Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature1, he gave one the idea of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly2 on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.
As he sat at his desk in the King’s Inns he thought what changes those eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and necessitous guise3 had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He turned often from his tiresome4 writing to gaze out of the office window. The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It cast a shower of kindly5 golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit6 old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered7 upon all the moving figures—on the children who ran screaming along the gravel8 paths and on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he became sad. A gentle melancholy9 took possession of him. He felt how useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.
He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the little room off the hall, he had been tempted10 to take one down from the bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.
When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of his fellow-clerks punctiliously11. He emerged from under the feudal12 arch of the King’s Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning13 and the air had grown sharp. A horde14 of grimy children populated the street. They stood or ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping16 doors or squatted17 like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no thought. He picked his way deftly18 through all that minute vermin-like life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral19 mansions20 in which the old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, for his mind was full of a present joy.
He had never been in Corless’s but he knew the value of the name. He knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters21 and drink liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke22 French and German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn23 up before the door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively24 and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his footsteps troubled him, the wandering silent figures troubled him; and at times a sound of low fugitive25 laughter made him tremble like a leaf.
He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that Ignatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody denied him talent. There was always a certain ... something in Ignatius Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out at elbows and at his wits’ end for money he kept up a bold face. Little Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher’s sayings when he was in a tight corner:
“Half time now, boys,” he used to say light-heartedly. “Where’s my considering cap?”
That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn’t but admire him for it.
Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the river towards the lower quays26 and pitied the poor stunted27 houses. They seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled28 together along the riverbanks, their old coats covered with dust and soot29, stupefied by the panorama30 of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic31 moment had touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward32 bravely.
Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He was not so old—thirty-two. His temperament34 might be said to be just at the point of maturity35. There were so many different moods and impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. He tried to weigh his soul to see if it was a poet’s soul. Melancholy was the dominant36 note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a melancholy tempered by recurrences37 of faith and resignation and simple joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he would put in allusions38. He began to invent sentences and phrases from the notice which his book would get. “Mr Chandler has the gift of easy and graceful39 verse.” ... “A wistful sadness pervades40 these poems.” ... “The Celtic note.” It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps it would be better to insert his mother’s name before the surname: Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would speak to Gallaher about it.
He pursued his revery so ardently41 that he passed his street and had to turn back. As he came near Corless’s his former agitation42 began to overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he opened the door and entered.
The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways43 for a few moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously44. He glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far apart.
“Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you have? I’m taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. Soda45? Lithia? No mineral? I’m the same. Spoils the flavour.... Here, gar?on, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well, and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, how old we’re getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me—eh, what? A little grey and thin on the top—what?”
Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped head. His face was heavy, pale and clean-shaven. His eyes, which were of bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent46 his head and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat again.
“It pulls you down,” he said. “Press life. Always hurry and scurry47, looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few days. I’m deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say when.”
“You don’t know what’s good for you, my boy,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I drink mine neat.”
“I drink very little as a rule,” said Little Chandler modestly. “An odd half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that’s all.”
“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, “here’s to us and to old times and old acquaintance.”
They clinked glasses and drank the toast.
“I met some of the old gang today,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “O’Hara seems to be in a bad way. What’s he doing?”
“Nothing,” said Little Chandler. “He’s gone to the dogs.”
“But Hogan has a good sit, hasn’t he?”
“Yes; he’s in the Land Commission.”
“I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor O’Hara! Boose, I suppose?”
“Other things, too,” said Little Chandler shortly.
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“Tommy,” he said, “I see you haven’t changed an atom. You’re the very same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You’d want to knock about a bit in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?”
Ignatius Gallaher laughed.
“The Isle of Man!” he said. “Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. That’d do you good.”
“Have you seen Paris?”
“I should think I have! I’ve knocked about there a little.”
“And is it really so beautiful as they say?” asked Little Chandler.
“Beautiful?” said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the flavour of his drink. “It’s not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is beautiful.... But it’s the life of Paris; that’s the thing. Ah, there’s no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....”
Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded in catching51 the barman’s eye. He ordered the same again.
“I’ve been to the Moulin Rouge,” Ignatius Gallaher continued when the barman had removed their glasses, “and I’ve been to all the Bohemian cafés. Hot stuff! Not for a pious52 chap like you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: then he touched his friend’s glass lightly and reciprocated53 the former toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned54. Gallaher’s accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle55 and competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under this new gaudy56 manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously57.
“Everything in Paris is gay,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “They believe in enjoying life—and don’t you think they’re right? If you want to enjoy yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they’ve a great feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they were ready to eat me, man.”
Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.
“Every place is immoral,” he said. “Of course you do find spicy60 bits in Paris. Go to one of the students’ balls, for instance. That’s lively, if you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what they are, I suppose?”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Little Chandler.
Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.
“Ah,” he said, “you may say what you like. There’s no woman like the Parisienne—for style, for go.”
“Then it is an immoral city,” said Little Chandler, with timid insistence—“I mean, compared with London or Dublin?”
“London!” said Ignatius Gallaher. “It’s six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when he was over there. He’d open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don’t make punch of that whisky: liquor up.”
“No, really....”
“O, come on, another one won’t do you any harm. What is it? The same again, I suppose?”
“Well ... all right.”
“Fran?ois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?”
Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their cigars and puffed61 at them in silence until their drinks were served.
“I’ll tell you my opinion,” said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, “it’s a rum world. Talk of immorality62! I’ve heard of cases—what am I saying?—I’ve known them: cases of ... immorality....”
Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm historian’s tone, he proceeded to sketch63 for his friend some pictures of the corruption64 which was rife65 abroad. He summarised the vices66 of many capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he could not vouch67 for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by telling, with details, a story about an English duchess—a story which he knew to be true. Little Chandler was astonished.
“Ah, well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “here we are in old jog-along Dublin where nothing is known of such things.”
“How dull you must find it,” said Little Chandler, “after all the other places you’ve seen!”
“Well,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “it’s a relaxation68 to come over here, you know. And, after all, it’s the old country, as they say, isn’t it? You can’t help having a certain feeling for it. That’s human nature.... But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had ... tasted the joys of connubial69 bliss70. Two years ago, wasn’t it?”
Little Chandler blushed and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I was married last May twelve months.”
“I hope it’s not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “I didn’t know your address or I’d have done so at the time.”
He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.
“Well, Tommy,” he said, “I wish you and yours every joy in life, old chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And that’s the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?”
“I know that,” said Little Chandler.
“Any youngsters?” said Ignatius Gallaher.
Little Chandler blushed again.
“We have one child,” he said.
“Son or daughter?”
“A little boy.”
Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously71 on the back.
“Bravo,” he said, “I wouldn’t doubt you, Tommy.”
Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower lip with three childishly white front teeth.
“I hope you’ll spend an evening with us,” he said, “before you go back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music and——”
“Thanks awfully72, old chap,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “I’m sorry we didn’t meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.”
“Tonight, perhaps...?”
“I’m awfully sorry, old man. You see I’m over here with another fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little card-party. Only for that....”
“O, in that case....”
“But who knows?” said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. “Next year I may take a little skip over here now that I’ve broken the ice. It’s only a pleasure deferred73.”
“Very well,” said Little Chandler, “the next time you come we must have an evening together. That’s agreed now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s agreed,” said Ignatius Gallaher. “Next year if I come, parole d’honneur.”
Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.
“Is it to be the last?” he said. “Because you know, I have an a.p.”
“O, yes, positively,” said Little Chandler.
“Very well, then,” said Ignatius Gallaher, “let us have another one as a deoc an doruis—that’s good vernacular75 for a small whisky, I believe.”
Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher’s strong cigar had confused his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent76 person. The adventure of meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher in Corless’s surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher’s stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher’s vagrant77 and triumphant78 life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend’s and it seemed to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or could ever do, something higher than mere79 tawdry journalism80 if he only got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate timidity! He wished to vindicate81 himself in some way, to assert his manhood. He saw behind Gallaher’s refusal of his invitation. Gallaher was only patronising him by his friendliness82 just as he was patronising Ireland by his visit.
The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass towards his friend and took up the other boldly.
“Who knows?” he said, as they lifted their glasses. “When you come next year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr and Mrs Ignatius Gallaher.”
Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively83 over the rim15 of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked84 his lips decisively, set down his glass and said:
“No blooming fear of that, my boy. I’m going to have my fling first and see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack—if I ever do.”
“Some day you will,” said Little Chandler calmly.
Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon his friend.
“You think so?” he said.
“You’ll put your head in the sack,” repeated Little Chandler stoutly85, “like everyone else if you can find the girl.”
He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he did not flinch86 from his friend’s gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for a few moments and then said:
“If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there’ll be no mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She’ll have a good fat account at the bank or she won’t do for me.”
Little Chandler shook his head.
“Why, man alive,” said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently87, “do you know what it is? I’ve only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman and the cash. You don’t believe it? Well, I know it. There are hundreds—what am I saying?—thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten with money, that’d only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if I don’t play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, I tell you. You just wait.”
He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:
“But I’m in no hurry. They can wait. I don’t fancy tying myself up to one woman, you know.”
“Must get a bit stale, I should think,” he said.
Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie’s young sister Monica came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley’s. Of course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the shop at the corner closed she decided89 to go out herself for a quarter of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child deftly in his arms and said:
“Here. Don’t waken him.”
A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled90 horn. It was Annie’s photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was empty, standing91 at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while the girl piled ladies’ blouses before him, paying at the desk and forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and stylish92; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed him and said he was very good to think of her.
Hm!...
He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled93 him and defied him: there was no passion in them, no rapture94. He thought of what Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous95 longing96!... Why had he married the eyes in the photograph?
He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously97 round the room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself and it reminded him of her. It too was prim98 and pretty. A dull resentment99 against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way for him.
A volume of Byron’s poems lay before him on the table. He opened it cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began to read the first poem in the book:
Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret’s tomb
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood....
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush100 it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms but its wailing104 cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza105:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once....
It was useless. He couldn’t read. He couldn’t do anything. The wailing of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child’s face he shouted:
“Stop!”
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm106 of fright and began to scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in his arms. It began to sob33 piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe107 it but it sobbed108 more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs109 without a break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!...
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
“What is it? What is it?” she cried.
“It’s nothing, Annie ... it’s nothing.... He began to cry....”
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
“What have you done to him?” she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed together as he met the hatred111 in them. He began to stammer112:
“It’s nothing.... He ... he began to cry.... I couldn’t ... I didn’t do anything.... What?”
Giving no heed113 to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:
“My little man! My little mannie! Was ’ou frightened, love?... There now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma’s little lamb of the world!... There now!”
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused114 with shame and he stood back out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child’s sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse115 started to his eyes.
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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punctiliously
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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spectral
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| adj.幽灵的，鬼魂的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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oysters
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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25
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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26
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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28
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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30
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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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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32
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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33
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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34
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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36
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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37
recurrences
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| n.复发，反复，重现( recurrence的名词复数 ) | |
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38
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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39
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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40
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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41
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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42
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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43
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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44
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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45
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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46
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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47
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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50
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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52
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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54
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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58
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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62
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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63
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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70
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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73
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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74
clinch
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| v.敲弯，钉牢；确定；扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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75
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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76
abstinent
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| adj.饮食有度的，有节制的，禁欲的；n.禁欲者 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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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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79
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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80
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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81
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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82
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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83
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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84
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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86
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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87
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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88
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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89
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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90
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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91
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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92
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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93
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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94
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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95
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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96
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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97
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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98
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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99
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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100
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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101
zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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102
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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103
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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104
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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105
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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106
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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107
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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108
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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109
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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110
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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111
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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112
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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113
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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114
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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