THERE are some strange summer mornings in the country, when he who is but a sojourner1 from the city shall early walk forth2 into the fields, and be wonder-smitten with the trance-like aspect of the green and golden world. Not a flower stirs; the trees forget to wave; the grass itself seems to have ceased to grow; and all Nature, as if suddenly become conscious of her own profound mystery, and feeling no refuge from it but silence, sinks into this wonderful and indescribable repose3.
Such was the morning in June, when, issuing from the embowered and high-gabled old home of his fathers, Pierre, dewily refreshed and spiritualized by sleep, gayly entered the long, wide, elm-arched street of the village, and half unconsciously bent5 his steps toward a cottage, which peeped into view near the end of the vista6.
The verdant7 trance lay far and wide; and through it nothing came but the brindled8 kine, dreamily wandering to their pastures, followed, not driven, by ruddy-cheeked, white-footed boys.
As touched and bewitched by the loveliness of this silence, Pierre neared the cottage, and lifted his eyes, he swiftly paused, fixing his glance upon one upper, open casement9 there. Why now this impassioned, youthful pause? Why this enkindled cheek and eye? Upon the sill of the casement, a snow-white glossy10 pillow reposes11, and a trailing shrub12 has softly rested a rich, crimson13 flower against it.
Well mayst thou seek that pillow, thou odoriferous flower, thought Pierre; not an hour ago, her own cheek must have rested there. "Lucy!"
"Pierre!"
As heart rings to heart those voices rang, and for a moment, in the bright hush14 of the morning, the two stood silently but ardently15 eying each other, beholding17 mutual19 reflections of a boundless20 admiration21 and love.
"Nothing but Pierre," laughed the youth, at last; "thou hast forgotten to bid me good-morning."
"That would be little. Good-mornings, good-evenings, good days, weeks, months, and years to thee, Pierre;—bright Pierre!—Pierre!"
Truly, thought the youth, with a still gaze of inexpressible fondness; truly the skies do ope, and this invoking22 angel looks down.—"I would return thee thy manifold good-mornings, Lucy, did not that presume thou had'st lived through a night; and by Heaven, thou belong'st to the regions of an infinite day!"
"Fie, now, Pierre; why should ye youths always swear when ye love!"
"There thou fly'st again, Pierre; thou art always circumventing24 me so. Tell me, why should ye youths ever show so sweet an expertness in turning all trifles of ours into trophies25 of yours?"
"I know not how that is, but ever was it our fashion to do." And shaking the casement shrub, he dislodged the flower, and conspicuously27 fastened it in his bosom28.—"I must away now, Lucy; see! under these colors I march."
"Bravissimo! oh, my only recruit!"
II.
PIERRE was the only son of an affluent30, and haughty31 widow; a lady who externally furnished a singular example of the preservative32 and beautifying influences of unfluctuating rank, health, and wealth, when joined to a fine mind of medium culture, uncankered by any inconsolable grief, and never worn by sordid34 cares. In mature age, the rose still miraculously35 clung to her cheek; litheness36 had not yet completely uncoiled itself from her waist, nor smoothness unscrolled itself from her brow, nor diamondness departed from her eyes. So that when lit up and bediademed by ball-room lights, Mrs. Glendinning still eclipsed far younger charms, and had she chosen to encourage them, would have been followed by a train of infatuated suitors, little less young than her own son Pierre.
But a reverential and devoted38 son seemed lover enough for this widow Bloom; and besides all this, Pierre when namelessly annoyed, and sometimes even jealously transported by the too ardent16 admiration of the handsome youths, who now and then, caught in unintended snares39, seemed to entertain some insane hopes of wedding this unattainable being; Pierre had more than once, with a playful malice40, openly sworn, that the man—gray-beard, or beardless—who should dare to propose marriage to his mother, that man would by some peremptory41 unrevealed agency immediately disappear from the earth.
This romantic filial love of Pierre seemed fully42 returned by the triumphant43 maternal44 pride of the widow, who in the clear-cut lineaments and noble air of the son, saw her own graces strangely translated into the opposite sex. There was a striking personal resemblance between them; and as the mother seemed to have long stood still in her beauty, heedless of the passing years; so Pierre seemed to meet her half-way, and by a splendid precocity45 of form and feature, almost advanced himself to that mature stand-point in Time, where his pedestaled mother so long had stood. In the playfulness of their unclouded love, and with that strange license47 which a perfect confidence and mutual understanding at all points, had long bred between them, they were wont49 to call each other brother and sister. Both in public and private this was their usage; nor when thrown among strangers, was this mode of address ever suspected for a sportful assumption; since the amaranthiness of Mrs. Glendinning fully sustained this youthful pretension51.—Thus freely and lightsomely for mother and son flowed on the pure joined current of life. But as yet the fair river had not borne its waves to those sideways repelling52 rocks, where it was thenceforth destined53 to be forever divided into two unmixing streams.
An excellent English author of these times enumerating54 the prime advantages of his natal55 lot, cites foremost, that he first saw the rural light. So with Pierre. It had been his choice fate to have been born and nurtured57 in the country, surrounded by scenery whose uncommon58 loveliness was the perfect mould of a delicate and poetic59 mind; while the popular names of its finest features appealed to the proudest patriotic60 and family associations of the historic line of Glendinning. On the meadows which sloped away from the shaded rear of the manorial61 mansion62, far to the winding63 river, an Indian battle had been fought, in the earlier days of the colony, and in that battle the paternal64 great-grandfather of Pierre, mortally wounded, had sat unhorsed on his saddle in the grass, with his dying voice, still cheering his men in the fray65. This was Saddle-Meadows, a name likewise extended to the mansion and the village. Far beyond these plains, a day's walk for Pierre, rose the storied heights, where in the Revolutionary War his grandfather had for several months defended a rude but all-important stockaded fort, against the repeated combined assaults of Indians, Tories, and Regulars. From before that fort, the gentlemanly, but murderous half-breed, Brandt, had fled, but had survived to dine with General Glendinning, in the amicable67 times which followed that vindictive68 war. All the associations of Saddle-Meadows were full of pride to Pierre. The Glendinning deeds by which their estate had so long been held, bore the cyphers of three Indian kings, the aboriginal69 and only conveyancers of those noble woods and plains. Thus loftily, in the days of his circumscribed70 youth, did Pierre glance along the background of his race; little recking of that maturer and larger interior development, which should forever deprive these things of their full power of pride in his soul.
But the breeding of Pierre would have been unwisely contracted, had his youth been unintermittingly passed in these rural scenes. At a very early period he had begun to accompany his father and mother—and afterwards his mother alone—in their annual visits to the city; where naturally mingling71 in a large and polished society, Pierre had insensibly formed himself in the airier graces of life, without enfeebling the vigor72 derived73 from a martial74 race, and fostered in the country's clarion75 air.
Nor while thus liberally developed in person and manners, was Pierre deficient76 in a still better and finer culture. Not in vain had he spent long summer afternoons in the deep recesses77 of his father's fastidiously picked and decorous library; where the Spenserian nymphs had early led him into many a maze78 of all-bewildering beauty. Thus, with a graceful79 glow on his limbs, and soft, imaginative flames in his heart, did this Pierre glide80 toward maturity81, thoughtless of that period of remorseless insight, when all these delicate warmths should seem frigid82 to him, and he should madly demand more ardent fires.
Nor had that pride and love which had so bountifully provided for the youthful nurture56 of Pierre, neglected his culture in the deepest element of all. It had been a maxim83 with the father of Pierre, that all gentlemanhood was vain; all claims to it preposterous84 and absurd, unless the primeval gentleness and golden humanities of religion had been so thoroughly85 wrought86 into the complete texture87 of the character, that he who pronounced himself gentleman, could also rightfully assume the meek88, but kingly style of Christian89. At the age of sixteen, Pierre partook with his mother of the Holy Sacraments.
It were needless, and more difficult, perhaps, to trace out precisely90 the absolute motives91 which prompted these youthful vows92. Enough, that as to Pierre had descended93 the numerous other noble qualities of his ancestors; and as he now stood heir to their forests and farms; so by the same insensible sliding process, he seemed to have inherited their docile95 homage96 to a venerable Faith, which the first Glendinning had brought over sea, from beneath the shadow of an English minister. Thus in Pierre was the complete polished steel of the gentleman, girded with Religion's silken sash; and his great-grandfather's soldierly fate had taught him that the generous sash should, in the last bitter trial, furnish its wearer with Glory's shroud97; so that what through life had been worn for Grace's sake, in death might safely hold the man. But while thus all alive to the beauty and poesy of his father's faith, Pierre little foresaw that this world hath a secret deeper than beauty, and Life some burdens heavier than death.
So perfect to Pierre had long seemed the illuminated98 scroll37 of his life thus far, that only one hiatus was discoverable by him in that sweetly-writ manuscript. A sister had been omitted from the text. He mourned that so delicious a feeling as fraternal love had been denied him. Nor could the fictitious99 title, which he so often lavished100 upon his mother, at all supply the absent reality. This emotion was most natural; and the full cause and reason of it even Pierre did not at that time entirely101 appreciate. For surely a gentle sister is the second best gift to a man; and it is first in point of occurrence; for the wife comes after. He who is sisterless, is as a bachelor before his time. For much that goes to make up the deliciousness of a wife, already lies in the sister.
"Oh, had my father but had a daughter!" cried Pierre; "some one whom I might love, and protect, and fight for, if need be. It must be a glorious thing to engage in a mortal quarrel on a sweet sister's behalf! Now, of all things, would to heaven, I had a sister!"
Thus, ere entranced in the gentler bonds of a lover; thus often would Pierre invoke102 heaven for a sister; but Pierre did not then know, that if there be any thing a man might well pray against, that thing is the responsive gratification of some of the devoutest prayers of his youth.
It may have been that this strange yearning104 of Pierre for a sister, had part of its origin in that still stranger feeling of loneliness he sometimes experienced, as not only the solitary105 head of his family, but the only surnamed male Glendinning extant. A powerful and populous106 family had by degrees run off into the female branches; so that Pierre found himself surrounded by numerous kinsmen107 and kinswomen, yet companioned by no surnamed male Glendinning, but the duplicate one reflected to him in the mirror. But in his more wonted natural mood, this thought was not wholly sad to him. Nay108, sometimes it mounted into an exultant109 swell110. For in the ruddiness, and flushfulness, and vain-gloriousness of his youthful soul, he fondly hoped to have a monopoly of glory in capping the fame-column, whose tall shaft111 had been erected112 by his noble sires.
In all this, how unadmonished was our Pierre by that foreboding and prophetic lesson taught, not less by Palmyra's quarries113, than by Palmyra's ruins. Among those ruins is a crumbling114, uncompleted shaft, and some leagues off, ages ago left in the quarry115, is the crumbling corresponding capital, also incomplete. These Time seized and spoiled; these Time crushed in the egg; and the proud stone that should have stood among the clouds, Time left abased116 beneath the soil. Oh, what quenchless117 feud118 is this, that Time hath with the sons of Men!
III.
IT has been said that the beautiful country round about Pierre appealed to very proud memories. But not only through the mere119 chances of things, had that fine country become ennobled by the deeds of his sires, but in Pierre's eyes, all its hills and swales seemed as sanctified through their very long uninterrupted possession by his race.
That fond ideality which, in the eyes of affection, hallows the least trinket once familiar to the person of a departed love; with Pierre that talisman120 touched the whole earthly landscape about him; for remembering that on those hills his own fine fathers had gazed; through those woods, over these lawns, by that stream, along these tangled121 paths, many a grand-dame of his had merrily strolled when a girl; vividly122 recalling these things, Pierre deemed all that part of the earth a love-token; so that his very horizon was to him as a memorial ring.
The monarchical123 world very generally imagines, that in demagoguical America the sacred Past hath no fixed124 statues erected to it, but all things irreverently seethe125 and boil in the vulgar caldron of an everlasting126 uncrystalizing Present. This conceit127 would seem peculiarly applicable to the social condition. With no chartered aristocracy, and no law of entail129, how can any family in America imposingly130 perpetuate131 itself? Certainly that common saying among us, which declares, that be a family conspicuous26 as it may, a single half-century shall see it abased; that maxim undoubtedly132 holds true with the commonalty. In our cities families rise and burst like bubbles in a vat33. For indeed the democratic element operates as a subtile acid among us; forever producing new things by corroding134 the old; as in the south of France verdigris135, the primitive136 material of one kind of green paint, is produced by grape-vinegar poured upon copper137 plates. Now in general nothing can be more significant of decay than the idea of corrosion138; yet on the other hand, nothing can more vividly suggest luxuriance of life, than the idea of green as a color; for green is the peculiar128 signet of all-fertile Nature herself. Herein by apt analogy we behold18 the marked anomalousness139 of America; whose character abroad, we need not be surprised, is misconceived, when we consider how strangely she contradicts all prior notions of human things; and how wonderfully to her, Death itself becomes transmuted140 into Life. So that political institutions, which in other lands seem above all things intensely artificial, with America seem to possess the divine virtue142 of a natural law; for the most mighty143 of nature's laws is this, that out of Death she brings Life.
Still, are there things in the visible world, over which ever-shifting Nature hath not so unbounded a sway. The grass is annually144 changed; but the limbs of the oak, for a long term of years, defy that annual decree. And if in America the vast mass of families be as the blades of grass, yet some few there are that stand as the oak; which, instead of decaying, annually puts forth new branches; whereby Time, instead of subtracting, is made to capitulate into a multiple virtue.
In this matter we will—not superciliously145, but in fair spirit—compare pedigrees with England, and strange as it may seem at the first blush, not without some claim to equality. I dare say, that in this thing the Peerage Book is a good statistical146 standard whereby to judge her; since the compilers of that work can not be entirely insensible on whose patronage147 they most rely; and the common intelligence of our own people shall suffice to judge us. But the magnificence of names must not mislead us as to the humility148 of things. For as the breath in all our lungs is hereditary149, and my present breath at this moment, is further descended than the body of the present High Priest of the Jews, so far as he can assuredly trace it; so mere names, which are also but air, do likewise revel150 in this endless descendedness. But if Richmond, and St. Albans, and Grafton, and Portland, and Buccleugh, be names almost old as England herself, the present Dukes of those names stop in their own genuine pedigrees at Charles II., and there find no very fine fountain; since what we would deem the least glorious parentage under the sun, is precisely the parentage of a Buccleugh, for example; whose ancestress could not well avoid being a mother, it is true, but had accidentally omitted the preliminary rite94. Yet a king was the sire. Then only so much the worse; for if it be small insult to be struck by a pauper151, but mortal offense152 to receive a blow from a gentleman, then of all things the bye-blows of kings must be signally unflattering. In England the Peerage is kept alive by incessant153 restorations and creations. One man, George III., manufactured five hundred and twenty-two peers. An earldom, in abeyance154 for five centuries, has suddenly been assumed by some commoner, to whom it had not so much descended, as through the art of the lawyers been made flexibly to bend in that direction. For not Thames is so sinuous155 in his natural course, not the Bridgewater Canal more artificially conducted, than blood in the veins156 of that winding or manufactured nobility. Perishable157 as stubble, and fungous as the fungi158, those grafted159 families successively live and die on the eternal soil of a name. In England this day, twenty-five hundred peerages are extinct; but the names survive. So that the empty air of a name is more endurable than a man, or than dynasties of men; the air fills man's lungs and puts life into a man, but man fills not the air, nor puts life into that.
All honor to the names then, and all courtesy to the men; but if St. Albans tell me he is all-honorable and all-eternal, I must still politely refer him to Nell Gwynne.
Beyond Charles II. very few indeed—hardly worthy160 of note—are the present titled English families which can trace any thing like a direct unvitiated blood-descent from the thief knights161 of the Norman. Beyond Charles II. their direct genealogies162 seem vain as though some Jew clothesman, with a tea-canister on his head, turned over the first chapter of St. Matthew to make out his unmingled participation163 in the blood of King Saul, who had long died ere the career of the C?sar began.
Now, not preliminarily to enlarge upon the fact that, while in England an immense mass of state-masonry164 is brought to bear as a buttress165 in upholding the hereditary existence of certain houses, while with us nothing of that kind can possibly be admitted; and to omit all mention of the hundreds of unobtrusive families in New England who, nevertheless, might easily trace their uninterrupted English lineage to a time before Charles the Blade: not to speak of the old and oriental-like English planter families of Virginia and the South; the Randolphs for example, one of whose ancestors, in King James' time, married Pocahontas the Indian Princess, and in whose blood therefore an underived aboriginal royalty167 was flowing over two hundred years ago; consider those most ancient and magnificent Dutch Manors168 at the North, whose perches169 are miles—whose meadows overspread adjacent countries—and whose haughty rent-deeds are held by their thousand farmer tenants171, so long as grass grows and water runs; which hints of a surprising eternity172 for a deed, and seem to make lawyer's ink unobliterable as the sea. Some of those manors are two centuries old; and their present patrons or lords will show you stakes and stones on their estates put there—the stones at least—before Nell Gwynne the Duke-mother was born, and genealogies which, like their own river, Hudson, flow somewhat farther and straighter than the Serpentine173 brooklet174 in Hyde Park.
These far-descended Dutch meadows lie steeped in a Hindooish haze175; an eastern patriarchalness sways its mild crook176 over pastures, whose tenant170 flocks shall there feed, long as their own grass grows, long as their own water shall run. Such estates seem to defy Time's tooth, and by conditions which take hold of the indestructible earth seem to contemporize their fee-simples with eternity. Unimaginable audacity177 of a worm that but crawls through the soil he so imperially claims!
In midland counties of England they boast of old oaken dining-halls where three hundred men-at-arms could exercise of a rainy afternoon, in the reign178 of the Plantagenets. But our lords, the Patroons, appeal not to the past, but they point to the present. One will show you that the public census179 of a county is but part of the roll of his tenants. Ranges of mountains, high as Ben Nevis or Snowdon, are their walls; and regular armies, with staffs of officers, crossing rivers with artillery180, and marching through primeval woods, and threading vast rocky defiles181, have been sent out to distrain182 upon three thousand farmer-tenants of one landlord, at a blow. A fact most suggestive two ways; both whereof shall be nameless here.
But whatever one may think of the existence of such mighty lordships in the heart of a republic, and however we may wonder at their thus surviving, like Indian mounds183, the Revolutionary flood; yet survive and exist they do, and are now owned by their present proprietors184, by as good nominal185 title as any peasant owns his father's old hat, or any duke his great-uncle's old coronet.
For all this, then, we shall not err4 very widely if we humbly186 conceive, that—should she choose to glorify187 herself in that inconsiderable way—our America will make out a good general case with England in this short little matter of large estates, and long pedigrees—pedigrees I mean, wherein is no flaw.
IV.
IN general terms we have been thus decided188 in asserting the great genealogical and real-estate dignity of some families in America, because in so doing we poetically189 establish the richly aristocratic condition of Master Pierre Glendinning, for whom we have before claimed some special family distinction. And to the observant reader the sequel will not fail to show, how important is this circumstance, considered with reference to the singularly developed character and most singular life-career of our hero. Nor will any man dream that the last chapter was merely intended for a foolish bravado192, and not with a solid purpose in view.
Now Pierre stands on this noble pedestal; we shall see if he keeps that fine footing; we shall see if Fate hath not just a little bit of a small word or two to say in this world. But it is not laid down here that the Glendinnings dated back beyond Pharaoh, or the deeds of Saddle-Meadows to the Three Magi in the Gospels. Nevertheless, those deeds, as before hinted, did indeed date back to three kings—Indian kings—only so much the finer for that.
But if Pierre did not date back to the Pharaohs, and if the English farmer Hampdens were somewhat the seniors of even the oldest Glendinning; and if some American manors boasted a few additional years and square miles over his, yet think you that it is at all possible, that a youth of nineteen should—merely by way of trial of the thing—strew his ancestral kitchen hearth-stone with wheat in the stalk, and there standing48 in the chimney thresh out that grain with a flail193, whose aerial evolutions had free play among all that masonry; were it not impossible for such a flailer so to thresh wheat in his own ancestral kitchen chimney without feeling just a little twinge or two of what one might call family pride? I should say not.
Or how think you it would be with this youthful Pierre, if every day descending194 to breakfast, he caught sight of an old tattered195 British banner or two, hanging over an arched window in his hall; and those banners captured by his grandfather, the general, in fair fight? Or how think you it would be if every time he heard the band of the military company of the village, he should distinctly recognize the peculiar tap of a British kettle-drum also captured by his grandfather in fair fight, and afterwards suitably inscribed196 on the brass197 and bestowed198 upon the Saddle-Meadows Artillery Corps199? Or how think you it would be, if sometimes of a mild meditative200 Fourth of July morning in the country, he carried out with him into the garden by way of ceremonial cane201, a long, majestic202, silver-tipped staff, a Major-General's baton203, once wielded204 on the plume-nodding and musket-flashing review by the same grandfather several times here-in-before mentioned? I should say that considering Pierre was quite young and very unphilosophical as yet, and withal rather high-blooded; and sometimes read the History of the Revolutionary War, and possessed206 a mother who very frequently made remote social allusions207 to the epaulettes of the Major-General his grandfather;—I should say that upon all of these occasions, the way it must have been with him, was a very proud, elated sort of way. And if this seem but too fond and foolish in Pierre; and if you tell me that this sort of thing in him showed him no sterling208 Democrat133, and that a truly noble man should never brag209 of any arm but his own; then I beg you to consider again that this Pierre was but a youngster as yet. And believe me you will pronounce Pierre a thoroughgoing Democrat in time; perhaps a little too Radical210 altogether to your fancy.
In conclusion, do not blame me if I here make repetition, and do verbally quote my own words in saying that it had been the choice fate of Pierre to have been born and bred in the country. For to a noble American youth this indeed—more than in any other land—this indeed is a most rare and choice lot. For it is to be observed, that while in other countries, the finest families boast of the country as their home; the more prominent among us, proudly cite the city as their seat. Too often the American that himself makes his fortune, builds him a great metropolitan211 house, in the most metropolitan street of the most metropolitan town. Whereas a European of the same sort would thereupon migrate into the country. That herein the European hath the better of it, no poet, no philosopher, and no aristocrat191 will deny. For the country is not only the most poetical190 and philosophical205, but it is the most aristocratic part of this earth, for it is the most venerable, and numerous bards212 have ennobled it by many fine titles. Whereas the town is the more plebeian213 portion: which, besides many other things, is plainly evinced by the dirty unwashed face perpetually worn by the town; but the country, like any Queen, is ever attended by scrupulous214 lady's maids in the guise215 of the seasons, and the town hath but one dress of brick turned up with stone; but the country hath a brave dress for every week in the year; sometimes she changes her dress twenty-four times in the twenty-four hours; and the country weareth her sun by day as a diamond on a Queen's brow; and the stars by night as necklaces of gold beads217; whereas the town's sun is smoky paste, and no diamond, and the town's stars are pinchbeck and not gold.
In the country then Nature planted our Pierre; because Nature intended a rare and original development in Pierre. Never mind if hereby she proved ambiguous to him in the end; nevertheless, in the beginning she did bravely. She blew her wind-clarion from the blue hills, and Pierre neighed out lyrical thoughts, as at the trumpet-blast, a war-horse paws himself into a lyric218 of foam219. She whispered through her deep groves220 at eve, and gentle whispers of humanness, and sweet whispers of love, ran through Pierre's thought-veins, musical as water over pebbles221. She lifted her spangled crest223 of a thickly-starred night, and forth at that glimpse of their divine Captain and Lord, ten thousand mailed thoughts of heroicness started up in Pierre's soul, and glared round for some insulted good cause to defend.
So the country was a glorious benediction224 to young Pierre; we shall see if that blessing225 pass from him as did the divine blessing from the Hebrews; we shall yet see again, I say, whether Fate hath not just a little bit of a word or two to say in this world; we shall see whether this wee little bit scrap226 of latinity be very far out of the way—Nemo contra Deum nisi Deus ipse.
V.
"Sister Mary," said Pierre, returned from his sunrise stroll, and tapping at his mother's chamber227 door:—"do you know, sister Mary, that the trees which have been up all night, are all abroad again this morning before you?—Do you not smell something like coffee, my sister?"
A light step moved from within toward the door; which opened, showing Mrs. Glendinning, in a resplendently cheerful morning robe, and holding a gay wide ribbon in her hand.
"Good morning, madam," said Pierre, slowly, and with a bow, whose genuine and spontaneous reverence228 amusingly contrasted with the sportive manner that had preceded it. For thus sweetly and religiously was the familiarity of his affections bottomed on the profoundest filial respect.
"Good afternoon to you, Pierre, for I suppose it is afternoon. But come, you shall finish my toilette;—here, brother—" reaching the ribbon—"now acquit230 yourself bravely—" and seating herself away from the glass, she awaited the good offices of Pierre.
"First Lady in waiting to the Dowager Duchess Glendinning," laughed Pierre, as bowing over before his mother, he gracefully231 passed the ribbon round her neck, simply crossing the ends in front.
"Well, what is to hold it there, Pierre?"
"I am going to try and tack232 it with a kiss, sister,—there!—oh, what a pity that sort of fastening won't always hold!—where's the cameo with the fawns233, I gave you last night?—Ah! on the slab—you were going to wear it then?—Thank you, my considerate and most politic141 sister—there!—but stop—here's a ringlet gone romping—so now, dear sister, give that Assyrian toss to your head."
The haughtily234 happy mother rose to her feet, and as she stood before the mirror to criticize her son's adornings, Pierre, noticing the straggling tie of her slipper235, knelt down and secured it. "And now for the urn," he cried, "madam!" and with a humorous gallantry, offering his arm to his mother, the pair descended to breakfast.
With Mrs. Glendinning it was one of those spontaneous maxims236, which women sometimes act upon without ever thinking of, never to appear in the presence of her son in any dishabille that was not eminently237 becoming. Her own independent observation of things, had revealed to her many very common maxims, which often become operatively lifeless from a vicarious reception of them. She was vividly aware how immense was that influence, which, even in the closest ties of the heart, the merest appearances make upon the mind. And as in the admiring love and graceful devotion of Pierre lay now her highest joy in life; so she omitted no slightest trifle which could possibly contribute to the preservation238 of so sweet and flattering a thing.
Besides all this, Mary Glendinning was a woman, and with more than the ordinary vanity of women—if vanity it can be called—which in a life of nearly fifty years had never betrayed her into a single published impropriety, or caused her one known pang222 at the heart. Moreover, she had never yearned240 for admiration; because that was her birthright by the eternal privilege of beauty; she had always possessed it; she had not to turn her head for it, since spontaneously it always encompassed241 her. Vanity, which in so many women approaches to a spiritual vice242, and therefore to a visible blemish243; in her peculiar case—and though possessed in a transcendent degree—was still the token of the highest health; inasmuch as never knowing what it was to yearn103 for its gratification, she was almost entirely unconscious of possessing it at all. Many women carry this light of their lives flaming on their foreheads; but Mary Glendinning unknowingly bore hers within. Through all the infinite traceries of feminine art, she evenly glowed like a vase which, internally illuminated, gives no outward sign of the lighting244 flame, but seems to shine by the very virtue of the exquisite245 marble itself. But that bluff246 corporeal247 admiration, with which some ball-room women are content, was no admiration to the mother of Pierre. Not the general homage of men, but the selected homage of the noblest men, was what she felt to be her appropriate right. And as her own maternal partialities were added to, and glorified248 the rare and absolute merits of Pierre; she considered the voluntary allegiance of his affectionate soul, the representative fealty249 of the choicest guild250 of his race. Thus, though replenished251 through all her veins with the subtlest vanity, with the homage of Pierre alone she was content.
But as to a woman of sense and spirit, the admiration of even the noblest and most gifted man, is esteemed252 as nothing, so long as she remains253 conscious of possessing no directly influencing and practical sorcery over his soul; and as notwithstanding all his intellectual superiority to his mother, Pierre, through the unavoidable weakness of inexperienced and unexpanded youth, was strangely docile to the maternal tuitions in nearly all the things which thus far had any ways interested or affected254 him; therefore it was, that to Mary Glendinning this reverence of Pierre was invested with all the proudest delights and witcheries of self-complacency, which it is possible for the most conquering virgin166 to feel. Still more. That nameless and infinitely255 delicate aroma256 of inexpressible tenderness and attentiveness257 which, in every refined and honorable attachment258, is cotemporary with the courtship, and precedes the final banns and the rite; but which, like the bouquet259 of the costliest260 German wines, too often evaporates upon pouring love out to drink, in the disenchanting glasses of the matrimonial days and nights; this highest and airiest thing in the whole compass of the experience of our mortal life; this heavenly evanescence—still further etherealized in the filial breast—was for Mary Glendinning, now not very far from her grand climacteric, miraculously revived in the courteous261 lover-like adoration262 of Pierre.
Altogether having its origin in a wonderful but purely263 fortuitous combination of the happiest and rarest accidents of earth; and not to be limited in duration by that climax264 which is so fatal to ordinary love; this softened265 spell which still wheeled the mother and son in one orbit of joy, seemed a glimpse of the glorious possibility, that the divinest of those emotions, which are incident to the sweetest season of love, is capable of an indefinite translation into many of the less signal relations of our many chequered life. In a detached and individual way, it seemed almost to realize here below the sweet dreams of those religious enthusiasts266, who paint to us a Paradise to come, when etherealized from all drosses and stains, the holiest passion of man shall unite all kindreds and climes in one circle of pure and unimpairable delight.
VI.
THERE was one little uncelestial trait, which, in the opinion of some, may mar29 the romantic merits of the gentlemanly Pierre Glendinning. He always had an excellent appetite, and especially for his breakfast. But when we consider that though Pierre's hands were small, and his ruffles267 white, yet his arm was by no means dainty, and his complexion269 inclined to brown; and that he generally rose with the sun, and could not sleep without riding his twenty, or walking his twelve miles a day, or felling a fair-sized hemlock270 in the forest, or boxing, or fencing, or boating, or performing some other gymnastical feat46; when we consider these athletic271 habitudes of Pierre, and the great fullness of brawn272 and muscle they built round about him; all of which manly66 brawn and muscle, three times a day loudly clamored for attention; we shall very soon perceive that to have a bountiful appetite, was not only no vulgar reproach, but a right royal grace and honor to Pierre; attesting273 him a man and a gentleman; for a thoroughly developed gentleman is always robust274 and healthy; and Robustness275 and Health are great trencher-men.
So when Pierre and his mother descended to breakfast, and Pierre had scrupulously276 seen her supplied with whatever little things were convenient to her; and had twice or thrice ordered the respectable and immemorial Dates, the servitor, to adjust and re-adjust the window-sashes, so that no unkind current of air should take undue277 liberties with his mother's neck; after seeing to all this, but in a very quiet and inconspicuous way; and also after directing the unruffled Dates, to swing out, horizontally into a particular light, a fine joyous278 painting, in the good-fellow, Flemish style (which painting was so attached to the wall as to be capable of that mode of adjusting), and furthermore after darting279 from where he sat a few invigorating glances over the river-meadows to the blue mountains beyond; Pierre made a masonic sort of mysterious motion to the excellent Dates, who in automaton280 obedience281 thereto, brought from a certain agreeable little side-stand, a very prominent-looking cold pasty; which, on careful inspection282 with the knife, proved to be the embossed savory283 nest of a few uncommonly284 tender pigeons of Pierre's own shooting.
"Sister Mary," said he, lifting on his silver trident one of the choicest of the many fine pigeon morsels285; "Sister Mary," said he, "in shooting these pigeons, I was very careful to bring down one in such a manner that the breast is entirely unmarred. It was intended for you! and here it is. Now Sergeant286 Dates, help hither your mistress' plate. No?—nothing but the crumbs287 of French rolls, and a few peeps into a coffee-cup—is that a breakfast for the daughter of yonder bold General?"—pointing to a full-length of his gold-laced grandfather on the opposite wall. "Well, pitiable is my case when I have to breakfast for two. Dates!"
"Sir."
"Remove that toast-rack, Dates; and this plate of tongue, and bring the rolls nearer, and wheel the stand farther off, good Dates."
Having thus made generous room for himself, Pierre commenced operations, interrupting his mouthfuls by many sallies of mirthfulness.
"You seem to be in prodigious288 fine spirits this morning, brother Pierre," said his mother.
"Yes, very tolerable; at least I can't say, that I am low-spirited exactly, sister Mary;—Dates, my fine fellow, bring me three bowls of milk."
"One bowl, sir, you mean," said Dates, gravely and imperturbably289.
As the servitor left the room, Mrs. Glendinning spoke290. "My dear Pierre, how often have I begged you never to permit your hilariousness to betray you into overstepping the exact line of propriety239 in your intercourse291 with servants. Dates' look was a respectful reproof292 to you just now. You must not call Dates, My fine fellow. He is a fine fellow, a very fine fellow, indeed; but there is no need of telling him so at my table. It is very easy to be entirely kind and pleasant to servants, without the least touch of any shade of transient good-fellowship with them."
"Well, sister, no doubt you are altogether right; after this I shall drop the fine, and call Dates nothing but fellow;—Fellow, come here!—how will that answer?"
"Not at all, Pierre—but you are a Romeo, you know, and so for the present I pass over your nonsense."
"Romeo! oh, no. I am far from being Romeo—" sighed Pierre. "I laugh, but he cried; poor Romeo! alas293 Romeo! woe294 is me, Romeo! he came to a very deplorable end, did Romeo, sister Mary."
"It was his own fault though."
"Poor Romeo!"
"He was disobedient to his parents."
"Alas Romeo!"
"He married against their particular wishes."
"Woe is me, Romeo!"
"But you, Pierre, are going to be married before long, I trust, not to a Capulet, but to one of our own Montagues; and so Romeo's evil fortune will hardly be yours. You will be happy."
"Don't be so ridiculous, brother Pierre; so you are going to take Lucy that long ride among the hills this morning? She is a sweet girl; a most lovely girl."
"Yes, that is rather my opinion, sister Mary.—By heavens, mother, the five zones hold not such another! She is—yes—though I say it—Dates!—he's a precious long time getting that milk!"
"Let him stay.—Don't be a milk-sop, Pierre!"
"Ha! my sister is a little satirical this morning. I comprehend."
"Never rave216, Pierre; and never rant50. Your father never did either; nor is it written of Socrates; and both were very wise men. Your father was profoundly in love—that I know to my certain knowledge—but I never heard him rant about it. He was always exceedingly gentlemanly: and gentlemen never rant. Milk-sops and Muggletonians rant, but gentlemen never."
"Thank you, sister.—There, put it down, Dates; are the horses ready?"
"Just driving round, sir, I believe."
"Why, Pierre," said his mother, glancing out at the window, "are you going to Santa Fe De Bogota with that enormous old phaeton;—what do you take that Juggernaut out for?"
"Humor, sister, humor; I like it because it's old-fashioned, and because the seat is such a wide sofa of a seat, and finally because a young lady by the name of Lucy Tartan cherishes a high regard for it. She vows she would like to be married in it."
"Well, Pierre, all I have to say, is, be sure that Christopher puts the coach-hammer and nails, and plenty of cords and screws into the box. And you had better let him follow you in one of the farm wagons296, with a spare axle and some boards."
"No fear, sister; no fear;—I shall take the best of care of the old phaeton. The quaint297 old arms on the panel, always remind me who it was that first rode in it."
"I am glad you have that memory, brother Pierre."
"And who it was that next rode in it."
"Bless you!—God bless you, my dear son!—always think of him and you can never err; yes, always think of your dear perfect father, Pierre."
"Well, kiss me now, dear sister, for I must go."
"There; this is my cheek, and the other is Lucy's; though now that I look at them both, I think that hers is getting to be the most blooming; sweeter dews fall on that one, I suppose."
Pierre laughed, and ran out of the room, for old Christopher was getting impatient. His mother went to the window and stood there.
"A noble boy, and docile"—she murmured—"he has all the frolicsomeness298 of youth, with little of its giddiness. And he does not grow vain-glorious in sophomorean wisdom. I thank heaven I sent him not to college. A noble boy, and docile. A fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous boy. Pray God, he never becomes otherwise to me. His little wife, that is to be, will not estrange299 him from me; for she too is docile,—beautiful, and reverential, and most docile. Seldom yet have I known such blue eyes as hers, that were not docile, and would not follow a bold black one, as two meek blue-ribboned ewes, follow their martial leader. How glad am I that Pierre loves her so, and not some dark-eyed haughtiness300, with whom I could never live in peace; but who would be ever setting her young married state before my elderly widowed one, and claiming all the homage of my dear boy—the fine, proud, loving, docile, vigorous boy!—the lofty-minded, well-born, noble boy; and with such sweet docilities! See his hair! He does in truth illustrate301 that fine saying of his father's, that as the noblest colts, in three points—abundant hair, swelling302 chest, and sweet docility303—should resemble a fine woman, so should a noble youth. Well, good-bye, Pierre, and a merry morning to ye!"
So saying she crossed the room, and—resting in a corner—her glad proud eye met the old General's baton, which the day before in one of his frolic moods Pierre had taken from its accustomed place in the pictured-bannered hall. She lifted it, and musingly229 swayed it to and fro; then paused, and staff-wise rested with it in her hand. Her stately beauty had ever somewhat martial in it; and now she looked the daughter of a General, as she was; for Pierre's was a double revolutionary descent. On both sides he sprang from heroes.
"This is his inheritance—this symbol of command! and I swell out to think it. Yet but just now I fondled the conceit that Pierre was so sweetly docile! Here sure is a most strange inconsistency! For is sweet docility a general's badge? and is this baton but a distaff then?—Here's something widely wrong. Now I almost wish him otherwise than sweet and docile to me, seeing that it must be hard for man to be an uncompromising hero and a commander among his race, and yet never ruffle268 any domestic brow. Pray heaven he show his heroicness in some smooth way of favoring fortune, not be called out to be a hero of some dark hope forlorn;—of some dark hope forlorn, whose cruelness makes a savage304 of a man. Give him, O God, regardful gales305! Fan him with unwavering prosperities! So shall he remain all docility to me, and yet prove a haughty hero to the world!"
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1
sojourner
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n.旅居者,寄居者 | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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repose
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v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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err
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vi.犯错误,出差错 | |
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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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vista
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n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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verdant
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adj.翠绿的,青翠的,生疏的,不老练的 | |
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brindled
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adj.有斑纹的 | |
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casement
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n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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glossy
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adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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reposes
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v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shrub
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n.灌木,灌木丛 | |
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crimson
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n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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hush
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int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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ardently
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adv.热心地,热烈地 | |
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ardent
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adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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beholding
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v.看,注视( behold的现在分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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18
behold
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v.看,注视,看到 | |
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mutual
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adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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boundless
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adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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invoking
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v.援引( invoke的现在分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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profane
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adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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circumventing
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v.设法克服或避免(某事物),回避( circumvent的现在分词 );绕过,绕行,绕道旅行 | |
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trophies
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n.(为竞赛获胜者颁发的)奖品( trophy的名词复数 );奖杯;(尤指狩猎或战争中获得的)纪念品;(用于比赛或赛跑名称)奖 | |
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conspicuous
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adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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conspicuously
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ad.明显地,惹人注目地 | |
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bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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mar
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vt.破坏,毁坏,弄糟 | |
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affluent
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adj.富裕的,富有的,丰富的,富饶的 | |
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haughty
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adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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preservative
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n.防腐剂;防腐料;保护料;预防药 | |
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vat
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n.(=value added tax)增值税,大桶 | |
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sordid
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adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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miraculously
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ad.奇迹般地 | |
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litheness
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scroll
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n.卷轴,纸卷;(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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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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snares
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n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 );圈套;诱人遭受失败(丢脸、损失等)的东西;诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉,诱陷,陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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malice
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n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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peremptory
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adj.紧急的,专横的,断然的 | |
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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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triumphant
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adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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maternal
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adj.母亲的,母亲般的,母系的,母方的 | |
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precocity
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n.早熟,早成 | |
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feat
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n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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license
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n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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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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wont
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adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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rant
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v.咆哮;怒吼;n.大话;粗野的话 | |
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pretension
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n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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52
repelling
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v.击退( repel的现在分词 );使厌恶;排斥;推开 | |
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destined
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adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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enumerating
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v.列举,枚举,数( enumerate的现在分词 ) | |
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55
natal
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adj.出生的,先天的 | |
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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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nurtured
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养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 ); 培育; 滋长; 助长 | |
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58
uncommon
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adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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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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patriotic
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adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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manorial
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adj.庄园的 | |
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mansion
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n.大厦,大楼;宅第 | |
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winding
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n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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paternal
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adj.父亲的,像父亲的,父系的,父方的 | |
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65
fray
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v.争吵;打斗;磨损,磨破;n.吵架;打斗 | |
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66
manly
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adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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amicable
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adj.和平的,友好的;友善的 | |
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vindictive
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adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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aboriginal
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adj.(指动植物)土生的,原产地的,土著的 | |
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circumscribed
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adj.[医]局限的:受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 );划定…范围;限制;限定 | |
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mingling
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adj.混合的 | |
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vigor
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n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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derived
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vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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martial
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adj.战争的,军事的,尚武的,威武的 | |
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clarion
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n.尖音小号声;尖音小号 | |
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deficient
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adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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recesses
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n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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78
maze
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n.迷宫,八阵图,混乱,迷惑 | |
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79
graceful
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adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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80
glide
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n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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81
maturity
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n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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82
frigid
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adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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83
maxim
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n.格言,箴言 | |
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84
preposterous
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adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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85
thoroughly
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adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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86
wrought
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v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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87
texture
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n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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88
meek
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adj.温顺的,逆来顺受的 | |
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89
Christian
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adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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90
precisely
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adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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91
motives
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n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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92
vows
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誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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93
descended
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a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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94
rite
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n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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95
docile
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adj.驯服的,易控制的,容易教的 | |
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96
homage
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n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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97
shroud
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n.裹尸布,寿衣;罩,幕;vt.覆盖,隐藏 | |
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98
illuminated
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adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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99
fictitious
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adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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100
lavished
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v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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102
invoke
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v.求助于(神、法律);恳求,乞求 | |
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103
yearn
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v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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104
yearning
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a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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105
solitary
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adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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106
populous
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adj.人口稠密的,人口众多的 | |
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107
kinsmen
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n.家属,亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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108
nay
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adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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109
exultant
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adj.欢腾的,狂欢的,大喜的 | |
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110
swell
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vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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111
shaft
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n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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112
ERECTED
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adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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113
quarries
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n.(采)石场( quarry的名词复数 );猎物(指鸟,兽等);方形石;(格窗等的)方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 );从(书本等中)努力发掘(资料等);在采石场采石 | |
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114
crumbling
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adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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115
quarry
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n.采石场;v.采石;费力地找 | |
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116
abased
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使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 ); 使感到羞耻; 使降低(地位、身份等); 降下 | |
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117
quenchless
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不可熄灭的 | |
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118
feud
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n.长期不和;世仇;v.长期争斗;世代结仇 | |
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119
mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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120
talisman
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n.避邪物,护身符 | |
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121
tangled
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adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
vividly
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adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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123
monarchical
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adj. 国王的,帝王的,君主的,拥护君主制的 =monarchic | |
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124
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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125
seethe
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vi.拥挤,云集;发怒,激动,骚动 | |
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126
everlasting
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adj.永恒的,持久的,无止境的 | |
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127
conceit
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n.自负,自高自大 | |
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128
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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129
entail
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vt.使承担,使成为必要,需要 | |
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130
imposingly
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131
perpetuate
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v.使永存,使永记不忘 | |
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132
undoubtedly
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adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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133
democrat
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n.民主主义者,民主人士;民主党党员 | |
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134
corroding
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使腐蚀,侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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135
verdigris
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n.铜锈;铜绿 | |
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136
primitive
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adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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137
copper
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n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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138
corrosion
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n.腐蚀,侵蚀;渐渐毁坏,渐衰 | |
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139
anomalousness
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140
transmuted
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v.使变形,使变质,把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
politic
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adj.有智虑的;精明的;v.从政 | |
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142
virtue
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n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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143
mighty
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adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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144
annually
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adv.一年一次,每年 | |
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145
superciliously
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adv.高傲地;傲慢地 | |
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146
statistical
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adj.统计的,统计学的 | |
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147
patronage
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n.赞助,支援,援助;光顾,捧场 | |
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148
humility
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n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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149
hereditary
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adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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150
revel
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vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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151
pauper
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n.贫民,被救济者,穷人 | |
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152
offense
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n.犯规,违法行为;冒犯,得罪 | |
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153
incessant
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adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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154
abeyance
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n.搁置,缓办,中止,产权未定 | |
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155
sinuous
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adj.蜿蜒的,迂回的 | |
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156
veins
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n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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157
perishable
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adj.(尤指食物)易腐的,易坏的 | |
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158
fungi
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n.真菌,霉菌 | |
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159
grafted
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移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 ); 嫁接; 使(思想、制度等)成为(…的一部份); 植根 | |
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160
worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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161
knights
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骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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162
genealogies
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n.系谱,家系,宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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163
participation
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n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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164
masonry
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n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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165
buttress
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n.支撑物;v.支持 | |
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166
virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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167
royalty
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n.皇家,皇族 | |
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168
manors
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n.庄园(manor的复数形式) | |
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169
perches
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栖息处( perch的名词复数 ); 栖枝; 高处; 鲈鱼 | |
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170
tenant
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n.承租人;房客;佃户;v.租借,租用 | |
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171
tenants
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n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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172
eternity
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n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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173
serpentine
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adj.蜿蜒的,弯曲的 | |
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174
brooklet
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n. 细流, 小河 | |
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175
haze
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n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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176
crook
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v.使弯曲;n.小偷,骗子,贼;弯曲(处) | |
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177
audacity
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n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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178
reign
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n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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179
census
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n.(官方的)人口调查,人口普查 | |
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180
artillery
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n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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181
defiles
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v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 );污染;弄脏;纵列行进 | |
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182
distrain
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n.为抵债而扣押 | |
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183
mounds
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土堆,土丘( mound的名词复数 ); 一大堆 | |
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184
proprietors
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n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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185
nominal
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adj.名义上的;(金额、租金)微不足道的 | |
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186
humbly
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adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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187
glorify
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vt.颂扬,赞美,使增光,美化 | |
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188
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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189
poetically
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adv.有诗意地,用韵文 | |
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190
poetical
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adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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191
aristocrat
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n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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192
bravado
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n.虚张声势,故作勇敢,逞能 | |
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193
flail
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v.用连枷打;击打;n.连枷(脱粒用的工具) | |
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194
descending
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n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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195
tattered
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adj.破旧的,衣衫破的 | |
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196
inscribed
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v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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197
brass
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n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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198
bestowed
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赠给,授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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199
corps
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n.(通信等兵种的)部队;(同类作的)一组 | |
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200
meditative
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adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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201
cane
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n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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202
majestic
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adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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203
baton
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n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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204
wielded
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手持着使用(武器、工具等)( wield的过去式和过去分词 ); 具有; 运用(权力); 施加(影响) | |
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205
philosophical
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adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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206
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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207
allusions
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暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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208
sterling
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adj.英币的(纯粹的,货真价实的);n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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209
brag
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v./n.吹牛,自夸;adj.第一流的 | |
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210
radical
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n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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211
metropolitan
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adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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212
bards
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n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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213
plebeian
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adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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214
scrupulous
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adj.审慎的,小心翼翼的,完全的,纯粹的 | |
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215
guise
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n.外表,伪装的姿态 | |
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216
rave
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vi.胡言乱语;热衷谈论;n.热情赞扬 | |
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217
beads
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n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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218
lyric
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n.抒情诗,歌词;adj.抒情的 | |
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219
foam
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v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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220
groves
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树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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221
pebbles
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[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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222
pang
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n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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223
crest
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n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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224
benediction
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n.祝福;恩赐 | |
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225
blessing
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n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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226
scrap
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n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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227
chamber
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n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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228
reverence
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n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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229
musingly
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adv.沉思地,冥想地 | |
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230
acquit
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vt.宣判无罪;(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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231
gracefully
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ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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232
tack
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n.大头钉;假缝,粗缝 | |
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233
fawns
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n.(未满一岁的)幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 );浅黄褐色;乞怜者;奉承者v.(尤指狗等)跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 );巴结;讨好 | |
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234
haughtily
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adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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235
slipper
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n.拖鞋 | |
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236
maxims
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n.格言,座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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237
eminently
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adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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238
preservation
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n.保护,维护,保存,保留,保持 | |
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239
propriety
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n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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240
yearned
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渴望,切盼,向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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241
encompassed
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v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 );包围;包含;包括 | |
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242
vice
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n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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243
blemish
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v.损害;玷污;瑕疵,缺点 | |
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244
lighting
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n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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245
exquisite
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adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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246
bluff
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v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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247
corporeal
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adj.肉体的,身体的;物质的 | |
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248
glorified
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美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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249
fealty
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n.忠贞,忠节 | |
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250
guild
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n.行会,同业公会,协会 | |
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251
replenished
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补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 ); 重新装满 | |
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252
esteemed
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adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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253
remains
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n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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254
affected
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adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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255
infinitely
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adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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256
aroma
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n.香气,芬芳,芳香 | |
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257
attentiveness
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[医]注意 | |
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258
attachment
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n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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259
bouquet
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n.花束,酒香 | |
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260
costliest
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adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 );代价高的;引起困难的;造成损失的 | |
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261
courteous
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adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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262
adoration
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n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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263
purely
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adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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264
climax
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n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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265
softened
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(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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266
enthusiasts
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n.热心人,热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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267
ruffles
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褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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268
ruffle
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v.弄皱,弄乱;激怒,扰乱;n.褶裥饰边 | |
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269
complexion
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n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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270
hemlock
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n.毒胡萝卜,铁杉 | |
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271
athletic
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adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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272
brawn
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n.体力 | |
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273
attesting
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v.证明( attest的现在分词 );证实;声称…属实;使宣誓 | |
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274
robust
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adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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robustness
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坚固性,健壮性;鲁棒性 | |
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276
scrupulously
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adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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277
undue
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adj.过分的;不适当的;未到期的 | |
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278
joyous
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adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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279
darting
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v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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280
automaton
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n.自动机器,机器人 | |
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281
obedience
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n.服从,顺从 | |
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282
inspection
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n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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283
savory
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adj.风味极佳的,可口的,味香的 | |
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284
uncommonly
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adv. 稀罕(极,非常) | |
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285
morsels
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n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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286
sergeant
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n.警官,中士 | |
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287
crumbs
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int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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288
prodigious
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adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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289
imperturbably
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adv.泰然地,镇静地,平静地 | |
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290
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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291
intercourse
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n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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292
reproof
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n.斥责,责备 | |
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293
alas
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int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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294
woe
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n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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295
miserable
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adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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296
wagons
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n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 );铁路货车;小手推车 | |
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297
quaint
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adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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298
frolicsomeness
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299
estrange
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v.使疏远,离间,使离开 | |
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300
haughtiness
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n.傲慢;傲气 | |
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301
illustrate
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v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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302
swelling
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n.肿胀 | |
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303
docility
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n.容易教,易驾驶,驯服 | |
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304
savage
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adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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305
gales
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龙猫 | |
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