Stretched in a long leather chair, Evans read to Jane and his mother “The Eve of St. Agnes.”
“How bitter cold it was!
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent were the flock in woolly fold.”
Jane, curled up on the couch in her favorite attitude, listened to that incomparable description of stark2 winter weather, and was glad of the warmth and coziness. She was glad, too, of this pleasant company—Mrs. Follette was a great dear, with her duchess air, and her devotion to Evans. And Evans, reading in that thrilling and unchanged voice, was at his best.
As for Mrs. Follette, she was always glad to have Jane visit them. The child was so cheerful, and Evans needed cheer. Then, too, Jane was a delightful3 compromise between the girl of yesterday and the ultra-modern maiden4 who shocked Mrs.[135] Follette not only by her lack of reverence5 but by her lack of reticence6.
Jane might have bobbed hair, but she did not have a bobbed-hair mind. The meaning of this conclusion was quite clear to Mrs. Follette, however obscure it might be to others. Girls who cut off their hair, as a rule, went farther—Jane stopped at her hair.
Then, too, Jane had what might be called old-fashioned domestic qualities. She kept her little house as spick and span as she kept herself. In winter everything was burnished7 and bright; in summer crisp curtains waved in the warm breeze; there were cool shadows within the clean, quiet rooms.
At the moment, Mrs. Follette was weighing seriously the fact of Jane as a wife for Evans. She was pretty as well as cheerful. Had good manners. Of course, in the old days, Evans would, inevitably8, have looked higher. There had been plenty of rich girls eager to attract him. He had had unlimited9 invitations. Women had, in fact, quite run after him. Florence Preston had rather made a fool of herself. And Florence’s father had millions.
But now——? Mrs. Follette knew how little Evans had at the moment to offer. She hated to admit it, but the truth was evident. Watching the two young people, she decided10 that should Evans care for Jane, she would erect11 no barriers. As for Jane, marriage with Evans would be, in a way, a[136] rise in the world. She would live at Castle Manor12 instead of at Sherwood Park.
The poem had reached a point where Mrs. Follette felt that she ought to protest. She was not quite sure that she approved of the situation it outlined. The verse of the moment, for example—Porphyro’s plea to the maid, old Angela:
Him in a closet of such privacy,
That he might see her beauty unspy’d
And win, perhaps, that night, a peerless bride.”
Stripped of all its fine words, it was an impossible situation.
Apparently15, however, the young people were without self-consciousness....
Evans looked up. “Could there be anything lovelier than that last line?”
Jane’s eyes had dreams in them. “Don’t stop,” she said.
He read on.... “She closed the door ...” his voice took now a deeper note.
“Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her hair a glory like a saint:
She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest,
Save wings for heaven; Porphyro grew faint:[137]
“Evans,” said his mother, as he paused again, “that poem doesn’t seem to me exactly proper.”
He gave her a surprised glance. “Don’t spoil it for us, Mumsie.”
“Oh, well,” Mrs. Follette shrugged20 her nice shoulders, “we won’t argue. But when I was a girl we didn’t read things like that.”
“But this was written before you were a girl.”
“What difference does that make?”
“But the richness and color. You see it, Jane, don’t you?”
“Yes. Finish it, Evans.”
And when he came to the end, she said, “If only life were like that.”
“Like what?”
“High romance. Porphyro says negligently21, ‘For o’er the southern moors22 I have a home for thee.’ But lovers of to-day have to think of rent and food and clothes. And hotel bills for the honeymoon23.”
“Oh, you women”—he sat up flaming—“are you conspiring24 to spoil my poem? Jane, it is the dreams of men and women which shape their lives.”
As his eyes met hers something stirred within her like the flutter of a bird’s wings lifted to the sun....
[138]It was after five when Baldy telephoned triumphantly25: “Jane, Edith Towne has agreed to go home to-night. And I’m to take her. I called up Mr. Towne and told him and he wants you to be there when we come. He’ll send Briggs for you and we are all to have dinner together.”
“But, Baldy, I don’t know Edith Towne. Why doesn’t he ask some of her own friends?”
“She doesn’t want ’em. Hates them all, and anyhow he has asked you. Why worry?”
“I’ll have to go home and dress.”
“Well, you’re to let him know at once where Briggs can get you. I told him you were at the Follettes’.”
Jane went back and repeated the conversation to Evans and his mother. Mrs. Follette was much interested. The Townes were most important people. “How nice for you, Jane.”
But Evans disagreed with her. “What makes you say that, Mother? It isn’t nice. It will simply be upsetting.”
“I don’t see why you say that, Evans,” Jane argued. “I am not easily upset.”
“But with all that money. You can’t keep up with them.”
“Don’t put ideas into Jane’s head,” his mother remonstrated26; “a lady is always a lady.”
But Jane sided now with Evans. “I see what he means, Mrs. Follette. I haven’t the clothes. I haven’t a thing to wear to-night.”
[139]“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of your looks.” Evans got up and stood on the hearth-rug. “But people like that! Jane, I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“Of course she can’t. Evans, don’t be so unreasonable,” Mrs. Follette interposed; “it will be a wonderful thing for Jane to know Edith.”
“Will it be such a wonderful thing for her to know Frederick Towne?” He flung it at them.
Jane demanded, “Don’t you want me to have any good times?”
He stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke28 it was in a different tone. “Yes, of course. I beg your pardon, Janey.”
Mrs. Follette, having effaced29 herself for the moment from the conversation, decided that things between her son and little Jane Barnes might reach a climax30 at any moment. “I believe he’s half in love with her,” she told herself in some bewilderment.
As for Frederick Towne, she didn’t consider him for a moment. Jane was a pretty child. But Frederick Towne could have his pick of women. There would be nothing serious in this friendship with Jane.
Jane called up Towne. “It was good of you to ask me,” she said. “I am at the Follettes’, but I’ll go home and dress and Briggs can come for me there.”
[140]“Come as you are.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you could see me. I took a walk with Evans this afternoon and I show the effects of it.”
“Evans? Oh, Casabianca?”
“What makes you call him that?”
“I thought of it when I saw him waiting for you at the top of the terrace. ‘The boy stood on the burning deck——’” he laughed.
“Don’t you? Well, I beg your pardon. I’ll beg it again when I get you here. Briggs will reach Sherwood at about seven. I would drive out myself, but I’ve an awful cold, and the doctor tells me I must stay in. And Cousin Annabel is sick in bed with a cold, so you must take pity on me and keep me company....”
Jane hung up the receiver. It would, she decided, be an exciting adventure. But she was not sure that she liked Frederick Towne....
Evans walked home with her. The air was warmer than it had been for days, and faint mists had risen. The mist thickened finally to a fog which rolled over them as if blown from the high seas. Yet the sea was miles away, and the fog was born in the rivers and streams, and in the melting snows.
They found it somewhat difficult to keep to the road. They were almost smothered32 in the thick[141] gray masses. Their voices had a muffled33 sound. Evans’ hand was on Jane’s arm so that they might keep together.
“Jane,” he said, “I made a fool of myself about Towne. But honestly—I was afraid——”
“Of what?”
“That he might fall in love with you——”
“He’s not thinking of me, Evans, and besides he’s too old——”
“Do you really feel that way about it, Jane?”
“Of course—silly.”
He could not see her face—but the words in her laughing lovely voice gave him a sense of reassurance34.
“Janey,” he said, “if I could only have you like this always. Shut away from the world.”
“But I don’t want to be shut away. I should feel—caged——”
“Not if you cared.”
There was in his tone the huskiness of intense feeling. She was moved by it. “Oh, I know what you mean. But love won’t come to me like that—shut in. I shall want freedom, and sunshine. I’ll be a gull35 over the sea—a ship in full sail—a gypsy on the road—but I’ll never be a ghost in a fog.”
His hand dropped from her arm. “Perhaps you’ll be a princess in a castle. Towne can make you that.”
[142]“Because—oh, I think everybody wants you——”
And now it was she who caught at his arm in the mist, and leaned on it. “I’m not the least in love with Frederick Towne. And I shall never marry a man I don’t love, Evans.”
When they came to the little house they found old Sophy nodding in the kitchen. She always stayed with Jane when Baldy was away. So Evans said “Good-night” and started back.
He found the path between the pines, walked a few steps and stumbled. He sat down on the log that had tripped him. He had no wish to go on. His depression was intense. Night was before him and darkness. Loneliness. And Jane would be with Frederick Towne.
He had for Jane a feeling of hopeless adoration37. She would never be his. For how could he try to keep her? “I’ll be a gull over the sea—a ship in full sail—a gypsy on the road—never a ghost in a fog.”
And he was just a ghost in a fog! Oh, what was the use of ever “climbing up the climbing wave”? One must have something of hope to live on. A dream or two—ahead.
How long he sat there he did not know. And all at once he was aware of a pale blur38 against the prevailing39 gloom. And then he heard Jane’s voice calling, “Evans? Evans?”
He answered and she came up to him. “Your[143] mother telephoned—that you had not come home—and she was worried.”
She was holding the lantern up to the length of her arm. In her orange cloak she shone through the veil of mist, luminous40.
“My dear,” she said, gently, “why are you sitting here?”
“Because there isn’t any use in going on.”
She lowered the lantern so that it shone on his face. What she saw there frightened her. “Are you feeling this way because of me?” she asked in a shaking voice.
“Because of everything.”
“Evans, I won’t go to the Townes if you want me to stay.”
He looked up at her as she bent41 above him with the lantern. She seemed to shine within and without, like some celestial42 visitor.
“Would you stay, Jane, if I wanted it?”
“Yes.”
He stood up. “I don’t want it. Not really. I’m not quite such a selfish pig,” his smile was ghastly.
She was silent for a moment, then she said, “I’m going home with you, Evans. Wait until I tell Sophy to send Briggs after me.”
He tried to protest, but she was firm. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She returned presently, the lantern in one hand[144] and her slipper43 bag in the other. “I put on heavier shoes. I should ruin my slippers44.”
As they trod the path together, the light of the lantern shone in round spots of gold, now in front of them, now behind them. The fog pressed close, but the path was clear.
“Evans,” said Jane, “I want you to promise me something.”
“Anything, except—not to love you.”
“It has nothing to do with love of me, but it has something to do with love of God.”
He knew how hard it was for her to say that. Jane did not speak easily of such things.
She went on with some hesitation45. Her voice, muffled by the fog, had a muted note of music.
“Evans, you mustn’t let what I do make you or break you. Whether I love you or not, you must go on. You—you couldn’t hold me if you weren’t strong enough, even if I was your wife. And there is strength in you, if you’ll only believe it. Oh, you must believe it, Evans. And you mustn’t make me feel responsible. I can’t stand it. To feel all the time that I am hurting—you.”
“And you are captain of your soul, Evans. You. Not anyone else. I can’t be. I can be a help, and oh, I will help all I can. You know that. But—I love you like a big brother—not in any other way. If anything should happen to you, it would[145] be dreadful for me, just as it would be dreadful if anything happened to Baldy.”
“Janey, my dear, don’t,” for she was clinging to his arm, crying as if her heart would break.
“But I do care for you so much, Evans. I was frantic47 when your mother telephoned. I wasn’t quite dressed and I made Sophy get the lantern, and then I ran down the path, and looked for you.”
He stopped and laid his hand on her shoulder. Her weakness, her broken words had roused in him a sudden protective tenderness.
“My little girl,” he said, “don’t. God helping48 me, I’m going to get back. And you are going to light my way. Jane, do you know when I saw you coming towards me with that dim lantern it seemed symbolic49. Hope held out to me—seen through a fog, faintly. But a light, nevertheless.”
“Oh, Evans, if I could love you, I would, you know that.”
“I know. You’d tie up the broken wings of every bird. You’d give crutches50 to the lame51, and food to the hungry. And that’s the way you feel about me.”
“God helping me,” he said again, “I’ll get back. That’s a promise, Janey, and here’s my hand upon it.”
She gave him her hand. “God helping us both,” she said.
[146]He lifted her hand and kissed it. Then, in silence, they walked on, until they reached the house....
The Towne car was waiting, and Mrs. Follette in a flurry welcomed them. “I don’t see why you didn’t ride over with him.”
“He hadn’t come, and we preferred to walk.”
“What was the matter with you, Evans?”
“Nothing much, Mother. I’m sorry you were fussed.” He gave her no further explanation.
Jane put on her slippers and went off in the great car. And then Evans said, “I’m going over to Hallam’s.”
“Aren’t you well, my dear?”
“I want to talk to him.” He saw her anxious look, and bent and kissed her. “Don’t worry, Mumsie, I’m all right.”
Dr. Hallam’s old estate adjoined the Follette farm. The doctor was a nerve specialist, and went every morning to Washington, coming back at night to the quiet of his charming home. He was unmarried and was looked after by men-servants. He had been much interested in Evans’ case, and had in fact had charge of it.
The doctor was by the library fire, smoking a cigar and reading a brown book. He welcomed Evans heartily53. “I was wondering when you would turn up again.” He showed the title of his book, “Boswell. There was a man. As great as[147] the man he wrote about, and we are just beginning to find it out.”
“Rare edition?” Evans sat down.
“Yes. Got it at Lowdermilk’s yesterday.”
“We’ve oodles of old books on our shelves. Ought to sell them, I suppose.”
Evans flamed suddenly. “I’d sell mine, if I could get the things I want.”
“I don’t want anything as much as I want my books.”
“I do. I want life as I used to live it.”
The doctor sat up and looked at him. “You mean before the war?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“I’m tired of being half a man. If there’s any way out of it, I want you to tell me.”
The doctor’s eyes were bright with interest. He knew the first symptoms of recovery in such cases. The neurasthenic quality of Evans’ trouble had robbed him of initiative. His waking-up was a promising55 sign.
“The thing to do, of course, is to get to work. Why don’t you open an office?”
“A fat chance I’d have of getting clients.”
“I think they’d come.”
The doctor smoked for a time in silence, then he said, “Decide on something hard to do, and do[148] it. Do it if you feel you are going to die in the attempt.”
There was something inspiring to Evans in the idea. Hard things. That was it. He poured out the story of the past few days. The awful scene with Rusty56. To-night in the fog under the pines. “Wanted more than anything to drop myself in the river.”
He was walking the floor, back and forth57, limping to one edge of the rug, then limping to the other. “Then Jane came. Little Jane Barnes. You know her, and she told me—where to get off—said I was—captain of my soul——” He stopped in front of the doctor, and smiled whimsically. “Are any of us captains of our souls, doctor?”
“I’ll be darned if I know.” The doctor was intensely serious. “Will power has a lot to do with things. The trouble is when your will won’t work——”
“Mine seems to be working on one cylinder58.” Again Evans was pacing the rug. “But that idea of an office appeals to me. It will take a bit of money, though. And it is rather a problem to know where to get it.”
“Sell some of the old books. I’ll buy them.”
Light leaped into Evans’ eyes. “It would be one way, wouldn’t it? Mother would rather hate it. But what’s a library against a life?” He seemed to fling the question to a listening universe.
[149]The doctor laughed. “She’ll be sensible if you put it up to her. And you must frivol a bit. Play around with the girls.”
“I don’t want any girls except Jane.”
“Little Jane Barnes. Well, she’ll do.”
“I’ll say she will.”
The doctor, watching him as he walked back and forth, said, “The thing to do is to map out a normal day. Make it pretty close to the program you followed before the war. You haven’t happened to keep a diary, have you?”
“Yes. It’s a clumsy record. Mother started me when I was a kid.”
“That’s what we want. Read it every night, and do some of the things the next day that you did then. You will find you can stick closer than you think. And it will give you a working plan.”
Evans sat down and discussed the idea. It was late when he rose to leave.
“It will be slow,” was Hallam’s final admonition, “but I believe you can do it. And when things go wrong, just honk59 and I’ll lend you some gas,” his big laugh boomed out, as they stood in the door together. “Nasty night.”
“I have a lantern.” Evans picked it up from the porch.
When Evans reached home his mother called from up-stairs, “I thought you were never coming.”
[150]“Hallam and I had a lot to talk about.”
Mrs. Follette in bed lost nothing of her dignity. Her gray hair at night was braided and wound into a coronet above her serene61 forehead. She wore something knitted in white and black about her shoulders. There was a prayer-book on her bedside table—and pineapple posts to her bed. She had inherited her religion and her furniture from her ancestors, and she kept them both in order.
“Mother,” said Evans, and stood looking down at her, “Hallam wants me to sell some of the old books and use the money to open an office.”
“What kind of office?”
“Law. In town.”
“But are you well enough, Evans?”
“He says that I am. He says that I must think that I am well, Mother.”
“But——”
“Dearest, don’t spoil it with doubts. It’s my life, Mother.”
There was a look on his face which she had not seen since his return. Uplifted, eager. A light in his eyes, like the light which had shone in the eyes of a boy.
She found it difficult to speak. “My dear, the books are yours. Do as you think best.”
He leaned over and kissed her, lifting her a bit. There was energy as well as affection in the quick[151] caress62. She drew herself away laughing, breathless. “How strong you are.”
“Am I? Well, I think I am. And I am going to conquer the world, Mumsie.”
His exaltation lasted during the reading of the diary. It was a fat little book, and the pages were written close in his fine firm script. He found things between the leaves—a four-leaved clover Jane had sent him when he made the football team. A rose, colorless and dry. Florence Preston had given it to him.
He dropped the rose in the waste-basket. How could he ever have thought of Florence? Love wasn’t a thing of blue eyes and pale gold hair. It was a thing of fire and flame and fighting.
Fighting! That was it. With your back to the wall—and winning!
For some day he meant to win Jane. Did she think she could be in the world and not be his? And if she loved strength she should have it. He bent his head in his hands—his hands clasped tensely. There was a prayer in his heart. His whole being ached with the agony of his effort.
“Oh, God, let me fight and win. Bring me back to the full measure of a man.”
Again he opened the book. Bits of printed verse dropped out of it. Jane had sent him this, “One who never turned his back, but marched breast-forward.”
[152]Well, he had turned his back. That day in the snow. The thought gripped him. Made him white and sick. He stood up, praying again in an agony of mind, “Bring me back.”
He opened the book and read of Jane, and of himself as he had once been. He skipped the record of his college days, except where he found such reference as this: “Little Jane is growing up. She met me at the station and held out her hand to me. I used always to kiss her, but this time I didn’t dare. She was different somehow, but some day I’ll kiss her.”
And this: “Jane is rather a darling. But I am beginning to believe that I like ’em fair.” That was when he had a terrible crush on Florence Preston, whose coloring was blue and gold. But it hadn’t lasted, and he had come back to Jane with a sense of refreshment63.
He found at last the pages given over to those first days after he had been admitted to the Washington bar, and had hung out his shingle64.
“Sat at my desk all the morning. Great bluff65. One client received with great effect of busy-ness. Had lunch with a lot of fellows—pancakes and sausages—ate an armful. Tea with three débutantes at the Shoreham—peaches. Dance at the Oakleys’ in Georgetown. Corking66 time. One deadly moment when the butler took my overcoat. Poor people ought not to dance where there are butlers.”
[153]Remembering that incident, he leaned back in his chair and laughed. The Oakleys had all the money in the world, and a background of aristocracy. Evans’ overcoat was rusty and shiny at the elbows. The butler, a recent importation from London, had been imposing67 in knee-breeches and many buttons. His manner had been perfect, but Evans had been aware of the servant’s scorn of rustiness68 and shininess. Then his own good sense had come to the rescue, and he had gone in and had danced with as light heels as the rest of them.
He found more than one reference to his poverty. “I shall have to stop eating, or I can’t wear my evening clothes. And I can’t afford new ones. Jane says she hates to have me lose weight—that I look big and beautiful now like Michelangelo’s David at the Corcoran. I don’t know whether she is in earnest. One never knows. Her eyes never tell.”
And again: “If I had money enough, I’d ask Jane to marry me. But I can’t pay for Huyler’s and matinée tickets. And anyhow, I’m sure she wouldn’t have me. Not right off the bat. We’re made for each other all right. And some day, if she doesn’t know it, I’ll make her.”
There were spring days with Jane. “Gee, but it’s good to be alive. Jane and I walked down to the glen this morning. Picked wild flowers, dogtooth violets, hepatica, anemones69; and we sang—with nobody to hear us. I let out my voice—in[154] the Toreador’s song, and Jane sat there and looked and listened, and said when I had finished, ‘It’s like the opera, Evans.’ I believe she meant it, and she didn’t want me to stop.... I felt pretty fine to have her there, liking70 it.... Oh, she’s a darling. I wanted to tell her, but I didn’t.”
Autumn came: “Jane and I went to-day to gather fox grapes. Mother is making jelly and so is Jane. The vines were a great tangle71. Shut in among them we seemed a thousand miles away from the world. Jane made herself a wreath of grape leaves, and looked like a nymph of the woods. I told her so and she gazed at me with those great gray eyes of hers and said, ‘Evans, when the gods were young they must have lived like this—with grapes for their food, and the birds to sing for them, and the little wild things of the wood for company. It would be heavenly, wouldn’t it?’ She’s a queer kid. Life with her wouldn’t be humdrum72. She’s so intensely herself.”
“We talked a bit about the war. I told her I should go if France needed me. I am not going to wait until this country gets into it. We owe a debt to France....”
He stopped there, and closed the book. He did not care to read farther. Oh, his debt to France had been paid. And after that day with Jane among the tangled73 vines things had moved faster—and faster.
He didn’t want to think of it....
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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inevitably
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unlimited
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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erect
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manor
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secrecy
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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apparently
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taper
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pallid
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amethyst
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taint
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shrugged
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negligently
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moors
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honeymoon
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conspiring
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| 密谋( conspire的现在分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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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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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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honk
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| n.雁叫声，汽车喇叭声 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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corking
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| adj.很好的adv.非常地v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的现在分词 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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rustiness
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| 生锈，声音沙哑； 荒疏； 锈蚀 | |
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anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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