But there was certainly something wrong over and beyond the Dalrymple difficulty. The servants were not as civil as they used to be, and her husband, when she suggested to him a little dinner-party, snubbed her most unmercifully. The giving of dinner-parties had been his glory, and she had made the suggestion simply with the view of pleasing him. "If the world were going round the wrong way, a woman would still want a party," he had said, sneering21 at her. "It was of you I was thinking, Dobbs," she replied; "not of myself. I care little for such gatherings22." After that she retired23 to her own room with a romantic tear in each eye, and told herself that, had chance thrown Conway Dalrymple into her way before she had seen Dobbs Broughton, she would have been the happiest woman in the world. She sat for a while looking into vacancy24, and thinking that it would be very nice to break her heart. How should she set about it? Should she take to her bed and grow thin? She would begin by eating no dinner for ever so many days together. At lunch her husband was never present, and therefore the broken heart could be displayed at dinner without much positive suffering. In the meantime she would implore25 Conway Dalrymple to get himself married with as little delay as possible, and she would lay upon him her positive order to restrain himself from any word of affection addressed to herself. She, at any rate, would be pure, high-minded, and self-sacrificing,—although romantic and poetic26 also, as was her nature.
The picture was progressing, and so also, as it had come about, was the love-affair between the artist and his model. Conway Dalrymple had begun to think that he might, after all, do worse than make Clara Van Siever his wife. Clara Van Siever was handsome, and undoubtedly27 clever, and Clara Van Siever's mother was certainly rich. And, in addition to this, the young lady herself began to like the man into whose society she was thrown. The affair seemed to flourish, and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton should have been delighted. She told Clara, with a very serious air, that she was delighted, bidding Clara, at the same time, to be very cautious, as men were so fickle28, and as Conway, though the best fellow in the world, was not, perhaps, altogether free from that common vice29 of men. Indeed, it might have been surmised30, from a word or two which Mrs. Broughton allowed to escape, that she considered poor Conway to be more than ordinarily afflicted31 in that way. Miss Van Siever at first only pouted32, and said that there was nothing in it. "There is something in it, my dear, certainly," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton; "and there can be no earthly reason why there should not be a great deal in it." "There is nothing in it," said Miss Van Siever, impetuously; "and if you will continue to speak of Mr. Dalrymple in that way, I must give up the picture." "As for that," said Mrs. Broughton, "I conceive that we are both of us bound to the young man now, seeing that he has given so much time to the work." "I am not bound to him at all," said Miss Van Siever.
Mrs. Broughton also told Conway Dalrymple that she was delighted,—oh, so much delighted! He had obtained permission to come in one morning before the time of sitting, so that he might work at his canvas independently of his model. As was his custom, he made his own way upstairs and commenced his work alone,—having been expressly told by Mrs. Broughton that she would not come to him till she brought Clara with her. But she did go up to the room in which the artist was painting, without waiting for Miss Van Siever. Indeed, she was at this time so anxious as to the future welfare of her two young friends that she could not restrain herself from speaking either to the one or to the other, whenever any opportunity for such speech came round. To have left Conway Dalrymple at work upstairs without going to him was impossible to her. So she went, and then took the opportunity of expressing to her friend her ideas as to his past and future conduct.
"Yes, it is very good; very good, indeed," she said, standing33 before the easel, and looking at the half-completed work. "I do not know that you ever did anything better."
"I never can tell myself till a picture is finished whether it is going to be good or not," said Dalrymple, thinking really of his picture and of nothing else.
"I am sure this will be good," she said, "and I suppose it is because you have thrown so much heart into it. It is not mere34 industry that will produce good work, nor yet skill, nor even genius: more than this is required. The heart of the artist must be thrust with all its gushing35 tides into the performance." By this time he knew all the tones of her voice and their various meanings, and immediately became aware that at the present moment she was intent upon something beyond the picture. She was preparing for a little scene, and was going to give him some advice. He understood it all, but as he was really desirous of working at his canvas, and was rather averse36 to having a scene at that moment, he made a little attempt to disconcert her. "It is the heart that gives success," she said, while he was considering how he might best put an extinguisher upon her romance for the occasion.
"Not at all, Mrs. Broughton; success depends on elbow-grease."
"On what, Conway?"
"On elbow-grease,—hard work, that is,—and I must work hard now if I mean to take advantage of to-day's sitting. The truth is, I don't give enough hours of work to it." And he leaned upon his stick, and daubed away briskly at the background, and then stood for a moment looking at his canvas with his head a little on one side, as though he could not withdraw his attention for a moment from the thing he was doing.
"You mean to say, Conway, that you would rather that I should not speak to you."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Broughton, I did not mean that at all."
"I won't interrupt you at your work. What I have to say is perhaps of no great moment. Indeed, words between you and me never can have much importance now. Can they, Conway?"
"I don't see that at all," said he, still working away with his brush.
"Do you not? I do. They should never amount to more,—they can never amount to more than the common ordinary courtesies of life; what I call the greetings and good-byings of conversation." She said this in a low, melancholy37 tone of voice, not intending to be in any degree jocose38. "How seldom is it that conversation between ordinary friends goes beyond that."
"Don't you think it does?" said Conway, stepping back and taking another look at his picture. "I find myself talking to all manner of people about all manner of things."
"You are different from me. I cannot talk to all manner of people."
"Politics, you know, and art, and a little scandal, and the wars, with a dozen other things, make talking easy enough, I think. I grant you this, that it is very often a great bore. Hardly a day passes that I don't wish to cut out somebody's tongue."
"Do you wish to cut out my tongue, Conway?"
He began to perceive that she was determined39 to talk about herself, and that there was no remedy. He dreaded40 it, not because he did not like the woman, but from a conviction that she was going to make some comparison between herself and Clara Van Siever. In his ordinary humour he liked a little pretence at romance, and was rather good at that sort of love-making which in truth means anything but love. But just now he was really thinking of matrimony, and had on this very morning acknowledged to himself that he had become sufficiently41 attached to Clara Van Siever to justify42 him in asking her to be his wife. In his present mood he was not anxious for one of those tilts43 with blunted swords and half-severed lances in the lists of Cupid of which Mrs. Dobbs Broughton was so fond. Nevertheless, if she insisted that he should now descend44 into the arena45 and go through the paraphernalia46 of a mock tournament, he must obey her. It is the hardship of men that when called upon by women for romance, they are bound to be romantic, whether the opportunity serves them or does not. A man must produce romance, or at least submit to it, when duly summoned, even though he should have a sore-throat or a headache. He is a brute47 if he decline such an encounter,—and feels that, should he so decline persistently48, he will ever after be treated as a brute. There are many Potiphar's wives who never dream of any mischief49, and Josephs who are very anxious to escape, though they are asked to return only whisper for whisper. Mrs. Dobbs Broughton had asked him whether he wished that her tongue should be cut out, and he had of course replied that her words had always been a joy to him,—never a trouble. It occurred to him as he made his little speech that it would only have served her right if he had answered her quite in another strain; but she was a woman, and was young and pretty, and was entitled to flattery. "They have always been a joy to me," he said, repeating his last words as he strove to continue his work.
"A deadly joy," she replied, not quite knowing what she herself meant. "A deadly joy, Conway. I wish with all my heart that we had never known each other."
"I do not. I will never wish away the happiness of my life, even should it be followed by misery."
"You are a man, and if trouble comes upon you, you can bear it on your own shoulders. A woman suffers more, just because another's shoulders may have to bear the burden."
"When she has got a husband, you mean?"
"Yes,—when she has a husband."
"It's the same with a man when he has a wife." Hitherto the conversation had had so much of milk-and-water in its composition that Dalrymple found himself able to keep it up and go on with his background at the same time. If she could only be kept in the same dim cloud of sentiment, if the hot rays of the sun of romance could be kept from breaking through the mist till Miss Van Siever should come, it might still be well. He had known her to wander about within the clouds for an hour together, without being able to find her way into the light. "It's all the same with a man when he has got a wife," he said. "Of course one has to suffer for two, when one, so to say, is two."
"And what happens when one has to suffer for three?" she asked.
"You mean when a woman has children?"
"I mean nothing of the kind, Conway; and you must know that I do not, unless your feelings are indeed blunted. But worldly success has, I suppose, blunted them."
"I rather fancy not," he said. "I think they are pretty nearly as sharp as ever."
"I know mine are. Oh, how I wish I could rid myself of them! But it cannot be done. Age will not blunt them,—I am sure of that," said Mrs. Broughton. "I wish it would."
He had determined not to talk about herself if the subject could be in any way avoided; but now he felt that he was driven up into a corner;—now he was forced to speak to her of her own personality. "You have no experience yet as to that. How can you say what age will do?"
"Age does not go by years," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton. "We all know that. 'His hair was grey, but not with years.' Look here, Conway," and she moved back her tresses from off her temples to show him that there were gray hairs behind. He did not see them; and had they been very visible she might not perhaps have been so ready to exhibit them. "No one can say that length of years has blanched50 them. I have no secrets from you about my age. One should not be grey before one has reached thirty."
"I did not see a changed hair."
"'Twas the fault of your eyes, then, for there are plenty of them. And what is it has made them grey?"
"They say that hot rooms will do it."
"Hot rooms! No, Conway, it does not come from heated atmosphere. It comes from a cold heart, a chilled heart, a frozen heart, a heart that is all ice." She was getting out of the cloud into the heat now, and he could only hope that Miss Van Siever would come soon. "The world is beginning with you, Conway, and yet you are as old as I am. It is ending with me, and yet I am as young as you are. But I do not know why I talk of all this. It is simply folly51,—utter folly. I had not meant to speak of myself; but I did wish to say a few words to you of your own future. I suppose I may still speak to you as a friend?"
"I hope you will always do that."
"Nay,—I will make no such promise. That I will always have a friend's feeling for you, a friend's interest in your welfare, a friend's triumph in your success,—that I will promise. But friendly words, Conway, are sometimes misunderstood."
"Never by me," said he.
"No, not by you,—certainly not by you. I did not mean that. I did not expect that you should misinterpret them." Then she laughed hysterically,—a little low, gurgling, hysterical52 laugh; and after that she wiped her eyes, and then she smiled, and then she put her hand very gently upon his shoulder. "Thank God, Conway, we are quite safe there,—are we not?"
He had made a blunder, and it was necessary that he should correct it. His watch was lying in the trough of his easel, and he looked at it and wondered why Miss Van Siever was not there. He had tripped, and he must make a little struggle and recover his step. "As I said before, it shall never be misunderstood by me. I have never been vain enough to suppose for a moment that there was any other feeling,—not for a moment. You women can be so careful, while we men are always off our guard! A man loves because he cannot help it; but a woman has been careful, and answers him—with friendship. Perhaps I am wrong to say that I never thought of winning anything more; but I never think of winning more now." Why the mischief didn't Miss Van Siever come! In another five minutes, despite himself, he would be on his knees, making a mock declaration, and she would be pouring forth53 the vial of her mock wrath54, or giving him mock counsel as to the restraint of his passion. He had gone through it all before, and was tired of it; but for his life he did not know how to help himself.
"Conway," said she, gravely, "how dare you address me in such language?"
"Of course it is very wrong; I know that."
"I'm not speaking of myself, now. I have learned to think so little of myself, as even to be indifferent to the feeling of the injury you are doing me. My life is a blank, and I almost think that nothing can hurt me further. I have not heart left enough to break; no, not enough to be broken. It is not of myself that I am thinking, when I ask you how you dare to address me in such language. Do you not know that it is an injury to another?"
"To what other?" asked Conway Dalrymple, whose mind was becoming rather confused, and who was not quite sure whether the other one was Mr. Dobbs Broughton, or somebody else.
"To that poor girl who is coming here now, who is devoted55 to you, and to whom, I do not doubt, you have uttered words which ought to have made it impossible for you to speak to me as you spoke not a moment since."
Things were becoming very grave and difficult. They would have been very grave, indeed, had not some god saved him by sending Miss Van Siever to his rescue at this moment. He was beginning to think what he would say in answer to the accusation56 now made, when his eager ear caught the sound of her step upon the stairs; and before the pause in the conversation which the circumstances admitted had given place to the necessity for further speech, Miss Van Siever had knocked at the door and had entered the room. He was rejoiced, and I think that Mrs. Broughton did not regret the interference. It is always well that these little dangerous scenes should be brought to sudden ends. The last details of such romances, if drawn57 out to their natural conclusions, are apt to be uncomfortable, if not dull. She did not want him to go down on his knees, knowing that the getting up again is always awkward.
"Clara, I began to think you were never coming," said Mrs. Broughton, with her sweetest smile.
"I began to think so myself also," said Clara. "And I believe this must be the last sitting, or, at any rate, the last but one."
"Is anything the matter at home?" said Mrs. Broughton, clasping her hands together.
"Nothing very much; mamma asked me a question or two this morning, and I said I was coming here. Had she asked me why, I should have told her."
"But what did she ask? What did she say?"
"She does not always make herself very intelligible58. She complains without telling you what she complains of. But she muttered something about artists which was not complimentary59, and I suppose, therefore, that she has a suspicion. She stayed ever so late this morning, and we left the house together. She will ask some direct question to-night, or before long, and then there will be an end of it."
"Let us make the best of our time then," said Dalrymple; and the sitting was arranged; Miss Van Siever went down on her knees with her hammer in her hand, and the work began. Mrs. Broughton had twisted a turban round Clara's head, as she always did on these occasions, and assisted to arrange the drapery. She used to tell herself as she did so, that she was like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice. Only Isaac had piled them in ignorance, and she piled them conscious of the sacrificial flames. And Isaac had been saved; whereas it was impossible that the catching60 of any ram16 in any thicket61 could save her. But, nevertheless, she arranged the drapery with all her skill, piling the fagots ever so high for her own pyre. In the meantime Conway Dalrymple painted away, thinking more of his picture than he did of one woman or of the other.
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots.
Mrs. Dobbs Broughton piles her Fagots.
Click to ENLARGE
After a while, when Mrs. Broughton had piled the fagots as high as she could pile them, she got up from her seat and prepared to leave the room. Much of the piling consisted, of course, in her own absence during a portion of these sittings. "Conway," she said, as she went, "if this is to be the last sitting, or the last but one, you should make the most of it." Then she threw upon him a very peculiar62 glance over the head of the kneeling Jael, and withdrew. Jael, who in those moments would be thinking more of the fatigue63 of her position than of anything else, did not at all take home to herself the peculiar meaning of her friend's words. Conway Dalrymple understood them thoroughly64, and thought that he might as well take the advice given to him. He had made up his mind to propose to Miss Van Siever, and why should he not do so now? He went on with his brush for a couple of minutes without saying a word, working as well as he could work, and then resolved that he would at once begin the other task. "Miss Van Siever," he said, "I'm afraid you are tired?"
"Not more than usually tired. It is fatiguing65 to be slaying66 Sisera by the hour together. I do get to hate this block." The block was the dummy67 by which the form of Sisera was supposed to be typified.
"Another sitting will about finish it," said he, "so that you need not positively68 distress69 yourself now. Will you rest yourself for a minute or two?" He had already perceived that the attitude in which Clara was posed before him was not one in which an offer of marriage could be received and replied to with advantage.
"Thank you, I am not tired yet," said Clara, not changing the fixed70 glance of national wrath with which she regarded her wooden Sisera as she held her hammer on high.
"But I am. There; we will rest for a moment." Dalrymple was aware that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, though she was very assiduous in piling her fagots, never piled them for long together. If he did not make haste she would be back upon them before he could get his word spoken. When he put down his brush, and got up from his chair, and stretched out his arm as a man does when he ceases for a moment from his work, Clara of course got up also, and seated herself. She was used to her turban and her drapery, and therefore thought not of it at all; and he also was used to it, seeing her in it two or three times a week; but now that he intended to accomplish a special purpose, the turban and the drapery seemed to be in the way. "I do so hope you will like the picture," he said, as he was thinking of this.
"I don't think I shall. But you will understand that it is natural that a girl should not like herself in such a portraiture71 as that."
"I don't know why. I can understand that you specially72 should not like the picture; but I think that most women in London in your place would at any rate say that they did."
"Are you angry with me?"
"What; for telling the truth? No, indeed." He was standing opposite to his easel, looking at the canvas, shifting his head about so as to change the lights, and observing critically this blemish73 and that; and yet he was all the while thinking how he had best carry out his purpose. "It will have been a prosperous picture to me," he said at last, "if it leads to the success of which I am ambitious."
"I am told that all you do is successful now,—merely because you do it. That is the worst of success."
"What is the worst of success?"
"That when won by merit it leads to further success, for the gaining of which no merit is necessary."
"I hope it may be so in my case. If it is not I shall have a very poor chance. Clara, I think you must know that I am not talking about my pictures."
"I thought you were."
"Indeed I am not. As for success in my profession, far as I am from thinking I merit it, I feel tolerably certain that I shall obtain it."
"You have obtained it."
"I am in the way to do so. Perhaps one out of ten struggling artists is successful, and for him the profession is very charming. It is certainly a sad feeling that there is so much of chance in the distribution of the prizes. It is a lottery74. But one cannot complain of that when one has drawn the prize." Dalrymple was not a man without self-possession, nor was he readily abashed75, but he found it easier to talk of his possession than to make his offer. The turban was his difficulty. He had told himself over and over again within the last five minutes, that he would have long since said what he had to say had it not been for the turban. He had been painting all his life from living models,—from women dressed up in this or that costume, to suit the necessities of his picture,—but he had never made love to any of them. They had been simply models to him, and now he found that there was a difficulty. "Of that prize," he said, "I have made myself tolerably sure; but as to the other prize, I do not know. I wonder whether I am to have that." Of course Miss Van Siever understood well what was the prize of which he was speaking; and as she was a young woman with a will and purpose of her own, no doubt she was already prepared with an answer. But it was necessary that the question should be put to her in properly distinct terms. Conway Dalrymple certainly had not put his question in properly distinct terms at present. She did not choose to make any answer to his last words; and therefore simply suggested that as time was pressing he had better go on with his work. "I am quite ready now," said she.
"Stop half a moment. How much more you are thinking of the picture than I am! I do not care twopence for the picture. I will slit76 the canvas from top to bottom without a groan,—without a single inner groan,—if you will let me."
"For heaven's sake do nothing of the kind! Why should you?"
"Just to show you that it is not for the sake of the picture that I come here. Clara—" Then the door was opened, and Isaac appeared, very weary, having been piling fagots with assiduity, till human nature could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had made his way almost up to Clara's seat, turned round sharply towards his easel, in anger at having been disturbed. He should have been more grateful for all that his Isaac had done for him, and have recognized the fact that the fault had been with himself. Mrs. Broughton had been twelve minutes out of the room. She had counted them to be fifteen,—having no doubt made a mistake as to three,—and had told herself that with such a one as Conway Dalrymple, with so much of the work ready done to his hand for him, fifteen minutes should have been amply sufficient. When we reflect what her own thoughts must have been during the interval,—what it is to have to pile up such fagots as those, how she was, as it were, giving away a fresh morsel77 of her own heart during each minute that she allowed Clara and Conway Dalrymple to remain together, it cannot surprise us that her eyes should have become dizzy, and that she should not have counted the minutes with accurate correctness. Dalrymple turned to his picture angrily, but Miss Van Siever kept her seat and did not show the slightest emotion.
"My friends," said Mrs. Broughton, "this will not do. This is not working; this is not sitting."
"Mr. Dalrymple has been explaining to me the precarious78 nature of an artist's profession," said Clara.
"It is not precarious with him," said Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, sententiously.
"Not in a general way, perhaps; but to prove the truth of his words he was going to treat Jael worse than Jael treats Sisera."
"I was going to slit the picture from the top to the bottom."
"And why?" said Mrs. Broughton, putting up her hands to heaven in tragic79 horror.
"Just to show Miss Van Siever how little I care about it."
"And how little you care about her, too," said Mrs. Broughton.
"She might take that as she liked." After this there was another genuine sitting, and the real work went on as though there had been no episode. Jael fixed her face, and held her hammer as though her mind and heart were solely80 bent81 on seeming to be slaying Sisera. Dalrymple turned his eyes from the canvas to the model, and from the model to the canvas, working with his hand all the while, as though that last pathetic "Clara" had never been uttered; and Mrs. Dobbs Broughton reclined on a sofa, looking at them and thinking of her own singularly romantic position, till her mind was filled with a poetic frenzy82. In one moment she resolved that she would hate Clara as woman was never hated by woman; and then there were daggers83, and poison-cups, and strangling cords in her eye. In the next she was as firmly determined that she would love Mrs. Conway Dalrymple as woman never was loved by woman; and then she saw herself kneeling by a cradle, and tenderly nursing a baby, of which Conway was to be the father and Clara the mother. And so she went to sleep.
For some time Dalrymple did not observe this; but at last there was a little sound,—even the ill-nature of Miss Demolines could hardly have called it a snore,—and he became aware that for practical purposes he and Miss Van Siever were again alone together. "Clara," he said, in a whisper. Mrs. Broughton instantly aroused herself from her slumbers84, and rubbed her eyes. "Dear, dear, dear," she said, "I declare it's past one. I'm afraid I must turn you both out. One more sitting, I suppose, will finish it, Conway?"
"Yes, one more," said he. It was always understood that he and Clara should not leave the house together, and therefore he remained painting when she left the room. "And now, Conway," said Mrs. Broughton, "I suppose that all is over?"
"I don't know what you mean by all being over."
"No,—of course not. You look at it in another light, no doubt. Everything is beginning for you. But you must pardon me, for my heart is distracted,—distracted,—distracted!" Then she sat down upon the floor, and burst into tears. What was he to do? He thought that the woman should either give him up altogether, or not give him up. All this fuss about it was irrational85! He would not have made love to Clara Van Siever in her room if she had not told him to do so!
"Maria," he said, in a very grave voice, "any sacrifice that is required on my part on your behalf I am ready to make."
"No, sir; the sacrifices shall all be made by me. It is the part of a woman to be ever sacrificial!" Poor Mrs. Dobbs Broughton! "You shall give up nothing. The world is at your feet, and you shall have everything,—youth, beauty, wealth, station, love,—love; and friendship also, if you will accept it from one so poor, so broken, so secluded86 as I shall be." At each of the last words there had been a desperate sob87; and as she was still crouching88 in the middle of the room, looking up into Dalrymple's face while he stood over her, the scene was one which had much in it that transcended89 the doings of everyday life, much that would be ever memorable90, and much, I have no doubt, that was thoroughly enjoyed by the principal actor. As for Conway Dalrymple, he was so second-rate a personage in the whole thing, that it mattered little whether he enjoyed it or not. I don't think he did enjoy it. "And now, Conway," she said, "I will give you some advice. And when in after-days you shall remember this interview, and reflect how that advice was given you,—with what solemnity,"—here she clasped both her hands together,—"I think that you will follow it. Clara Van Siever will now become your wife."
"I do not know that at all," said Dalrymple.
"Clara Van Siever will now become your wife," repeated Mrs. Broughton in a louder voice, impatient of opposition91. "Love her. Cleave92 to her. Make her flesh of your flesh and bone of your bone. But rule her! Yes, rule her! Let her be your second self, but not your first self. Rule her. Love her. Cleave to her. Do not leave her alone, to feed on her own thoughts as I have done,—as I have been forced to do. Now go. No, Conway, not a word; I will not hear a word. You must go, or I must." Then she rose quickly from her lowly attitude, and prepared herself for a dart93 at the door. It was better by far that he should go, and so he went.
An American when he has spent a pleasant day will tell you that he has had "a good time." I think that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, if she had ever spoken the truth of that day's employment, would have acknowledged that she had had "a good time." I think that she enjoyed her morning's work. But as for Conway Dalrymple, I doubt whether he did enjoy his morning's work. "A man may have too much of this sort of thing, and then he becomes very sick of his cake." Such was the nature of his thoughts as he returned to his own abode94.
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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13
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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14
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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15
interrogate
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| vt.讯问，审问，盘问 | |
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16
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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17
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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18
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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19
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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20
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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21
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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22
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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23
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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24
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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25
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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26
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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28
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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31
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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35
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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41
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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42
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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43
tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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44
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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45
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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46
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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47
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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49
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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52
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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60
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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61
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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62
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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66
slaying
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| 杀戮。 | |
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67
dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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69
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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71
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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72
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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73
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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74
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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75
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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76
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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78
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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79
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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80
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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81
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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82
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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83
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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84
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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85
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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86
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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87
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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88
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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89
transcended
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的过去式和过去分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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90
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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92
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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93
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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