Presently the silence of the room was broken with a little sob9. She looked up. Chirstie’s little sister, standing10 near the window, was just turning[120] away from it. She had been trying to see something of Chirstie. She felt deserted12. Big tears were running slowly down her face. She looked like a neglected, ragged13, little heartbroken waif.
Barbara started from her chair. That moment her face showed she had forgotten the surrounding desolations. She ran and gathered the child into her arms. She sat down with her in her lap. The little Jeannie, finding herself caressed14, began crying lustily. The new mother kissed her. She caressed her. She soothed15 her, coaxing16 her into quietness. She told her little stories. She sang little songs, examining thoughtfully the poor little garments she wore. Dusk came upon them as they sat consoling one another. Barbara demanded help then of the child. Jeannie must show her where all the things were kept which were needed for the supper. They would make some little cakes together. Jeannie grew important and happy.
Dod’s eyes fairly bulged17 with amazement18 when he saw that supper table. Nothing of the sort had been set before him in that kitchen. His new mother made no apologies. She had been thinking to herself that it had been food of the most primitive19 sort that had been set before her by Chirstie on the three occasions upon which they had sat down to eat since she had arrived; doubtless Chirstie wasn’t feeling very well, and she was at best but a young housekeeper20, whose omissions21 one could easily overlook. Barbara was pleased with what she had managed to prepare on the strange stove[121] and in the newfangled oven. She saw her husband scowling22 at the table.
“I dinna like so many cakes!” he remarked severely23. One must begin with these women at once, he seemed to be thinking. He had forgotten apparently24 that his bride came from the very land of cakes, though he wasn’t to be allowed to forget it often in the future.
She said apologetically;
“They’re not so good, I doubt. I couldn’t find any currants in the house. When we get currants you’ll like them fine.”
“There’s too much in them now!” he declared bravely. “We don’t have cake every day.”
Alex McNair was not entirely26 a stingy man—not the most stingy man in the neighborhood. He wasn’t like Andy McFee, for example, who was so careful of expenditure27 that when his corn got a little high in the summer he always took off his shirt and hoed the weeds in his skin, to save the wear of the cloth; and who persisted in habits of frugality28 so that, in his old age, when he rode about in his grandson’s Pierce-Arrow, he removed his shoes upon seating himself, to save them from harm, and persisted in this till an able grand-daughter-in-law urged him not to misuse29 shoe-strings with such extravagance. Nor was he like the elder John McKnight, who when he went to mill always took with him a hen tied in a little[122] basket, to eat the oats that fell from his horse’s midday feeding. McNair thought such extremes foolish. He even laughed at McKnight’s device. How much easier it was simply to gather the oats up by hand, as he did, dust and all, and to take them home for the hens in his pocket. By this plan the oats were saved, and the hen had a whole day at home to convert useless angleworms into salable30 eggs. He was not, this proves, an entirely stingy man, yet—the idea of cakes like those for just a common supper! He would have to show that woman his disapproval31, his disgust, his sharp pain at such extravagance.
He did his best then, and in the days that followed, to impress her. But she was difficult. She never lifted her voice in perturbation, and she never heeded32 a word he said. When the howling of the wind woke him up at night, he would hear her sighing, “It’s still raining!” When she looked shrinkingly out of the window in the morning, she murmured, “It’s still at it!” When he came in for dinner, she would ask, “Does it never stop?” At supper she sighed, like a weary child, “’Tis a fine land, this!”—for all the world as if he was to blame for the weather. She had been housekeeping for him but two days, when he pointed33 out the woodpile to her. “Bring the wood into the house,” she said, as if that was a man’s task. “I don’t like going out in the rain.” “The rain’ll not hurt you,” he assured her, going about his work. When he came in at noon, the fire was out, the room was cold, and[123] she and the little girl were asleep and comfortable in bed. “I don’t like going out in the wet,” she repeated simply, as if she had done nothing outrageous34 in defying him. He had to wait for dinner till the wood was brought in, and dried, and the fire made. The next day she refused, in the same passive, happy way, to bring water from the slough well. She simply remarked she wouldn’t think of going so far in the mud, and waited till he brought the water. He never knew that she had hidden enough water for thirsty hours in a jug35 under the bed, and was prepared to stand a long siege. And then his boots were to be tallowed and dried near the fire. His wife Jeannie had always tallowed his boots. The new wife looked mildly surprised that he should have expected such a duty from her, and left the boots standing, muddy and soaked, just where they were, till he was driven to caring for them himself. And she kept asking him hour by hour, mildly, when he was going to town for her other boxes. She asked him so often, so kindly36, that he was forced in despair to attempt the journey through the rain, thinking that maybe if she had something to sew, she would cease making cakes by the hour. And when he started, she gave him a great list of groceries to bring back, and ordered more sugar than his family ate in years. He growled37 at this—just growled. There had been enough sugar in the house when she came to last till spring. They could not use sugar as if it were[124] water! Why not? she asked, simply. Wasn’t he a great lord, with acres? She liked sugar.
He brought back with him only a little sugar, and most of it the coarse brown kind, and a jug of sorghum38 which was to last till spring. She fell upon her boxes eagerly, and adorned39 the sty amazingly with rich looking things which never really seemed at home there. She made a new dress for her little stepdaughter at once, and set about making Chirstie’s baby a robe. She seemed almost to have resigned herself to the deluge40. She spoke41 with gayety about her ark to the children, and told them to keep their eyes open for the dove. And then, just when she seemed to be getting settled, the winter set in.
Rains she had seen, and could understand, and snows, too, in moderate fashion. But snow like this, continuing; winds like these, whirling darkening wild clouds of whiteness to burst against windows and doors, rocking the little sty as if it were an insecure cradle—winds with horror howling in them, howling all night through the shaken darkness, triumphant42, unconquerable winds against which no life could stand—she had never imagined anything like them. She had never before risen in the morning to find doors drifted tight shut, windows banked with white. She had never seen men burrow43 out of windows to dig open their doors, and tunnel a way to their barns. The well was as distant as if it had been in Patagonia. The newborn calf44 froze in the barn with its first breath. The[125] men’s ears froze, their hands froze, their feet froze. Everything in the house froze solid. The bread had to be thawed46 out in a steamer over a kettle before they could get a bite to eat in the morning. The milk had to be pounded into little bits and melted. The cold—its intensity47, its cruelty, staggered her.
Her work would be done early in the morning, while the men were yet melting snow at the stove to water their beasts—that is, all the work she chose to do. To conquer those long, dark hours she worked away on the baby dress. When it was all finished—alas, too soon for one having endless time to beguile—she looked at it with satisfaction. She had made every stitch of it by hand. It was a yard and a half long, with seven clusters of seven tiny tucks around the skirt, with hand embroidery48 between some of the rows, and darned net between others. It was ruffled49 and shirred, and smocked and featherstitched and hemstitched, eyeleted and piped and gathered. And a tiny darned net bonnet50, which went with it, was worthy51 of it. It had taken many weeks to complete it. And always when her eyes were worn by the fine stitching in the flickering52 candle light, she made cakes, for a change, sparing white sugar with noble economy, using only brown sugar, whatever eggs were unfrozen, fresh butter, and thick cream, and raisins53 and currants while they lasted.
From the day that Wully took Chirstie home, until the first week of January, Barbara McNair had but one visitor in her prison, and that one was[126] her sister-in-law, Libby Keith. She had to turn to Dod to companionship, which no boy could have grudged54 to so unfailing a source of cakes as his new mother. His Spartan55 scorn of the cold brought her, many a time, near to tears. He was anointing his frozen ears one morning, and when she cried out in pity of him, he remarked indifferently that this was nothing. She ought to have seen last year, the time his mother died. With what keen sympathy could she appreciate that story now. She asked without hesitation56;
“It was no colder than this, was it?” She couldn’t imagine anything worse. Oh, said Dod, they were alone last winter, and his mother and Chirstie had sometimes to help shovel57 out. But they had had Chirstie’s husband, hadn’t they, to do that hard work for them? Indeed they hadn’t! Dod himself had been the man of the farm. Wully had come but lately. Not lately, surely, she exclaimed. Yes, only in harvest. They had been married right in harvest. He was sure of it. What month would harvest be in this land? she had asked hurriedly. He informed her, and took up his story. He had had to go alone that morning after his mother’s death to his uncle’s, to get help, and hadn’t it taken them three hours to get the sled over the two miles of drifted snow. He told all the tale, even how the little sister was playing alone, and Chirstie had fainted.
All that afternoon there came little words of pity to Barbara McNair as she fondled her little[127] Jeannie; sometimes, when she was making that great, most magnificent cake which appeared unashamed on the supper table, she had to stop and wipe her eyes. Alex McNair had but begun to disapprove58 of that delicacy59 when she ordered him so sharply to hold his tongue that he all but obeyed. And after supper, she made him lift down her kists, which because of the narrowness of the sty had to sit one above another in her bedroom. She opened the third one from the top, and took out a dress, wine-colored and soft, and looked at it carefully a long time, examining the seams. Then she sat down, and by candle light began to rip it apart, basque and polonaise and all, to make a dress for the erring60 Chirstie.
It was the next afternoon that she saw a bobsled drive in. She could see the bundled driver when he was yet some distance from the house, but as he drew near, and stopped, she saw another great beshawled bundle rise from behind the sideboards of the sled. This bundle came at once towards the house, wiped its feet carefully on the doorstep, and, unwrapping layer after layer of covering, revealed itself Isobel McLaughlin. Mrs. McNair could hardly have been more surprised if she had seen an angel descending61 from heaven. That any woman would be riding around the country in weather like this had not entered her mind. Her concern seemed mildly amusing to her guest, who quickly disclaimed62 any conduct especially praiseworthy.
It wasn’t really cold now, she explained. It was[128] thawing63. This was what is called the January thaw45. A body can’t just stay cooped up in the house all the winter, and besides—and this was the great affair—Mistress McNair would be glad to know that she had a fine strong grandson, born a week ago, the mother doing well! Mrs. McLaughlin had wanted to bring the news herself, she was that pleased! She had stopped, too, at a neighbor’s, Maggie Stewart’s, who had a baby exactly the same age, a woman whom always before Mrs. McLaughlin had helped through her confinement64. She didn’t add she had made that visit with the hope of lessening65 the fierceness of Maggie’s slander-loving tongue, though if a good opportunity came she intended explaining to this newcomer the unusual circumstances of the child’s birth, which sooner or later she would be sure to hear some way. But no opportunity came. The new Mrs. McNair was so unfeignedly glad to see her, she brought out that wonderful little robe so timidly, that Mrs. McLaughlin had to admire it even more than it deserved. Chirstie hadn’t many new things for her baby, because there were so many little things of the young McLaughlins saved for future need. Not that any of them had had so fine a garment as this Mrs. McNair had made. Speed, rather than elaborateness, had always been Mrs. McLaughlin’s motto, necessarily. But Chirstie would be that proud of such a little dress! Mrs. McLaughlin could just see her delighted with it. This seemed to comfort Mrs. McNair, who[129] then ventured to show the red dress, all pressed and ready to be put together again, by a method which she hoped would make it large enough for Chirstie—that is, if Chirstie would not be offended by having a made-over dress offered to her. Mrs. McLaughlin again thanked her, and assured her that she need not worry about that. Then Mrs. McNair wondered if Mrs. McLaughlin would take home to the girl her part of her mother’s housekeeping things, which the new mother had wrapped and made ready for her. She had divided the few sheets and spoons and cups into two parts, one for each of the sisters—that is, she hoped Mrs. McLaughlin and Chirstie would be satisfied with such a division. Mrs. McLaughlin, feeling sure that Alex had no knowledge of a plan so bountiful, protested that Chirstie didn’t really need the things, that Wully could get her what she needed in the town. But Mrs. McNair wouldn’t hear of such a plan for a minute. The lassie must have her share of what had been her mother’s. She forebore to mention that she had brought a great deal of household stuff, of a quality much superior to any she found awaiting her. Mrs. McLaughlin, impressed by this spontaneous liberality, began to wonder if, after all, the avenging67 hand of God might not be seen in this second marriage of Alex McNair.
The hostess was overflowing68 with questions, the burden of them all being just the one unanswerable one that constantly confronted her—namely, how did civilized69 persons live through winters of this[130] sort? Why did they endure life in small prisons buried under snow? Had there ever before been a winter equal to this one? And did Mrs. McLaughlin look forward with composure to living through such another one?
Mrs. McLaughlin recalled with amusement and sympathy her own horror of her first winter, enlarging upon her experience. Had not she and her husband and their ten, and the Squire70 and his ten lived through one winter all together in an unfinished cabin, with a row of beds three deep built right around the walls, and a curtain across the middle of it! Often in those terrible nights she had risen from her bed to go about and feel the legs of her wee sleepers71, to be sure they were not all freezing solid. Of course there had not really been as much danger as she imagined, but one of the McKnights had frozen to death that winter, being overtaken on his drunken way homeward by a great storm. That had shocked her until she was really foolish about her children. Her twins had been born that year, too, before the cabin was sealed, and the first snow had drifted in upon the bed where she lay. Fine strong bairns they were, too. The cold didn’t really hurt anyone.
Moreover, it drove the fever away, so that they welcomed its coming in the fall, when the whole family would be shaking at one time. Fever wasn’t as bad now, either, as it had been at first, though she still fed her family quinine regularly every Saturday during the spring and summer. When the land[131] had all been plowed72 once or twice, there would be no more of it, ’twas said. And there had been much typhoid at first, before they had realized how much more defilable the new wells were than those in the old places had been. Five of the McLaughlin children had escaped typhoid altogether, which was very lucky indeed, and none of them had died of it, although many of the young ones of the settlement had. These things had all made a good deal of nursing necessary, for thirteen, but undoubtedly73 the worst days were over. And it was these winters which made the children strong as little lions. Every tree that was planted, moreover, every year’s growth of their cherished windbreaks, took away something of the winter’s severity. And when spring came, besides, in the glory of that season one forgot the cold, and all one’s troubles.
When would spring be coming? asked the longing74 stranger. Would it be in February, now that January was said to be thawing? No, not February. Nor in March. Sometimes it was a bit springlike by the first of April. But the spring really opened in May. Everyone got out then. Oh, sometimes if the roads were good, the women got out to church in April. Once even there had been a large congregation in March. Mrs. McNair sighed. It was a shame, now, commented her visitor, that she should have had to be alone so much of her first season. If there had been an older daughter, now ... if Chirstie had been at home with her....
[132]Mrs. McNair wondered timidly if Chirstie couldn’t come home for a visit, when it got a little less freezing. Mrs. McLaughlin, thinking quickly that Chirstie would surely be happy with this simple gift-giving woman, thought it possible that Wully might bring her over for a few days in March. At least in April. And when she saw the poor, wee body seize upon this hope of companionship, she felt more sure than ever that Chirstie would enjoy the visit.
If only she would come, that dress should be made for her, Mrs. McNair ventured to promise. And she went on to get more information. What sort of a little house would it be, now, that Wully was building for his wife? What could houses be like in these parts? How many rooms would it have? Isobel explained that there were to be three rooms on the first floor, a parlor75, a kitchen and a bedroom, and two bedrooms above. Certainly it would be plastered, all white and clean. Doubtless it would be painted in time, not just at first, of course, but as soon as Wully could manage it. Of course it would have a fence around it, like those Mrs. McNair had seen from the train, and trees, most certainly. They had been planted last fall. Trees were one thing essential on the prairies. Well, likely flowers, too, in time, although women as yet had so much to do that there weren’t many flowers about. Mrs. McLaughlin had herself often sighed for a few wee rosebushes. And she had a fine young orchard76 set out and flourishing. Had[133] not Alex McNair been in these parts as long as the McLaughlins, the new wife asked. And Mrs. McLaughlin, hiding her malice77 sweetly, didn’t doubt but what he would be setting out an orchard soon. “The poor wee body!” she said to herself. “Her wanting flowers, and a man like Alex!”
The pitied one set out such a tea, she sent her guest home with such an abundance of sweeties for her bairns, that Mrs. McLaughlin talked hopefully about her all the way home to her husband. She solemnly affirmed that that new wife would give away Alex McNair’s last sock, if she could find anyone to take it; and for her part, she hoped fervently78 that she could.
That evening as Alex sat smoking his pipe, with his stocking feet well into the oven, his wife asked him artlessly:
“Will Chirstie’s man have much, now?”
“What would he have but his land?”
“But he’s building a fine house!”
“He would. The McLaughlins were ever spenders and poor. Not that the house would cost much,” he added.
“Now what would such a house as his be costing?” It seemed a natural question.
“Four hundred dollars. Or maybe five.”
She was surprised, for once, almost excited.
“You could build a castle with your money from Scotland!”
“Likely!” he commented, knocking his pipe’s ashes into the stove.
[134]“But a little house like the new one would do me fine!”
“Don’t say new house to me, woman!” he roared.
A great deal of good his roaring did him! It was as if she never heard him protesting. “I canna live in a sty,” she explained, for the thousandth time, and she said new house to him without ceasing, without haste or rest, by night and by day, apropos79 of everything he mentioned, till he began to wonder if he were indeed a God-fearing Presbyterian, with such murder in his heart. He couldn’t quite beat a woman—a small woman—no matter how utterly80 she might deserve punishment. He could scarcely do that. But he sometimes wondered if there was any other measure of relief for him. He thought longingly81 of the silences of Chirstie’s mother. He remembered story after story of men who had beat their wives. He experienced a sharp sympathy for them. Doubtless when men do such desperate things, they have adequate reason, he reflected often. He was at his wits’ end. He was in despair. That he might have made himself comfortable by granting her request never occurred to him. He was already deliberating upon certain pieces of land he intended buying.
And that woman didn’t seem able to believe that he would really buy more land. She simply looked out of the window when he mentioned it, looked out of the window at the winter, and then turned puzzled to look at him, as if trying to fathom82 why anyone should desire more of such a country.
[135]So February passed, tantalized83 by new houses, and March got away, maddened by little white fences. Chirstie came over for her visit at home, the first of April, and that first week was frenzied84 by plans his wife insisted on drawing of her grounds and garden. Alex was no special lover of babies, but he was driven to feigning85 a prodigious86 interest in his grandson to escape even temporarily from the meek87, eternal din11 of her ambitions.
Chirstie had come with misgivings88, somewhat doubtful of her welcome. But she perceived the first hour in the house that her stepmother was lonely enough to have welcomed the most disgraceful, the most evil of women. She wondered sometimes if she was not dreaming. After all that had passed, how strange it was to be sitting honored in her father’s house, coddled, waited on, made much of, by this harmless stranger, who cooked surprising rich things for her delectation, and was making her the most beautiful dress she had ever seen.
She was so happy that she almost regretted that Wully came for her so soon. Mrs. McNair was determined89 that she must try on the new dress to show it to him. She had forbidden him at first to look in their direction, so he sat with his back to them, holding his little sister-in-law in his lap by the fire. After pinnings and bastings and warnings and ejaculations they had bidden him to turn and look. Chirstie was standing by that window, in the sunshine, where he had first seen her. And now, turning towards her, he gave a little involuntary[136] gasp90 of delight, more flattering than anything he could have said. He had never seen her before in a soft, rich thing like that. She had worn, of necessity, gray or brown calico garments. And the glowing crimson91 fabric92 brought out the whiteness of her neck, the darkness of her hair, the softness of her coloring cheeks, as he cried sincerely;
“Why, Chirstie! You queen! Turn around!”
She turned around for his inspection93.
“Goodness!” he exclaimed. “I wouldn’t have known you! What’ll I do now? I won’t can walk beside you in my old rags! I’ll have to get some store clothes!”
They laughed for delight.
“What’ll I get to match it?” he went on, looking at his mother-in-law. “I ought to have—a purple coat—or something magnifical! Chirstie, do you remember that window! She was standing there the first time I ever saw her!” he explained to Mrs. McNair.
And then at length, in their high, young spirits, they went away, and left her alone there. She was a puzzled woman. A man like that, and a scandal like that! It was incomprehensible. A man building so happily a new house for his wife, with a little fence around it!
That evening Alex McNair gave vent66 to a great, wicked, blood-curdling oath, most surprising, most improper—all for no reason at all—apropos of nothing. His innocent wife had simply remarked that she couldn’t live in a sty.
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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sodden
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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standing
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din
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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caressed
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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bulged
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amazement
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primitive
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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severely
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apparently
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placidly
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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frugality
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misuse
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salable
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disapproval
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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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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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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sorghum
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| n.高粱属的植物，高粱糖浆，甜得发腻的东西 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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erring
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| 做错事的，错误的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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82
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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83
tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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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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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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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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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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