Nor yet was Mary’s excitement over for the night. When the evening post came in, a letter was brought to her, which at the first glance she saw was in Ben’s handwriting. Well! there was nothing surprising in that. Of course Ben would write, though she had not expected it so soon. But{v.3-307} the contents of the note were such as to raise to a climax15 her sense of being in some feverish dream. This is what Ben said:—
‘Dear Mary,—I want to speak half-a-dozen words to you before I go. I have heard something to-day which has taken me very much by surprise, and I cannot leave England without seeing you. But I don’t want to disturb my mother with a hurried visit and another parting. If you will be at the beech16-tree on the river-walk to-morrow morning at eight, I will come down by the first train and meet you there. Don’t refuse me. It is of great importance. In haste,
‘Yours, B. R.’
Mary’s head went round and round as she sat,—hearing Frank’s voice talking all the while, and Alice pouring out the tea,—and read this note. The question changed now, and seemed to be,—they or Ben; which was the phantom17? But the paper and the writing were very real,—so real that she could see it had been written in excitement, and was blurred18, and betokened19 a scratching and uncomfortable pen, which is a thing that no imagination would be likely to invent. When she had put the extraordinary note away in her pocket,—fortunately she had not said out loud, ‘Here is a letter from Ben,’ as on any other day she would have done,{v.3-308}—Mary’s mind went hopelessly into abstraction. She gave up the tea-making to Alice gratefully and without an effort, though in general she did not like her prerogatives20 invaded. She never uttered a word to help on the conversation. She had to be recalled as from a distance, when anybody spoke21 to her. Things had come to such a pitch that she seemed to lose her individual consciousness altogether. To have violent love made her one day by a man whom she scarcely knew, and to meet her cousin Ben clandestinely22 the next morning by the great beech, to talk over something of importance, which concerned only her and him, and nobody else in the family,—the earth seemed to be going off its pivot23 altogether to Mary. She felt that now nothing would surprise her. If Mrs. Renton had suddenly proposed to her to walk to town, or Frank that she should swim across the river, it would have seemed to her perfectly24 natural. But to meet Ben by stealth at the great beech at eight o’clock! Could she have mistaken the words? For one moment a sort of gleam of eldritch fear came across her, and a reminiscence of the amazing manner in which the familiar forms of the nursery arranged themselves in the mind of little Alice in Wonderland in the story. Could it be that Ben was to start on his long journey to-morrow by the first train, and could the great beech be the name of the ship? Mary was so completely thrown off her balance, that this idea actually{v.3-309} occurred to her. And then she felt that they must all have remarked that she had got a letter, and had thrust it stealthily into her pocket. Altogether, the evening swam over her somehow, she could not tell how. And then there was the stir of Davison’s entrance, and Mrs. Renton’s going to bed. And then Frank disappeared to smoke his cigar, and Alice, finding her companion uncommunicative, sat down at the piano, and began to play softly to herself, as she had been wont25 in the old days at home; and silence, broken only by sounds which helped to increase all the mists, and made her feel a safety and comfort in the retirement26 of her thoughts, fell upon the quiet house.
Next morning Mary was awake and up before any one was stirring. She did not herself think that she had slept all the night; but she was still young enough to consider an hour or two’s wakefulness a great matter. And she was as much afraid of Ben’s visit being found out, as if he had been the most illegitimate of visitors. She was out soon after six, while the grass was still quite wet with dew, and went wandering up and down the river-walk like a ghost, under the cloistered27 shade of those great trees which, as yet, let no sunshine through. There was something in the air at that early hour which told that summer was waning28, and Mary was chilly29 with nervousness, which had all the effect of cold. She went all the way down to the river-side, and{v.3-310} basked30 in the sunshine which lay full on the open bit of green bank, by way of overcoming the shivering which had seized her. The world was so still, the birds so noisy,—which rather heightens than impairs31 the stillness,—the paths so utterly32 vacant and suggestive, that fancy continually caught glimpses of something disappearing behind the trees. Now it would seem a gliding33 dream-figure, now the last sweep of a robe just getting out of sight. The ghostliness of the early morning is different, but not less profound, than that of the night; and at six o’clock the Renton woods were as mysterious, as dim under the great shadows of the trees, as any enchanted34 wood. The sunshine went all round them, drying up the dew on the open bank, and chasing the mists and chills of night; but the river-walk was all brown and grey, and full of clear, mystical distances and windings36, broken by upright shafts37 of trees. Any one might have appeared suddenly at such an hour in such a place. People out of books, people out of one’s own straining fancy, people from the other world. And though it was Ben, and no other, for whom Mary Westbury was waiting, yet her imagination, over-excited, was ready to see anything. And she was alarmed by every waving leaf or bough38 that swayed in the morning air. If anybody should discover this tryst39! If it should be known that Ben had come in this sweet inconceivable sort of way to see her! Had he been{v.3-311} a tabooed lover, whose discovery would have involved all sorts of perils40, Mary could not have been more afraid.
It was half-past seven before he came,—as indeed she might have known,—since that was the earliest moment at which any one could come by the first train. She could see him coming for a long way, making his way among the trees. He had not come in by any gate, but through some illegitimate byway known to the Renton boys and the poachers, so lawless were all the accessories of this extraordinary stealthy meeting. He came along rapidly, making himself audible by, now and then, the sound of the gravel41 sent flying by his foot, or the crackle of a fallen branch on the path. And then he came in sight, walking very quickly, with a look of abstraction, wrapped in his own thoughts. He was close upon the bank before he caught sight of Mary, whose grey gown was easily lost sight of among the branches,—then he quickened his pace, and came forward eagerly.
‘You here,’ he said, ‘Mary? I thought I should be too early for you,’ and held out both his hands for her.
‘I was so much surprised,—so anxious to know what it was. I have been out for nearly an hour, I think,’ said Mary. ‘I could not sleep.’
‘Did I startle you?’ said Ben. ‘Not half so much, I am sure, as I was startled myself. But if{v.3-312} I have made you uneasy I will never forgive myself,’ he went on, looking closely into her face.
What could have made that difference in his look? He had always been kind,—certainly he had always been kind,—but he had never looked at her before in that wistful, anxious way. He had been protecting, superior, affectionate; but such was not his expression now.
‘Oh, it does not matter!’ said Mary; ‘but, of course, since it is something important enough to bring you from town like this,—and at this hour—— Tell me, please, and put me out of pain.’
What he did was to draw her arm closely through his own. ‘Come this way,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to be seen or interrupted. There is a corner down here where we shall be quite safe. It was very good of you, Mary, to come.’
‘Oh, Ben,’ she cried, ‘don’t talk so, you frighten me! You never were so gentle, so soft to me before. Tell me what it is. It must be something terrible to make you look like this. What is wrong?’
‘I don’t know if there is anything wrong,’ he said. ‘It depends upon your feelings altogether, Mary; only I never had thought of,—anything of the kind,—never! It came upon me like a thunder-clap. To be sure. I might have known. You could not but be as sweet and as pleasant in the eyes of others as you were in mine——’
‘Ben, don’t talk riddles42, I entreat43 of you,’ said{v.3-313} Mary. ‘I cannot make this out to-day. A shadow would frighten me to-day. I have had too much to bear,—too much,—‘
‘Sit down here,’ he said, tenderly; ‘you must not be frightened. There is nothing to hurt you. It is only me that it can hurt. Mary, Hillyard came to me yesterday, and said,—I suppose by this time you must know what he said?’
‘Yes,’ she answered, first with a violent blush, and then growing suddenly hot.
‘Of course, I ought to have known it,’ said Ben. ‘I used to read him your letters, like an ass6, never thinking. I was furious yesterday; I thought it presumption44 and insolence45. But, of course, that was nonsense. The man is as good as I am. The fact is, I suppose I thought that no other man but myself had any right to think of you.’
‘Ben!’ Mary cried, trembling with a sudden passion, ‘you never thought of me! How can you say so? or what is it you would have me understand? I feel as if you were mocking me,—and yet you would not come all this way, surely, to mock me!’
‘Then, I did not think at all,’ he went on, without any direct answer. ‘I felt that no man had any right,—and I was a fool for thinking so. Mary, the fact is, it ought to be you and I.’
‘What ought to be you and I?’ she faltered46, lost in confusion and amazement47.{v.3-314}
He was standing before her, not lover-like, but absorbed, pressing his subject, and paying no special regard to her. ‘It ought to be you and I to build up the old house. No. I cannot think any man has a right to come in and interfere48. But only just there is this one thing to be said. Whatever is for your happiness, Mary, I will carry out with all my might. If you should set your heart on one thing or another, it shall be done; but still that does not affect the question,—it ought to be you and me.’
‘For what?’ she asked again.
‘For what? Oh, for more than I can tell,’ said Ben; ‘to build up this old house, as I told you,—to get through life. I must always have felt it, though I did not know. And here is this fellow come in with his wild backwoods way, and thinks he can win you off-hand. I don’t say a word if it is for your happiness; but I know it should be you and me.’
And then there was a pause, and Ben walked up and down the little vacant space in front of the seat he had placed her in, with his eyes bent49 on the ground, and his face moody50 and full of trouble. As for Mary, she sat and gazed at him, half-conscious only, worn out by excitement and wonder, and the succession of shocks of one kind and another which she had been receiving, but with a soft sense of infinite ease and consolation51 stealing over her confused heart. It was that relief from pain which feels to the sufferer like positive blindness. She had not even{v.3-315} known how deep the pain in her was until she felt it stealing in upon her,—this ineffable52 ease and freedom from it, which is more sweet than actual joy.
‘Ben,’ she said at last, when she could get breath. ‘It is very difficult for me to follow you, and you confuse me so that I don’t know. But, about Mr. Hillyard you are all wrong. I never saw him till Monday. I never thought about him at all. I was very sorry. But it is not as if I could blame myself. I was not to blame.’
‘To blame! How could you be to blame?’ said Ben, and he came and stood before her again, gazing at her with that strange look which Mary did not recognise in him, and could not meet.
‘I should never have mentioned it to any one,’ she said. ‘I would not now, though you question me so. But only it is best you should not have anything on your mind. Is,—that,—all?’
It was not coquetry which suggested the question; it was her reason that began utterly to fail her. She did not seem to know what it was he had said besides,—though he had said something.
‘Ah!’ he cried vehemently53, and then paused and subdued54 himself, ‘all except my answer, Mary,’ he said, softly stooping over her.
‘Your answer? You have not asked me anything. Oh, Ben,’ she cried, suddenly getting up from her seat, with her cheeks burning and her eyes wet, ‘let there be no more of this. It was all the feeling{v.3-316} of the moment. You thought something had happened which never, never could happen, and you felt a momentary55 grudge56. Don’t tell me it was anything else. Do you think I forget what you told me once up at the beech about her?’ Mary cried, waving her hand towards The Willows57. ‘You did not mean to tell me; but I knew. And the other day—— When you say this sort of thing to me it is unkind of you; it is disrespectful to me. I have my pride like other women. Let us speak no more of it, but say good-bye, and I shall go home.’
‘Then you do not even think me worthy58 of an answer?’ said Ben; and the two stood confronting each other in that supreme59 duel60 and conflict of the two existences about to become one, which never loses its interest; she flushed, excited, suspicious; he steadily61 keeping to his point, refusing to be led away from it. And why Mary should have resisted, standing thus wildly at bay,—and why, when she could stand no longer, she should have sunk down on the seat from which she had risen, in a passion of tears, is more than I can tell. But that finally Ben did get his answer, and that it was, as anybody must have foreseen, eminently62 satisfactory to him at last, is a matter about which there can be no doubt. I do not know even whether he offered any explanations, or justified63 himself in the matter of Millicent. I am inclined to think, indeed, that at that moment he took no notice of it whatever; but only insisted on that reply, which, when nature{v.3-317} was worn out and could stand against it no longer, came. But the victor did go into certain particulars, as with Mary’s arm drawn64 closely through his he led her again up that bank which, in so much excitement and uncertainty65, half-an-hour before he had led her down.
‘I can’t tell you the fright I was in yesterday,’ he said. ‘It suddenly flashed upon me in a moment how mad I had been. To leave you here so long, open to any assault, and to be such an ass as to bring a man down who had eyes in his head, and was not an idiot?’
‘I wish you would not swear,’ said Mary. ‘The strange thing is that you should like me, and yet think me of so small account that any man,—a man I had only known for three days——’
‘Hush!’ he said, drawing her to him. ‘When a man’s eyes are opened first to the thought that another man has gone off express to rob him of his jewel, do you think he pauses to be reasonable?’ and then they looked at each other and were silent, there being more expression in that than in speech.
‘But the jewel was no jewel till yesterday,’ said Mary, making the kind of objection which women love to make, ‘and who knows but it may be paste to-morrow?’
‘My dear,’ said Ben, ‘my only woman in the world! might not a man have been beguiled66 to follow a Will-o’-the-wisp till he cursed and hated such{v.3-318} lights, and chose darkness instead,—and then all at once wake up to see that his moon had risen, and that the night was safe and sweet as day?’
I suppose it was the only bit of poetry which Ben Renton was ever guilty of in his life; and it was perfectly successful. And they went on and continued their walk to the beech-tree. Mary’s eyes were blind with sweet tears; but then, what did it matter? was not he there to be eyes to her, through the winding35 of the tender morning path? And as they reached the trees, the sunshine burst into the wood all at once with something like a shout of triumph. If it was not a shout, it came to precisely67 the same thing, and caught a branch here and a twig68 there, and made it into burnished69 gold, and lit up the far distance and cloistered shade into all the joyous70 animation71 and moving stir of life.
‘Must you go now?’ Mary said, clinging to him a little closer, ‘must it still be secret? is no one to see you now?’
‘I must still go away,’ he said, ‘no help for that, Mary; but in the meantime I am going home with you to tell them all about it. I shall still catch my ship if I go by the next train.’
He was received with subdued consternation72 by the household, which jumped instantly to the conclusion that something had happened; but there is an instinct in the domestic mind which is almost infallible in such matters; and before Mrs. Renton had even{v.3-319} been told of the unexpected arrival of her son, Davison had said to the housekeeper73, ‘He’s come down at the last to settle it all with Miss Mary. Now didn’t I tell you?’ and Willis had recorded his opinion that, on the whole, there wasn’t nothing to say again it. ‘A little bit of money never comes amiss,’ he said; ‘but she was used bad in the will, never to have no compensation. And, on the whole, I agrees with Ben.’
Such was the decision of the house, conveyed in language, kind, if familiar, just five minutes after the entry by the window into the dining-room, where the breakfast-table was prepared for the family, of the betrothed74 pair. Mary’s gown was wet with the dew, and she ran up-stairs to change it, leaving Ben alone to receive the greetings of his brothers, who appeared at the same moment. ‘I thought you couldn’t resist coming down again, old fellow, before you left for good,’ Frank said in her hearing, as she rushed to the covert75 and sanctuary76 of her own room. He was not so discriminating77 as the intelligent community below stairs.
And then, in that strange golden forenoon, which seemed at the same time one hasty moment and a long day, full of events, Mrs. Renton, amazed, found her son again stooping over her, and received the astonishing news. It was some time before she could take it in. ‘What,’ she said, ‘Mary? I will never believe it is Mary. You are making fun of me, Ben.{v.3-320}’
‘It is a great deal better than fun, mother,’ he said. ‘I could not go till it was settled; and now there is only ten minutes or so to kiss us and bless us, and thank me for giving you such a daughter. She has been a daughter to you already for so long.’
‘Of course she has,’ said the bewildered woman. ‘Mary! it’s like your sister. I can’t think it’s quite right, do you know, Ben. I should as soon have thought of you marrying Alice, or——’
‘Frank might object to that, my dear mother,’ said Ben.
‘But, Mary—you are sure you are not making one of your jokes? And after all, I can’t think what you see in her, Ben,’ Mrs. Renton said, with a little eagerness. ‘She was never very pretty,—not like that beautiful Mrs. Rich, you know, or those sort of women,—and not even very young. She must be seven-and-twenty, if she is a day. Let me see, Frank was born in July, and she in the December after. She will be seven-and-twenty on her next birthday. And nothing to make up for it—— ’
‘Except that there is nobody else in the world,’ said Ben, smiling at Mary, who had just come into the room.
‘Nobody else in the world! I don’t know what you mean. Not to say a word against Mary, but you might have done a great deal better, Ben.’
‘And so he might, godmamma,’ said Mary, with the gravity of happiness, though Ben had her hand in his.{v.3-321}
‘Yes, my dear,’ said Mrs. Renton, in perfect good faith, ‘a great deal better. You always have the sense to see things. If I were you, I would reflect a little longer before I announced it, or did anything more in the matter, Ben.’
The answer Ben made to this proposal was to draw his betrothed close to his mother’s bedside within his own supporting arms. ‘Give her a kiss, mamma, and say God bless you,’ he said, bending down his own face close to Mary’s. And the mother, quite confused and bewildered, did as she was told, crying a little, and not knowing what to think. And before any one knew, Ben was gone again, off by express to join the steamer which sailed from Liverpool that night. He had just time; everything belonging to him having gone on before with poor Hillyard, who knew nothing about this morning’s expedition. And before noon the episode was all over, and the Frank Rentons once more in the foreground, and Mary reading the newspaper as if such a wild inroad of romance into the midst of reality had never been.
‘My dear, it is not that I am not as fond of you,—fonder of you than of anybody,’ Mrs. Renton said, when poor Mary, for one moment, owing to a paragraph about a shipwreck78, fairly broke down; ‘but it does not seem somehow as if it were quite proper. And we can’t shut our eyes to it that he might have done better. It feels as if there was{v.3-322} never to be any satisfaction in the boys’ marriages. I had a fortune of my own, and so had your grandmother; but everything now is going to sixes and sevens——’
‘Don’t say anything more about it, godmamma,’ said Mary, with an outburst of pent-up agitation79, and the nervous panic that seizes a weakened mind. ‘Oh, how can we tell what may happen in the meantime? Let us say nothing more till he comes home.’
‘Well, to be sure, he might change his mind,’ said Mrs. Renton, as Davison came in with her arrowroot. And for half-an-hour or so that satisfactory conclusion, and the adding of another teaspoonful80 of port, on account of the excitement she had been going through, put a stop to the conversation, and gave Mary time to draw breath in peace.
But if the reader of this history hopes to be humoured by a shipwreck at this late period of the narrative81, it is a vain expectation. The winds blew, and the sea rose, but Ben Renton got safely out to Canada, and came safely home. I am sorry to have to say that his last great piece of work did not pay nearly so well as he had expected it to do; and the business, which he made over to Hillyard, was, owing to the state of the colony at that moment, of less value than had been anticipated; but at the same time patience alone was wanted to realise all possible hopes. I have been obliged to ask the{v.3-323} reader to take Ben’s success for granted all along, as it would have been simply impossible to introduce details of engineering enterprise into a work of this description; and, indeed, to tell the truth, I fear I should not have sufficiently82 understood them to set them forth83 with any distinctness. But whether Hillyard will have patience, and keep up the energy which Ben put into the business, is a very doubtful matter; and it is just as likely as not that he may turn up again at the old club, which is the only luxury he keeps up, as rough, as insouciant84, as careless what becomes of him, as on the first day Ben met him, after the weird85 of the Rentons had begun. Mary might have made another man of him perhaps; but who knows? Temperament86 is stronger than circumstance,—stronger than fortune,—stronger even than love.
Ben Renton came home, as I have said, as safely as most men come home from Canada. And everything occurred as it ought to have occurred. I would add that they lived happy ever after, if there had been time to make such a record. But the fact is, that it is too early yet to be historical on that point; and for anything anybody can tell, the Rentons may yet come to be very wretched, and give occasion for other chapters of history; though, in common with all their friends, I sincerely hope not. Benedict Renton of Renton stood for the county of Berks, in the late election, with politics perhaps{v.3-324} slightly tinged87 by his life in the other world, but failed by a few votes, notwithstanding the interest attaching to him,—Berks, like many other counties, being of the opinion that a good, steady, reliable bumpkin, who will do whatever he is told, is a more satisfactory legislator than a man who has spent his youth in objectionable exercises, such as writing, and thinking, and moving about the world. Frank Renton, true soldier and constitutional Tory, is one of those who hold this opinion. But I do not despair of seeing Ben in Parliament yet.
And thus the story ends; being like all stories, no history of life, but only of a bit out of life,—the most amiable88 bit, the section of existence which the world has accepted as its conventional type of life, leaving all the profounder glooms and the higher lights apart. As in heaven there can be no story-telling of the present, for happiness has no story,—there, perhaps, for the first time, the mouth of the minstrel may be opened to say or sing what is untellable by the frankest voice on earth. But till then we must be content to break off after the fairy chapter of life’s beginning, the history of Youth.
THE END.
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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vein
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concussion
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alleviation
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interval
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ass
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humiliation
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enjoyment
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ailments
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habitual
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inundation
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feverish
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standing
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climax
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beech
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phantom
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blurred
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betokened
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prerogatives
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spoke
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clandestinely
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pivot
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perfectly
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wont
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retirement
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cloistered
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waning
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chilly
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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impairs
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| v.损害，削弱( impair的第三人称单数 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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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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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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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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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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