to know about that little matter: I wrote to my mother the other day. In her reply she tells me that Professor Heymann is still at Karlsruhe. He will probably take a class in the country this summer as usual. The remainder of the party!” he added as the bell again rang.
He could not be brutally32 prevented from accompanying them to the dance. But with his remark about Volker he felt as safe as if he had a ticket or passe-partout in his pocket.
Kreisler was standing alone nearly in the middle of the room, his arms folded and staring at the door. He would use this fictitious34 authority and licence to its utmost limit. Some of the others were conscious of something unusual in his presence besides his dress and the disorder8 even of that. They supposed he had been drinking.
There were rustlings and laughter in the hall for some minutes. Social facts, abstracted in this manner, appealed to the mind with the strangeness of masks, each sense, isolated35, being like a mask on another. Anastasya appeared. She came out of that social flutter astonishingly inapposite, like a mask come to life. The little fanfare36 of welcome continued. She was much more outrageous37 than Kreisler could ever hope to be: bespangled and accoutred like a princess of the household of Peter the Great jangling and rumbling38 like a savage39 showman through abashed40 capitals.
[125]
Her amusement often had been to disinter in herself the dust and decorations of some ancestress. She would float down the windings41 of her Great Russian and Little Russian blood, living in some imagined figure for a time as you might in towns on a stream.
“We are new lives for our ancestors, not theirs a playground for us. We are the people who have the Reality.” Tarr lectured her later, to which she replied:
“But they had such prodigious42 lives! I don’t like being anything out and out, life is so varied43. I like wearing a dress with which I can enter into any milieu44 or circumstances. That is the only real self worth the name.”
Anastasya regarded her woman’s beauty as a bright dress of a harlot; she was only beautiful for that. Her splendid and bedizened state was assumed with shades of humility45. Even her tenderness and peculiar46 heart appeared beneath the common infection and almost disgrace of that state.
The Bonnington Club was not far off and they had decided47 to walk, as the night was fine. It was about half-past nine when they started. Seven or eight led the way in a suddenly made self-centred group; once outside in the spaciousness48 of the night streets the party seemed to break up into sections held together in the small lighted rooms within—Soltyk and his friend, still talking, and a quieter group, followed.
Fr?ulein Lunken had stayed behind with another girl, to put out the lights. Instead of running on with her companion to join the principal group, she stopped with Kreisler, whom she had found bringing up the rear alone.
“Not feeling gregarious49 to-night?” she asked.
Kreisler walked slowly, increasing, at every step, the distance between them and the next group, as though hoping that, should he draw her far enough back in the rear, like an elastic50 band she would in panic shoot[126] forward. “Did he know many English people?” and she continued in a long eulogy51 of that race. Kreisler murmured and muttered sceptically. And she seemed then to be saying something about Soler’s, and eventually to be recommending him a new Spanish professor of some sort.
Kreisler cursed this chatterer and her complaisance52 in accompanying him.
“I must get some cigarettes,” he said briskly, as a bureau de tabac came in sight. “But don’t you wait, Fr?ulein. Catch the others up.”
Having purposely loitered over his purchase, when he came out on the Boulevard again there she was waiting for him. “Aber! aber! what’s the matter with her?” Kreisler asked himself in impatient astonishment53.
What was the matter with Bertha? Many things, of course. Among old general things was a state hardly of harmony with the Lipmann circle. She was rather suspect for her too obvious handsomeness. It was felt that she was perhaps a little too interested in the world. She was not quite obedient enough in spirit to the Lipmann. Even nuances of disrespect had been observed. Then Tarr had turned up nearly at the commencement of her incorporation54. This was an eternal thorn in their sides, and chronic55 source of difficulty. Tarr was uncompromisingly absent from all their gatherings56, and bowed to them, when met in the street, as it seemed to them, narquoisement, derisively57, even. He had been excommunicated long ago, most loudly by Fr?ulein Van Bencke.
“Homme sensuel!” she had called him. She averred58 she had caught his eye resting too intently on her well-filled-out bosom59.
“Homme égoiste!” (this referred to his treatment of Bertha, supposed and otherwise).
Tarr considered that these ladies were partly induced to continue their friendship for Bertha in a hope of disgusting her of her fiancé, or doing as much harm to both as possible.
[127]
Bertha alternately went to them a little for sympathy, and defied them with a display of his opinions.
Kreisler had lately been spoken about uncharitably among them. By inevitable60 analogy he had, in her mind, been pushed into the same boat with Tarr. She always felt herself a little without the circle.
So, Bertha, still in this unusual way clinging to him (although she had ceased plying61 him with conversation) they proceeded along the solitary62 backwater of Boulevard in which they were. Pipes lay all along the edge of excavations63 to their left, large flaccid surface-machinery of the City. They tramped on under the small uniform trees Paris is planted with, a tame and insipid64 obsession65.
Kreisler ignored his surroundings. He was transporting himself, self-guarded Siberian exile, from one cheerless place to another. To Bertha Nature still had the usual florid note. The immediate66 impression caused by the moonlight was implicated67 with a thousand former impressions: she did not discriminate68. It was the moon illumination of several love affairs. Kreisler, more restless, renovated69 his susceptibility every three years or so. The moonlight for him was hardly nine months old, and belonged to Paris, where there was no romance. For Bertha the darkened trees rustled70 with the delicious and tragic suggestions of the passing of time and lapse71 of life. The black unlighted windows of the tall houses held within, for her, breathless and passionate72 forms, engulfed73 in intense eternities of darkness and whispers. Or a lighted one, in its contrast to the bland74 light of the moon, so near, suggested something infinitely75 distant. There was something fatal in the rapid never-stopping succession of their footsteps—loud, deliberate, continual noise.
Her strange companion’s dreamy roughness, this romantic enigma76 of the evening, suddenly captured her fancy. The machine and indiscriminate side of her awoke.
She took his hand—rapid, soft and humble77, she[128] struck the deep German chord, vibrating rudimentarily in the midst of his cynicism.
“You are suffering! I know you are suffering. I wish I could do something for you. Cannot I?”
Kreisler began tickling78 the palm of her hand slightly. When he saw it interrupted her words, he stopped, holding her hand solemnly as though it had been a fish slipped there for some unknown reason. Having her hand—her often-trenchant hand with its favourite gesture of sentimental79 over-emphasis—captive, made her discourse80 almost quiet.
“I know you have been wronged and wounded. Treat me as a sister: let me help you. You think my behaviour odd: do you think I’m a funny girl? But, ah! we walk about and torment81 each other enough! I knew you were not drunk, but were half-cracked with something—Perhaps you had better not come on to this place?”
He quickened his steps, and still gazing stolidly82 ahead, drew her by the hand.
“I only should like you to feel I am your friend,” she said.
“Right!” with promptness came through his practical moustache.
“You’re afraid I—” she looked at the ground, he ahead.
“No,” he said, “but you shall know my secret! Why should not I avail myself of your sympathy? You must know that my frac—useful to waiters, that is why I get so much for the poor suit—this frac is at present not in my lodgings83. No. That seems puzzling to you? Have you ever noticed an imposing84 edifice85 in the Rue86 de Rennes, with a foot-soldier perpetually on guard? Well, he mounts guard, night and day, over my suit!” Kreisler pulled his moustache with his free hand—“Why keep you in suspense87? My frac is not on my back because—it is in pawn88! Now, Fr?ulein, that you are acquainted with the cause of my slight, rather wistful, meditative89 appearance, you will be able to sympathize adequately with me!”
[129]
She was crying a little, engrossed90 directly, now, in herself.
He thought he should console her.
“Those are the first tears ever shed over my frac. But do not distress91 yourself, Fr?ulein Lunken. The gar?ons have not yet got it!”
Kreisler did not distinguish Bertha much from the others. At the beginning he was distrustful in a mechanical way at her advances. If not “put up” to doing this, she at least hailed from a quarter that was conspicuous92 for Teutonic solidarity93. Now he accepted her present genuineness, but ill-temperedly substituted complete boredom94 for mistrust, and at the same time would use this little episode to embellish95 his programme.
He had not been able to shake her off: it was astonishing how she had stuck: and here she still was; he was not even sure yet that he had the best of it. His animosity for her friends vented33 itself on her. He would anyhow give her what she deserved for her disagreeable persistence96. He shook her hand again. Then suddenly he stopped, put his arm round her waist, and drew her forcibly against him. She succumbed97 to the instinct to “give up,” and even sententiously “destroy.” She remembered her resolve—a double one of sacrifice—and pressed her lips, shaking and wettened, to his. This was not the way she had wished: but, God! what did it matter? It mattered so little, anything, and above all she! This was what she had wanted to do, and now she had done it!
The “resolve” was a simple one. In hazy98, emotional way, she had been making up her mind to it ever since Tarr had left that afternoon. He wished to be released, did not want her, was irked, not so much by their formal engagement as by his liking99 for her (this kept him, she thought she discerned). A stone hung round his neck, he fretted100 the whole time, and it would always be so. Good. This she understood. Then she would release him. But since it was not merely a question of words, of saying[130] “we are no longer engaged” (she had already been very free with them), but of acts and facts, she must bring these substantialities about. By putting herself in the most definite sense out of his reach and life—far more than if she should leave Paris, their continuance of relations must be made impossible. Somebody else—and a somebody else who was at the same time nobody, and who would evaporate and leave no trace the moment he had served her purpose—must be found. She must be able to stare pityingly and resignedly, but silently, if he were mentioned. Kreisler exactly filled this ticket. And he arose not too unnaturally101.
This idea had been germinating102 while Tarr was still with her that morning.
So, a prodigality103 and profusion104 of self-sacrifice being offered her in the person of Kreisler, she behaved as she did.
This clear and satisfactory action displayed her Prussian limitation; also her pleasure with herself, that done. Should Tarr wish it undone105, it could easily be so. The smudge on Kreisler’s back was a guarantee, and did the trick in more ways than he had counted on. But in any case his whole personality was a perfect alibi106 for the heart, to her thinking. At the back of her head there may have been something in the form of a last attempt here. With the salt of jealousy107, and a really big row, could Tarr perhaps he landed and secured even now?
In a moment, the point so gained, she pushed Kreisler more or less gently away. It was like a stage-kiss. The needs of their respective r?les had been satisfied. He kept his hands on her biceps. She was accomplishing a soft withdrawal108. They had stopped at a spot where the Boulevard approached a more populous109 and lighted avenue. As they now stood a distinct, yet strangely pausing, female voice struck their ears.
“Fr?ulein Lunken!”
Some twenty yards away stood several of her companions, who, with fussy110 German sociableness,[131] had returned to carry her forward with them, as they were approaching the Bonnington Club. Finding her not with them, and remembering she had lagged behind, with some wonderment they had walked back to the head of the Boulevard. They now saw quite plainly what was before them, but were in that state in which a person does not believe his eyes, and lets them bulge111 until they nearly drop out, to correct their scandalous vision. Kreisler and Bertha were some distance from the nearest lamp and in the shade of the trees. But each of the spectators would have sworn to the identity and attitude of their two persons.
Bertha nearly jumped out of her skin, broke away from Kreisler, and staggered several steps. He, with great presence of mind, caught her again, and induced her to lean against a tree, saying curtly112: “You’re not quite well, Fr?ulein. Lean—so. Your friends will be here in a moment.”
Bertha accepted his way out. She turned, indeed, rather white and sick, and even succeeded so far as to half believe her lie, while the women came up. Kreisler called out to the petrified113 and quite silent group at the end of the avenue. Soon they were surrounded by big-eyed faces. Hypocritical concern soon superseded114 the masks of scandal.
“She was taken suddenly ill.” Kreisler coughed conventionally as he said this, and flicked115 his trousers as though he had been scuffling on the ground.
Indignant glances were cast at him. Whatever attitude they might take up towards their erring116 friend, there was no doubt as to their feeling towards him. He was to blame from whichever way you looked at it. They eventually, with one or two curious German glances into her eyes, slow, dubious117, incredulous questions, with a drawing back of the head and dying away of voice, determined118 temporarily to accept her explanation. To one of them, very conversant119 with her relations with Tarr, vistas120 of possible ruptures121 and commotions122 opened. Here[132] was a funny affair! With Kreisler, of all people—Tarr was bad enough!
Bertha would at once have returned home, carrying out the story of sudden indisposition. But she felt the only thing was to brave it out. She did not want to absent herself at once. The affair would be less conspicuous with her not away. Her friends must at once ratify123 their normal view of this little happening. The only thing she thought of for the moment was to hush124 up and obliterate125 what had just happened. Her heroism126 disappeared in the need for action. So they all walked on together, a scandalized silence subsisting127 in honour chiefly of Kreisler.
Again he was safe, he thought with a chuckle128. His position was precarious129, only he held Fr?ulein Lunken as hostage! Exception could not openly be taken to him, without reflecting on their friend. He walked along with perfect composure, mischievously130 detached and innocent.
Fr?ulein Lipmann and the rest had already gone inside. Several people were arriving in taxis and on foot. Kreisler got in without difficulty. He was the only man present not in evening-dress.
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1
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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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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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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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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mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boisterously
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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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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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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vented
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| 表达，发泄（感情，尤指愤怒）( vent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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fanfare
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| n.喇叭；号角之声；v.热闹地宣布 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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38
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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39
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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40
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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42
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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43
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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44
milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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45
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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46
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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47
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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48
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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49
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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50
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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51
eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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52
complaisance
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| n.彬彬有礼，殷勤，柔顺 | |
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53
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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54
incorporation
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| n.设立，合并，法人组织 | |
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55
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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56
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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57
derisively
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| adv. 嘲笑地，嘲弄地 | |
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58
averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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59
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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60
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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61
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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63
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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64
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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65
obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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66
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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67
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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68
discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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69
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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72
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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73
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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75
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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76
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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77
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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78
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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79
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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80
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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81
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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82
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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83
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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84
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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85
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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86
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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87
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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88
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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89
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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90
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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91
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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92
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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93
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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94
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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95
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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96
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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97
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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98
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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99
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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100
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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101
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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102
germinating
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| n.& adj.发芽（的）v.（使）发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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103
prodigality
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| n.浪费，挥霍 | |
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104
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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105
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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106
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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107
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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108
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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109
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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110
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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111
bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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112
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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113
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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115
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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116
erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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117
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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118
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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119
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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120
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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121
ruptures
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| n.（体内组织等的）断裂( rupture的名词复数 )；爆裂；疝气v.（使）破裂( rupture的第三人称单数 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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122
commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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123
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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124
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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125
obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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126
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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127
subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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128
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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129
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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130
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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