On the whole, the journey to Torquay was considered to have been successful. Katie's health had been the only object in going there, and the main consideration while they remained. She returned, if not well, at any rate not worse. She had got through the winter, and her lungs were still pronounced to be free from those dreadful signs of decay, the name of which has broken so many mothers' hearts, and sent dismay into the breasts of so many fathers. During her sojourn2 at Torquay she had grown much, and, as is often the case with those who grow quickly, she had become weak and thin. People at Torquay are always weak and thin, and Mrs. Woodward had not, therefore, been greatly frightened at this. Her spirits, though by no means such as they had been in former days, had improved, she had occupied herself more than she had done during the last two months at Hampton, and had, at least so Mrs. Woodward fondly flattered herself, ceased to be always thinking of Charley Tudor. It was quite clear that she had firmly made up her mind to some certain line of conduct with reference to him; she never mentioned his name, nor was it mentioned in her hearing by either her mother or sister during their stay at Torquay. When Norman came down, she always found some opportunity of inquiring from him as to Charley's health and welfare; but she did this in a manner which showed that she had succeeded in placing her feelings wonderfully under control.
On that Monday morning, on which Charley had returned to town after his early visit to her workbox, she had not failed to find the purse. Linda was with her when she did so, but she had contrived4 so to conceal5 her emotion, that nothing was seen and nothing suspected. She felt at once that it was intended that all intercourse6 should be broken off between them. She knew instinctively7 that this was the effect of some precaution on her mother's part, and with a sad bosom8 and a broken heart, she acquiesced9 in it. She said nothing, even to herself, of the truth and constancy of her love; she made no mental resolution against any other passion; she did not even think whether or not she might ever be tempted10 to love another; but she felt a dumb aching numbness11 about her heart; and, looking round about her, she seemed to feel that all was dark and dismal12.
And so they sojourned through the winter at Torquay. The effort which Katie made was undoubtedly13 salutary to her. She took again to her work and her lessons—studies we should probably now call them—and before she left Torquay, she had again learned how to smile; but not to laugh with that gay ringing silver laughter, ringing, but yet not loud, which to Charley's ear had been as sweet as heavenly music. During this time Uncle Bat remained at Hampton, keeping bachelor's house by himself.
And then while they were at Torquay, Linda and Norman became engaged to each other. Their loves were honest, true, and happy; but not of a nature to give much scope to a novelist of a romantic turn. Linda knew she was not Norman's first love, and requited14 Norman, of course, by telling him something, not much, of Alaric's falseness to her. Norman made but one ungenerous stipulation15. It was this: that in marrying him Linda must give up all acquaintance with her brother-in-law. He would never, he said, be the means of separating two sisters; she and Gertrude might have such intercourse together as their circumstances might render possible; but it was quite out of the question that either he, Harry16 Norman, or his wife, should ever again associate with Alaric Tudor.
In such matters Linda had always been guided by others; so she sighed and promised, and the engagement was duly ratified17 by all the parties concerned.
We must now return to Charley. When he got back to town, he felt that he had lost his amulet18; his charm had gone from him, and he had nothing now left whereby to save himself from ruin and destruction. He was utterly19 flung over by the Woodwards; that now was to him an undoubted fact. When Mrs. Woodward told him that he was never again to see Katie, that was, of course, tantamount to turning him out of the Cottage. It might be all very well to talk to him of affection and friendship; but it was manifest that no further signs of either were to be shown to him. He had proved himself to be unworthy, and was no more to be considered as one of the circle which made the drawing-room at Surbiton Cottage its centre. He could not quite explain all this to Norman, as he could not tell him what had passed between him and Mrs. Woodward; but he said enough to make his friend know that he intended to go to Hampton no more.
It would be wrong, perhaps, to describe Charley as being angry with Mrs. Woodward. He knew that she was only doing her duty by her child; he knew that she was actuated by the purest and best of motives20; he was not able to say a word against her even to himself; but, nevertheless, he desired to be revenged on her—not by injuring her, not by injuring Katie—but by injuring himself. He would make Mrs. Woodward feel what she had done, by rushing, himself, on his own ruin. He would return to the 'Cat and Whistle'—he would keep his promise and marry Norah Geraghty—he would go utterly to destruction, and then Mrs. Woodward would know and feel what she had done in banishing21 him from her daughter's presence!
Having arrived at this magnanimous resolution after a fortnight's doubt and misery23, he proceeded to put his purpose into execution. It was now some considerable time since he had been at the 'Cat and Whistle;' he had had no further visit from Mrs. Davis, but he had received one or two notes both from her and Norah, to which, as long as he had Katie's purse, he was resolute24 in not replying; messages also had reached him from the landlady25 through Dick Scatterall, in the last of which he was reminded that there was a trifle due at the bar, and another trifle for money lent.
One night, having lashed26 himself up to a fit state of wretched desperation, he found himself at the well-known corner of the street leading out of the Strand27. On his journey thither28 he had been trying to realize to himself what it would be to be the husband of Norah Geraghty; what would be the joy of returning to a small house in some dingy29 suburb and finding her to receive him. Could he really love her when she would be bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, the wife of his bosom and the mother of his children? In such a case would he ever be able to forget that he had known Katie Woodward? Would those words of hers ever ring in his ears, then as now—'You will be steady, dear Charley; won't you?'
There are those who boast that a gentleman must always be a gentleman; that a man, let him marry whom he will, raises or degrades his wife to the level of his own condition, and that King Cophetua could share his throne with a beggar-woman without sullying its splendour or diminishing its glory. How a king may fare in such a condition, the author, knowing little of kings, will not pretend to say; nor yet will he offer an opinion whether a lowly match be fatally injurious to a marquess, duke, or earl; but this he will be bold to affirm, that a man from the ordinary ranks of the upper classes, who has had the nurture30 of a gentleman, prepares for himself a hell on earth in taking a wife from any rank much below his own—a hell on earth, and, alas31! too often another hell elsewhere also. He must either leave her or loathe32 her. She may be endowed with all those moral virtues33 which should adorn34 all women, and which, thank God, are common to women in this country; but he will have to endure habits, manners, and ideas, which the close contiguity35 of married life will force upon his disgusted palate, and which must banish22 all love. Man by instinct desires in his wife something softer, sweeter, more refined than himself; and though in failing to obtain this, the fault may be all his own, he will not on that account the more easily reconcile himself to the want.
Charley knew that he was preparing such misery for himself. As he went along, determined36 to commit a moral suicide by allying himself to the barmaid, he constrained37 himself to look with his mind's eye 'upon this picture and on that.'
He had felt of what nature was the sort of love with which Katie Woodward had inspired his heart; and he felt also what was that other sort of love to which the charms of Norah Geraghty had given birth.
Norah was a fine girl, smart enough in her outward apparel, but apt occasionally to disclose uncomfortable secrets, if from any accident more than her outward apparel might momentarily become visible. When dressed up for a Sunday excursion she had her attractions, and even on ordinary evenings, a young man such as Charley, after imbibing38 two or three glasses of spirits and water, and smoking two or three cigars, might find her to be what some of her friends would have called 'very good company.' As to her mind, had Charley been asked about it, he would probably have said that he was ignorant whether she had any; but this he did know, that she was sharp and quick, alert in counting change, and gifted with a peculiar39 power of detecting bad coin by the touch. Such was Norah Geraghty, whom Charley was to marry.
And then that other portrait was limned40 with equal accuracy before his eyes. Katie, with all her juvenile41 spirit, was delightfully42 feminine; every motion of hers was easy, and every form into which she could twist her young limbs was graceful43. She had all the nice ideas and ways which a girl acquires when she grows from childhood to woman's stature44, under the eye of a mother who is a lady. Katie could be untidy on occasions; but her very untidiness was inviting45. All her belongings46 were nice; she had no hidden secrets, the chance revealing of which would disgrace her. She might come in from her island palaces in a guise47 which would call down some would-be-censorious exclamation48 from her mother; but all others but her mother would declare that Katie in such moments was more lovely than ever. And Katie's beauty pleased more than the eye—it came home to the mind and heart of those who saw her. It spoke49 at once to the intelligence, and required, for its full appreciation50, an exercise of the mental faculties51, as well as animal senses. If the owner of that outward form were bad or vile52, one would be inclined to say that Nature must have lied when she endowed her with so fair an index. Such was Katie Woodward, whom Charley was not to marry.
As he turned down Norfolk Street, he thought of all this, as the gambler, sitting with his razor before him with which he intends to cut his throat, may be supposed to think of the stakes which he has failed to win, and the fortune he has failed to make. Norah Geraghty was Charley's razor, and he plunged53 boldly into the 'Cat and Whistle,' determined to draw it at once across his weasand, and sever54 himself for ever from all that is valuable in the world.
It was now about eleven o'clock, at which hour the 'Cat and Whistle' generally does its most stirring trade. This Charley knew; but he also knew that the little back parlour, even if there should be an inmate55 in it at the time of his going in, would soon be made private for his purposes.
When he went in, Mrs. Davis was standing56 behind the counter, dressed in a cap of wonderful grandeur57, and a red tabinet gown, which rustled58 among the pots and jars, sticking out from her to a tremendous width, inflated59 by its own magnificence and a substratum of crinoline. Charley had never before seen her arrayed in such royal robes. Her accustomed maid was waiting as usual on the guests, and another girl also was assisting; but Norah did not appear to Charley's first impatient glance.
He at once saw that something wonderful was going on. The front parlour was quite full, and the ministering angel was going in and out quickly, with more generous supplies of the gifts of Bacchus than were usual at the 'Cat and Whistle.' Gin and water was the ordinary tipple60 in the front parlour; and any one of its denizens61 inclined to cut a dash above his neighbours generally did so with a bottom of brandy. But now Mrs. Davis was mixing port-wine negus as fast as her hands could make it.
And then there were standing round the counter four or five customers, faces well known to Charley, all of whom seemed to be dressed with a splendour second only to that of the landlady. One man had on an almost new brown frock coat with a black velvet62 collar, and white trousers. Two had blue swallow-tailed coats with brass63 buttons; and a fourth, a dashing young lawyer's clerk from Clement's Inn, was absolutely stirring a mixture, which he called a mint julep, with a yellow kid glove dangling64 out of his hand.
They all stood back when Charley entered; they had been accustomed to make way for him in former days, and though he had latterly ceased to rule at the 'Cat and Whistle' as he once did, they were too generous to trample65 on fallen greatness. He gave his hand to Mrs. Davis across the counter, and asked her in the most unconcerned voice which he could assume what was in the wind. She tittered and laughed, told him he had come too late for the fun, and then retreated into the little back parlour, whither he followed her. She was at any rate in a good humour, and seemed quite inclined to forgive his rather uncivil treatment of her notes and messages.
In the back parlour Charley found more people drinking, and among them three ladies of Mrs. Davis's acquaintance. They were all very fine in their apparel, and very comfortable as to their immediate66 employment, for each had before her a glass of hot tipple. One of them, a florid-faced dame67 about fifty, Charley had seen before, and knew to be the wife of a pork butcher and sausage maker68 in the neighbourhood. Directly he entered the room, Mrs. Davis formally introduced him to them all. 'A very particular friend of mine, Mrs. Allchops; and of Norah's too, I can assure you,' said Mrs. Davis.
'Ah, Mr. Tudor, and how be you? A sight of you is good for sore eyes,' said she of the sausages, rising with some difficulty from her chair, and grasping Charley's hand with all the pleasant cordiality of old friendship.
'The gen'leman seems to be a little too late for the fair,' said a severe lodging-house keeper from Cecil Street.
'Them as wills not, when they may,
When they wills they shall have nay,'
said a sarcastic69 rival barmaid from a neighbouring public, to whom all Norah's wrongs and all Mr. Tudor's false promises were fully3 known.
Charley was not the fellow to allow himself to be put down, even by feminine raillery; so he plucked up his spirit, sad as he was at heart, and replied to them all en masse.
'Well, ladies, what's in the wind now? You seem to be very cosy70 here, all of you; suppose you allow me to join you.'
'With a 'eart and a 'alf,' said Mrs. Allchops, squeezing her corpulence up to the end of the horsehair sofa, so as to make room for him between herself and the poetic71 barmaid. 'I'd sooner have a gentleman next to me nor a lady hany day of the week; so come and sit down, my birdie.'
But Charley, as he was about to accept the invitation of his friend Mrs. Allchops, caught Mrs. Davis's eye, and followed her out of the room into the passage. 'Step up to the landing, Mr. Tudor,' said she; and Charley stepped up. 'Come in here, Mr. Tudor—you won't mind my bedroom for once.' And Charley followed her in, not minding her bedroom.
'Of course you know what has happened, Mr. Tudor?' said she.
'Devil a bit,' said Charley.
'Laws, now—don't you indeed? Well, that is odd.'
'How the deuce should I know? Where's Norah?'
'Why—she's at Gravesend.'
'At Gravesend—you don't mean to say she's——'
'I just do then; she's just gone and got herself spliced72 to Peppermint73 this morning. They had the banns said these last three Sundays; and this morning they was at St. Martin's at eight o'clock, and has been here junketing ever since, and now they're away to Gravesend.'
'Gravesend!' said Charley, struck by the suddenness of his rescue, as the gambler would have been had some stranger seized the razor at the moment when it was lifted to his throat.
'Yes, Gravesend,' said Mrs. Davis; 'and they'll come up home to his own house by the first boat to-morrow.'
'So Norah's married!' said Charley, with a slight access of sentimental74 softness in his voice.
'She's been and done it now, Mr. Tudor, and no mistake; and it's better so, ain't it? Why, Lord love you, she'd never have done for you, you know; and she's the very article for such a man as Peppermint.'
There was something good-natured in this, and so Charley felt it. As long as Mrs. Davis could do anything to assist her cousin's views, by endeavouring to seduce75 or persuade her favourite lover into a marriage, she left no stone unturned, working on her cousin's behalf. But now, now that all those hopes were over, now that Norah had consented to sacrifice love to prudence76, why should Mrs. Davis quarrel with an old friend any longer?—why should not things be made pleasant to him as to the others?
'And now, Mr. Tudor, come down, and drink a glass to their healths, and wish 'em both well, and don't mind what them women says to you. You're well out of a mess; and now it's all over, I'm glad it is as it is.'
Charley went down and took his glass and drank 'prosperity to the bride and bridegroom.' The sarcastic rival barmaid said little snappish things to him, offered him a bit of green ribbon, and told him that if he 'minded hisself,' somebody might, perhaps, take him yet. But Charley was proof against this.
He sat there about half an hour, and then went his way, shaking hands with all the ladies and bowing to the gentlemen. On the following day, as soon as he left his office, he called at the 'Cat and Whistle,' and paid his little bill there, and said his last farewell to Mrs. Davis. He never visited the house again. Now that Norah was gone the attractions were not powerful. Reader, you and I will at the same time say our farewells to Mrs. Davis, to Mr. Peppermint also, and to his bride. If thou art an elegant reader, unaccustomed to the contamination of pipes and glasses, I owe thee an apology in that thou hast been caused to linger a while among things so unsavoury. But if thou art one who of thine own will hast taken thine ease in thine inn, hast enjoyed the freedom of a sanded parlour, hast known 'that ginger77 is hot in the mouth,' and made thyself light-hearted with a yard of clay, then thou wilt78 confess there are worse establishments than the 'Cat and Whistle,' less generous landladies79 than Mrs. Davis.
When all this happened the Woodwards had not been long at Torquay. Mr. Peppermint was made a happy man before Christmas; and therefore Charley was left to drift before the wind without the ballast of any lady's love to keep him in sailing trim. Poor fellow! he had had wealth on one side, beauty and love on another, and on the third all those useful qualities which Miss Geraghty has been described as possessing. He had been thus surrounded by feminine attractions, and had lost them all. Two of those, from whom he had to choose, had married others, and he was banished80 from the presence of the third. Under such circumstances what could he do but drift about the gulfs and straits of the London ocean without compass or rudder, and bruise81 his timbers against all the sunken rocks that might come in his way?
And then Norman told him of his coming marriage, and Charley was more sad than ever. And thus matters went on with him till the period at which our story will be resumed at the return of the Woodwards to Hampton.
In the meantime another winter and another spring had passed over Alaric's head, and now the full tide of the London season found him still rising, and receiving every day more of the world's homage82. Sir Gregory Hardlines had had every reason to praise his own judgement in selecting Mr. Tudor for the vacant seat among the Magi.
From that moment all had gone smooth with Sir Gregory; there was no one to interfere83 with his hobby, or run counter to his opinion. Alaric was all that was conciliatory and amiable84 in a colleague. He was not submissive and cringing85; and had he been so, Sir Gregory, to do him justice, would have been disgusted; but neither was he self-opinionated nor obstinate86 like Mr. Jobbles. He insisted on introducing no crotchets of his own, and allowed Sir Gregory all the credit of the Commission.
This all went on delightfully for a while; but on one morning, early in May, Alaric somewhat disturbed the equanimity87 of his chief by communicating to him his intention of becoming a candidate for the representation of the borough88 of Strathbogy, at the next general election, which was to take place very shortly after the close of the session. Sir Gregory was dumbfounded, and expressed himself as incapable89 of believing that Tudor really meant to throw up ?1,200 a year on the mere90 speculation91 of its being possible that he should get into Parliament. Men in general, as Sir Gregory endeavoured to explain with much eloquence92, go into Parliament for the sake of getting places of ?1,200 a year. For what earthly reason should Alaric again be going to the bottom of the ladder, seeing that he had already attained93 a rung of such very respectable altitude? Alaric said to himself, 'Excelsior!' To Sir Gregory he suggested that it might be possible that he should get into Parliament without giving up his seat at the Board. Earth and heaven, it might be hoped, would not come together, even though so great a violence as this should be done to the time-honoured practices of the Government. Sir Gregory suggested that it was contrary to the constitution. Alaric replied that the constitution had been put upon to as great an extent before this, and had survived. Sir Gregory regarded it as all but impossible, and declared it to be quite unusual. Alaric rejoined that something of the same kind had been done at the Poor Law Board. To this Sir Gregory replied, gently pluming94 his feathers with conscious greatness, that at the Poor Law Board the chief of the Commission was the Parliamentary officer. Alaric declared that he was perfectly95 willing to give way if Sir Gregory would go into the House himself. To this Sir Gregory demurred96; not feeling himself called on to change the sphere of his utility. And so the matter was debated between them, till at last Sir Gregory promised to consult his friend the Chancellor97 of the Exchequer98. The ice was thus broken, and Alaric was quite contented99 with the part which he had taken in the conversation.
With his own official prospects100, in spite of the hazardous101 step which he now meditated102, he was quite contented. He had an idea that in the public service of the Government, as well as in all other services, men who were known to be worth their wages would find employment. He was worth his wages. Men who could serve their country well, who could adapt themselves to work, who were practical, easy in harness, able to drive and patient to be driven, were not, unfortunately, as plentiful103 as blackberries. He began to perceive that a really useful man could not be found miscellaneously under every hat in Pall104 Mall. He knew his own value, and did not fear but that he should find a price for it in some of the world's markets. He would not, therefore, allow himself to be deterred105 from further progress by any fear that in doing so he risked the security of his daily bread; no, not though the risk extended to his wife; she had taken him for better or worse; if the better came she should share it; if the worse, why let her share that also, with such consolation106 as his affection might be able to offer.
There was something noble in this courage, in this lack of prudence. It may be a question whether men, in marrying, do not become too prudent107. A single man may risk anything, says the world; but a man with a wife should be sure of his means. Why so? A man and a woman are but two units. A man and a woman with ten children are but twelve units. It is sad to see a man starving—sad to see a woman starving—very sad to see children starving. But how often does it come to pass that the man who will work is seen begging his bread? we may almost say never—unless, indeed, he be a clergyman. Let the idle man be sure of his wife's bread before he marries her; but the working man, one would say, may generally trust to God's goodness without fear.
With his official career Alaric was, as we have said, well contented; in his stock-jobbing line of business he also had had moments of great exaltation, and some moments of considerable depression. The West Corks108 had vacillated. Both he and Undy had sold and bought and sold again; and on the whole their stake in that stupendous national line of accommodation was not so all-absorbing as it had once been. But if money had been withdrawn109 from this, it had been invested elsewhere, and the great sum borrowed from Madame Jaqu阾an鄍e's fortune had been in no part replaced—one full moiety110 of it had been taken—may one not say stolen?—to enable Alaric and Undy to continue their speculations111.
The undertaking112 to which they were now both wedded113 was the Limehouse and Rotherhithe Bridge. Of this Undy was chairman, and Alaric was a director, and at the present moment they looked for ample fortune, or what would nearly be ample ruin, to the decision of a committee of the House of Commons which was about to sit with the view of making inquiry114 as to the necessity of the bridge in question.
Mr. Nogo, the member for Mile End, was the parent of this committee. He asserted that the matter was one of such vital importance not only to the whole metropolis115, but to the country at large, that the Government were bound in the first place to give a large subsidy116 towards building the bridge, and afterwards to pay a heavy annual sum towards the amount which it would be necessary to raise by tolls117. Mr. Whip Vigil, on the other hand, declared on the part of Government that the bridge was wholly unnecessary; that if it were built it ought to be pulled down again; and that not a stiver could be given out of the public purse with such an object.
On this they joined issue. Mr. Nogo prayed for a committee, and Mr. Vigil, having duly consulted his higher brethren in the Government, conceded this point. It may easily be conceived how high were now the hopes both of Undy Scott and Alaric Tudor. It was not at all necessary for them that the bridge should ever be built; that, probably, was out of the question; that, very likely, neither of them regarded as a possibility. But if a committee of the House of Commons could be got to say that it ought to be built, they might safely calculate on selling out at a large profit.
But who were to sit on the committee? That was now the all-momentous question.
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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contrived
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conceal
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intercourse
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instinctively
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bosom
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acquiesced
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tempted
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numbness
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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undoubtedly
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requited
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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harry
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ratified
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amulet
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utterly
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motives
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banishing
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banish
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misery
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resolute
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landlady
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lashed
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strand
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thither
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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30
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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31
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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32
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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33
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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34
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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35
contiguity
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| n.邻近，接壤 | |
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36
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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37
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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38
imbibing
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| v.吸收( imbibe的现在分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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39
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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40
limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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41
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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42
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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43
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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44
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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45
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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46
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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47
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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48
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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49
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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50
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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51
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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52
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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53
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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54
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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55
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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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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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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60
tipple
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| n.常喝的酒；v.不断喝，饮烈酒 | |
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61
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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62
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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64
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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67
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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68
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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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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spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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73
peppermint
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| n.薄荷，薄荷油，薄荷糖 | |
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74
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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75
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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76
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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77
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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78
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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79
landladies
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| n.女房东，女店主，女地主( landlady的名词复数 ) | |
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80
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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82
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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83
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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84
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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85
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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86
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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87
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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88
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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89
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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90
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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91
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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92
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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93
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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94
pluming
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| 用羽毛装饰（plume的现在分词形式） | |
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95
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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96
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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98
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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99
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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100
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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101
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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102
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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103
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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104
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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105
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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107
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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108
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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109
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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110
moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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111
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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112
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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113
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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115
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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116
subsidy
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| n.补助金，津贴 | |
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117
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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