It is possible that if the choice of district had been left to Madeleine herself, poor child, she, never particularly caring about such matters, and not being in a very critical or very argumentative state of mind at the period of her marriage, would have fixed7 upon some comfortable pleasant house, cheerful, roomy, airy, but in a wrong situation. If the choice had been left to her father, there is no doubt that he would have made some tremendous blunder of the like kind; for Kilsyth when in London was always opening his arms and expanding his chest and gasping8 for air. Accustomed to the free atmosphere of his native Highlands, the worthy9 gentleman suffered torture in the dull, dead, confined and vitiated air of the London street; and amidst the many sufferings which he underwent for the sake of society of during the few weeks when he remained in town during the few weeks when he remained in town was the martyrdom which he was put to in the tiny ill-ventilated rooms in which he had occasionally to dine or pass a ghastly half-hour "assisting" at a reception. But Lady Muriel and Mr. Ramsay Caird took this matter in hand. Of their own express wish as it was to them the task of selecting the residence of the about-to-be-married couple was to be confided10; and there was no doubt that they would take care that their choice should not be open to question.
On Squab-street, Grosvenor-place, that choice fell. A curious street Squab-street; a street in a progressive state; a street which was feeling the ad immediate11 vicinity of Cubitopolis, but which was yielding to the advancing conquest piecemeal12 and by slow degrees; a street of small houses originally occupied by small people--doctors, clerks well-up in the West-end government offices, a barrister or two with fashionable proclivities13, and several lodging-houses, always filled with good visitors from the country or eligible14 regular tenants15; a quiet street, looked upon for many years as being a long way off, but suddenly awaking to find itself in the centre of fashion. For while the doctors had been paying their ordinary seven-and-sixpenny visits within what was then almost their suburban16 neighbourhood; while the West-end government-office clerks had been plodding17 to and fro from their offices; while the barristers had been pluming18 themselves on the superiority of their position to that of their brethren, who, true to old tradition, had set up their Lares and Penates in the neighbourhood of Russell-square and the Foundling Hospital; while the lodging-house-keeper had vaunted as recommendations the quietude of the vicinity and the freshness of the air, the great district now known as Belgravia was being reclaimed19 from its native mud, the wild meadow called the Field of Forty Footsteps was being drained and built on, the desolate20 track over which our ancestors pursued their torchlighted way to Ranelagh and Vauxhall was being spanned by arches and undermined with gas-pipes; and when all these grand improvements were complete Squab-street, which had held a respectable but ignominious21 existence as Squab-street, Pimlico, blossomed out in the Post-Office Directory and the Court-Guide as Squab-street, S.W., and thenceforward emerged from its chrysalis state, and became a recognisable and appreciated butterfly.
The effect of the change on the street itself was immediate. Two or three leases fell in about that time, and the householders, in whose families the leases had been for a couple of generations, made no doubt of their renewal23. Lord Battersea was the ground landlord--not a liberal man, not a generous man; in short, a screw, and the driver of a hard bargain, but still a good landlord. He would be all right, of course. Would he? When the leaseholders went to Lord Battersea's man of business, an apple-faced old gentleman with a white head and a kind of frosty wire for beard, they learned that his lordship had fully25 comprehended the change in the state of affairs in Squab-street, and was prepared to act accordingly. As each lease fell in, the house which was vacant was to be increased by a couple of stories, and to have its rent trebled. Squab-street was to be a fitting accessory to Grosvenor-place. In vain the dispossessed ex-tenants declared that none of his lordship's then holders22 could pay the new rent: the apple-faced old gentleman was sorry; but he thought his lordship could find plenty of tenants who would. The tenants grumbled27; but the man of business was firm. So were the tenants: they yielded up their leases; and so the houses were improved, and the rents were raised, and other tenants came of a class hitherto unknown to Squab-street. Married officers of the Guards, who found the situation convenient for Wellington, and not inconvenient28 for Portman barracks; members of parliament, who found it handy for the House; railway engineers and contractors29 of fabulous30 wealth, who could skurry to and fro their offices in Great George-street; and City magnates, who walked to Westminster-bridge, and went humbly31 in to the Shrine32 of Mammon by the penny-boat. All these new-comers lived in the enlarged houses, gorgeous stucco-fronted edifices33, with porticoes34 which looked as if they did not belong to the house, but were leaning up against it by accident, and plate-glass windows and conservatories35 about the size of a market-gardener's hand-lights.
But the other houses in Squab-street, the leases of which had not run out, remained in their normal condition, and were the same little brisk, cheery, cleanly, snug36 common brick edifices that they had been ever since they were built. The new style of buildings had grown up round about them, and was dotted here and there amongst them; so that the range of houses in Squab-street looked like a row of uneven37 teeth. The original settlers, who at first had been rather overawed by the immigrants, had in time come to look upon their arrival as rather a benefit than otherwise; the doctors extended the number and the importance of their patients; the government clerks bragged38 judiciously39 of the "swells40" who lived in their street; and the lodging-housekeepers, secure with leases of many unexpired years, raised their prices season after season, and found plenty of fish to swallow their hooks.
The house which Lady Muriel and Ramsay Caird, after much driving about, worrying of house-agents, search of registers, obtaining of cards to view, and general soul-depression and leg-weariness,--the house which they eventually decided41 upon was represented in the sibylline42 books of the agent as an "eligible bachelor's residence, in that fashionable locality Squab-street, S. W." Such indeed it had been for several previous years; the Honourable43 Peregrine Fluke, known generally as Fat Fluke, from his tendency to obesity44, or Fishy45 Fluke, from a card transaction in which he had once been mixed up, having been its respected occupant. The Honourable Peregrine Fluke was a very eligible bachelor indeed, and led the life of the gay young fellow and the sad dog until he had passed sixty years of age. Then pale Death, knocking away with impartial46 rat-tat at the doors of all, the huts of the poor and the castellated turrets47 of kings, stopped at 122 Squab-street, and called for the Honourable Peregrine Fluke. The eligible bachelor succumbing48 to the summons, his executors came upon the scene; and wishing to do the best for the lieutenant49 in the Marines, who was understood to be the eligible bachelor's nephew, but who was clearly proved to be his illegitimate son, put up the lease of the house--the only available thing belonging to the deceased--to auction50, and found a purchaser in Kilsyth. Lady Muriel's clever tact51 also secured the furniture at a comparatively cheap rate. It was not first-rate furniture--a little rococo52 and old-fashioned; but a few things could be imported into the drawing-rooms; and, after all, Ramsay and his wife were not rich people--young beginners, and that kind of thing, and the place would do very well to commence their married life in. Lady Muriel always spoke53 of "Ramsay and his wife" when any monetary54 question was under debate, ignoring utterly55 that all the money came from Madeleine's side. For not only was there Madeleine's twenty thousand pounds, but Kilsyth, when the marriage was settled, announced his intention of making the young couple such an allowance as would prevent his favourite child from missing any of the comforts, any of the luxuries to which she had become accustomed.
The situation was undoubtedly56 fashionable; but that the house itself might have been more comfortable could not be denied. What was complimentarily called the hall, but was really the passage, was so small, that the enormous footmen, awaiting the descent of their employers from the little drawing-rooms above, dared not house themselves therein. Two of them would have filled it to overflowing57; so they were compelled either to remain with the carriages, or to run the chance of being out of the way when required, and solace58 themselves in the tap of the Battersea Arms, down the adjacent mews. The door was so small and so low, that these great creatures rubbed their cockades and ruffled59 their coats in passing through it. The house stood at the corner of the mews, and every vehicle that drove in or out caused an earthquake-like sensation as it passed. Doors creaked, china rocked, floors groaned60, walls trembled. The little dining-room was like a red-flocked tank; the little drawing-rooms encumbered61 with the newly-imported extra furniture, were so choke-full, that it was with the utmost difficulty that visitors could thread their way between table and couch and ottoman and étagère. It required a knowledge of the science of navigation to tack62 round the piano; and the visitor, when once he had reached a seat by the hostess near the fireplace, could scarcely devote himself to conversation, owing to the trouble which filled his mind as to how he would ever get away again. It was not advisable to open any of the side-windows, even in the hottest weather, or a stably odour at once pervaded63 the house, and the forcible language addressed by the grooms64 to the horses, whose toilet was performed in the open yard, was a little too audible. It was impossible for guests to go through the ceremony of "taking down" to dinner. The steep little ladder-like staircase was only passable by one person at a time; and in the narrow little tank of a dining-room the people who sat with their backs to the fire were roasted alive, and had the additional pleasure of having to eat their meat vegetable-less and sauce-less, there being no approach to them and no passing them. Still everyone said that the situation was delightful65, and the house was "quite charming;" and Lady Muriel and Ramsay Caird took great credit to themselves for having secured it.
Madeleine herself was but little impressed by it. It was immaterial to her where she lived, or in what style of house. She shrugged66 her shoulders when they told her the rooms were charming; she raised her eyebrows67 when her servants complained of darkness and inconvenience. "It did very well," was her highest commendation, and she never found fault. If this girl's life had not been strangely solitary68 and without companionship, she would have had all sorts of confidences to exchange with some half-dozen intimates as to her new life, her new home, her new career. As it was, she dropped into it quietly, with scarcely a remark to any one. After her little and short-lived daydream69 had dissolved, after she had awakened70 to the exact realities which were about her, her period of suspense71 was very short. What passed between her and her brother Ronald at the interview which, as settled with Lady Muriel, he sought at his sister's hands was never known. The result was satisfactory to the prime movers in the scheme; and the result was that Madeleine was to marry Ramsay Caird. There was another interview connected with the matter which neither Lady Muriel nor Ronald ever heard of. When the news was first announced to him by his wife, Kilsyth received it very quietly. The next morning, before my lady had risen, the fond father, in pursuance of an appointment made in a note secretly sent up by the maid the night before, went to his darling's room, and had a half-hour's long and earnest conversation with her. Earnest on his side at all events: he asked her whether this engagement had been brought about of her own free will; if she had thought over it sufficiently72; if she would wish the time of betrothal73 to be lengthened74 beyond the usual period; if there were anything, in fact, in which she would wish to make reference to him, and in which he could aid her. To all these inquiries75, urged in the warmest and most affectionate manner, he got but the same kind of reply. Madeleine kissed her father fondly. She hated the thought of leaving him, she said; but it would do very well. It would do very well! She had not even the heart to be deceitful--to feign76 delight when she did not feel it. It would do very well! Kilsyth's warm heart beat more slowly as he istened to this lukewarm appreciation77 of the expected joys of his daughter's future; he scarcely comprehended anything so fade and so spiritless from a young girl about to undergo such an important change in all the phases of her existence. He again pressed his question home, and received the same answer; and then he made up his mind, for the thousandth time in his life, that women were extraordinary creatures, and that there was no dealing78 with them. This was a very favourite axiom of his, and had been enounced with much solemnity frequently. On this occasion, however, he kept silence, shaking his head in a very thoughtful and prophetic manner as he descended79 the stairs to his own dressing-room. It would do very well! Madeleine thought of the reply which she had given to the most important question ever put to her, after her father had left her and when she was alone. She knew her father well enough to be certain that a word spoken at that time by her to him would have stopped the engagement, and left her free. And what would then have ensued? She would have made an enemy of Lady Muriel, with whom she had to live; she would have deeply annoyed Ronald, who had always, in his odd way, shown the greatest love for her and the keenest interest in her welfare; and in the great question of her life she would have advanced not one whit24. Chudleigh Wilmot was gone--gone for ever. An alliance--a continuance even of the friendship, such as it had been, with him was impossible; her friends wanted her to marry Ramsay Caird. Well, then, it would do very well!
A phrase significant of a state of mind in which marriages are often undertaken, but surely an unlucky and a pitiable state of mind. Something more than a tacit acquiescence80 is meant by the vows81 of the marriage-service; and though cynics endeavour to persuade us that these vows are far more frangible and far more often broken than they used to be, it is as well to believe in the whole force of them while we stand before the altar-rails, and before the priest utters his benediction82. And the worst of it all was that the phrase expressed Madeleine's feelings thoroughly--her feelings as regarded her marriage, her feelings towards her husband. It was Ramsay Caird--it might have been Clement83 Penruddock, or Frank Only, or Lord Roderick Douglas, or half-a-dozen others. She had an equal liking84 for all these men; no love for any one of them. In her earlier girlish days, some year or two beforehand, she had wondered which of the young men who frequented the house would propose to her, and which of them she would marry. None of them had ever proposed to her. They saw long before she did that she was marked down for Ramsay Caird. These sort of things are concealed85 with the utmost discretion86 by long-headed mothers, are never suspected by daughters, and are discussed between male friends of the family with much openness and freedom. She had been a favourite with all these pleasant youths; but they knew perfectly87 well why Ramsay Caird was always at the house, and why he inevitably88 had the best chance; and their regard for Lady Muriel was by no means diminished by the clever manner in which she aided and assisted her protégé.
After marriage, at least during the first few months after marriage, it was very much the same. Madeleine "liked" her husband; he was quite gentlemanly, genial89, cheery, very hospitable90, very fond of pleasure, very fond of spending money on her, on himself, on anyone. He never interfered92 with her in the smallest degree, and never was happier than when she was under the chaperonage of her mother, and his attendance on her was not required. During the first few months of her married life she received a vast number of callers; all of whose visits she duly repaid; went out constantly to dinners, balls, receptions of all kinds, to operas and theatres, private and public fêtes,--everywhere, in short, where people can go--with decency93 and enjoy themselves. Not that Madeleine enjoyed herself. "It would do very well," seemed to be the keynote no less in her pleasures than in the rest of her life. In company she sat with the same ever-blank look until she was roused. Then she responded with the same smile. O, so unlike her old smile! With an upward glance of her blue eyes, where there was no light now, and with the little society-laugh which she had recently learned, and which was so different from the hearty94 ringing burst which used to greet her father's ears at Kilsyth in the old days before her illness--those days which seemed to her, to them all, but to her most of all, so long ago.
Visitors she had in plenty. Scarcely a morning passed without a call from Lady Muriel, who, still priding herself upon the admirable manner in which by her tact her stepdaughter had been "settled," looked in to see how she was getting on, to learn who had been to see her during the preview day, what parties she had been to, who she had met, what their reception of her had been, and what invitations for forthcoming gaieties she had received. A comparison of notes on these last matters, now a favourite occupation of Lady Muriel's, with whose great name the world of fashion had begun to busy itself, proclaiming her as one of its leaders,--and she, always equal to the occasion, had accepted the tribute gracefully95, and, as in everything else, conscientiously96 discharged the duties of her position,--then luncheon97, to which meal Lady Muriel would frequently remain, and when some of the more intimate friends of the family, notably98 Mrs. M'Diarmid, would drop in; not that Mrs. M'Diarmid's accession added much to the comfort of the meal. The dear old lady, when her favourite project of marrying Madeleine to Wilmot had been untimely nipped in the bud, and when she saw that Ramsay Caird, whom she cordially disliked, was the accepted suitor, relinquished99 all opposition100 in silence, and contented101 herself with sniffing102 loudly, as the sole demonstration103 of her displeasure. That marriage-service, which she had pictured to herself with so many different "eligibles104" as bridegrooms, might, but for the presence of mind of his Right Reverence105 of Boscastle, have been sorely interrupted by the defiant106 sniffs107 which came from the right-hand pew close by the altar-rails, where Mrs. Mac, dressed in the brown moire which had so often filled her dreams, had bestowed108 herself, to the deep indignation of the pew opener. But she did not allow her disapproval109 of the marriage to interfere91 with her love for "her dear child;" she came constantly to Squab-street; and the pleasantest hours of Madeleine's life were passed in the society of this good old woman, when she knew that there was no call upon her to exert herself in any way, or to show herself otherwise than she really was; when she could lie back in her chair, and indulge herself with the sweet sad daydream of "what might have been," which contrasted so harshly and unsatisfactorily with what was.
A drive in her stepmother's carriage, or a round of calls in her own brougham, filled up the afternoon, until it was time to return home to preside at her tea-table and receive her friends. After her engagement had been regularly announced there had been a good deal of fuss made about that five-o'clock tea-table; the young men who were intimate at Brook-street had vowed110 that they would make it the pleasantest in London; that more news should be heard there than anywhere else; and that the men who write in the Cotillon--a charming amateur journal of political canards111 and society gossip, published during the season--should go on their knees and implore112 invitations. The tea-table had been established in due course, but it had not been such a success as had been anticipated. Madeleine was triste and quiet to a degree. The men could not understand it, she had always been so pleasant before her marriage; unlike most women, who are always a doosid sight pleasanter after it. They had been in the habit of finding their old partners of the two or three previous seasons, now married, by no means indisposed to listen to the compliments which they had been erst in the habit of addressing to them; and the practice had derived113 additional piquancy114 from the fact of the change of condition in the person addressed. There was Lady Violet Penruddock, for instance, only married to old Clem--O, within a few weeks of Miss Kilsyth's marriage; and how jolly she was! Looked as fresh as possible--fresh as paint, some fellow said; but that was a confounded shame, don't you know,--only a little powder and that kind of thing, what all girls use, don't you know--doosid cruel you women are to one another! There was Lady Vi, jolly as a sand-boy! Old Clem was at his club, or some place, and didn't come home till late, and there was always tearing fun at Grosvenor-gate. Charmin' woman, Lady Vi; and very wise of old Clem to like to read the evening papers, and that kind of thing. Not that there was anything to be complained of Caird in this matter; never thought much of Caird, eh, did you? he was never at home; but his wife had grown so confoundedly dull, hipped115, and that kind of thing--bored, don't you know? sits still and don't say a word except yes and no; don't help a feller out a hit, you know, and looks rather dreary116 and dull.
Poor Madeleine! she was beginning to be found out by her friends. If you live in society you must contribute your quota117, according to your means--either your rank, your money, your talent--towards the general stock; but unless your birth will warrant it, you must never be dull; and in no case must you differ from the ordinary proceedings118 of your order. Madeleine was very unlike Lady Violet Penruddock, she felt--very unlike indeed. But that was her misfortune, not her fault. She would have been very glad to laugh and flirt119 with all her old friends, to talk nonsense and innocent scandal, and all the society chit-chat, if she had been able; but she was not able. Under all her quiet manner and shyness and girlishness Madeleine Caird possessed26 what Lady Violet Penruddock had never pretended to--a heart. That heart had been hurt and torn and lacerated; and as in the present day it is not possible to explain this, or rather it is considered essential to hide it, Madeleine was obliged to put up with the imputation120 of dulness, when in reality she was merely suffering from having loved someone who, as she thought, did not care for her, and having been compelled to marry somebody for whom she had no real affection.
Did Ramsay Caird ever fancy that his wife did not care for him, or at least was not as romantically fond of him as are most wives of their husbands during the first few months after marriage? If he did, did the reflection ever cost him a moment's anxiety, a moment's distrust, a thought that perhaps his own course of living was not precisely121 adapted to enthral the affections of a young girl? Not for an instant. Ramsay, when Lady Muriel's half-spoken hints had first enlightened him as to the position which, for his dead brother's sake, her ladyship proposed to him to hold, had cogitated122 over the matter in an essentially business-like spirit, and had come to the conclusion that such an opportunity ought by all means to be made the most of. He was a calculating cautious young man, entirely123 devoid124 of impulse; and--as had been suspected by more than one of the frequenters of the Brook-street establishment, who, however, were much too good fellows to hint at it openly--he was a man fond of common, not to say gross pleasures, which his limited means prevented him from indulging in. A marriage with Madeleine Kilsyth, herself a very nice girl, as society girls went, would give him position, ease, and money--leave him his own master, with power and opportunity to pursue his own devices--and was therefore for him in every respect most desirable. With all his easy bearing, his laiesez-aller manners, and his apparent nonchalance125, Mr. Ramsay Caird possessed his full share of the national 'cuteness; and having made up his mind to win, looked carefully round him to see where his course lay straightest, and what shoals were to be avoided. He determined126 to make a waiting race of it, convinced that any eagerness or ill-timed enthusiasm might spoil his chance; he saw that his game was to be quiet and wait upon his oars127 until he received the signal to dash out into mid-stream; his complete willingness to attend to all suggestions, and to take his time from the family, quite fascinated Ronald Kilsyth, from whom at first Caird had apprehended128 opposition; and, as we have seen, when the time came, he declared himself with so strong a show that no other competitor dared put in an appearance.
But when the race had been run and the prize secured, Ramsay Caird felt that the crisis was past, that the long course of tutelage under which he had placed himself was at an end, and that henceforward he would enjoy those benefits for the acquisition of which he had regulated his conduct for so many months. He had not the smallest love for his wife; he had even but small admiration129 for her looks. Madeleine's blue eyes and golden hair were too cold and insipid130 for his taste. In his freer moments he was accustomed to talk about "soul"--an attribute which poor Maddy was supposed not to possess--and "liquid eyes" and "classic features" and the "sunny South"--which, as Tommy Toshington remarked, when told of it, accounted for his having seen Caird on the previous Sunday afternoon ringing at the door of the villa131 temporarily tenanted by Madame Favorita, the prima donna of the Opera, and situated132 in the Alpha-road. Tommy Toshington invariably happened to be passing by when the wrong man was ringing at the wrong house; and got an immense number of pleasant dinners out of the coincidence. So that Ramsay Caird saw but little of the interior of his own house after leaving it in the mornings. He at first had been somewhat punctilious133 and deferential134 with Lady Muriel, taking care to be at home when she came, and to be in attendance when he thought she would require his presence; but after a few weeks he threw off this restraint, and kept the hours which suited him. Kilsyth looked blank and uncomfortable once or twice when at dinners, specially135 given in honour of the new-married couple, Madeleine had appeared alone, and Lady Muriel had proffered136 a story of Ramsay's toothache or business appointment; and Ronald had looked black, and held more than one muttered conversation with his stepmother, in the course of which his brows contracted, and his mouth grew very rigid137. But Madeleine never uttered a word of complaint, although Lady Muriel was in daily expectation of an outburst. She sat quietly, sadly, uninterestedly by. Better, far better, for all concerned if she had had sufficient feeling of her own loneliness, of her own neglected condition, to appeal in language however forcible and strong. To labour under the "it-will-do-very-well" feeling is to be on the high road to destruction.
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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mansions
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fixed
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gasping
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worthy
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confided
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immediate
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piecemeal
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proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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eligible
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tenants
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suburban
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plodding
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pluming
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reclaimed
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desolate
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ignominious
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holders
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renewal
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whit
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fully
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possessed
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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28
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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29
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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32
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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33
edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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porticoes
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| n.柱廊，（有圆柱的）门廊( portico的名词复数 ) | |
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conservatories
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| n.（培植植物的）温室，暖房( conservatory的名词复数 ) | |
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36
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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37
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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38
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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40
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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41
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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42
sibylline
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| adj.预言的；神巫的 | |
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43
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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44
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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45
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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46
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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47
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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48
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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49
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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50
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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51
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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52
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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53
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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54
monetary
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| adj.货币的，钱的；通货的；金融的；财政的 | |
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55
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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56
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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57
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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58
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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59
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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60
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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61
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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63
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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65
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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66
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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68
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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69
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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70
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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71
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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72
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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73
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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74
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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76
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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77
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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78
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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79
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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80
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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81
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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82
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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83
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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84
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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85
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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86
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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87
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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88
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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89
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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90
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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91
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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92
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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93
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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94
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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95
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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96
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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97
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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98
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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99
relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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100
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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101
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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102
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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103
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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104
eligibles
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| 合格者（eligible的复数形式） | |
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105
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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106
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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107
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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108
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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110
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
canards
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| n.谣传，谎言( canard的名词复数 ) | |
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112
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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113
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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114
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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115
hipped
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| adj.着迷的，忧郁的 | |
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116
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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117
quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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118
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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119
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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120
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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121
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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122
cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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124
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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125
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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126
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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127
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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129
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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130
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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131
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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132
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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133
punctilious
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| adj.谨慎的，谨小慎微的 | |
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134
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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135
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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136
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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