Joy was alone in the apartment.
As she had foreseen, Sarah’s querulous voice wavered in the halls. And in the kitchenette her kimono and curl papers tinted2 the atmosphere. And everywhere the tap of the pink mules3 or the sound of the rough plush of Jerry’s voice seemed to be trembling in echo’s echo. . . . She asked Félicie to spend the night with her as often as she cared to; but Félicie didn’t care to very often. It was not that she was not fond of Joy, as she explained; but it was so much trouble to move herself and all her things. Félicie liked everything drawn4 up around her in waxworks5 precision of detail, just as she had arranged it at her home.
And so Joy lived in an enforced solitude6 while considering what she was going to do. The heavy snowfalls were deadening to enterprise; the easiest thing to do was to stay in the apartment, which was hers for the present, instead of looking around for something else. Sitting alone at the piano in the room which had so often sung with mirth, she found it hard to realize that she was the only one left in Sarah’s and Jerry’s flat. One little, two little, three little Indians! One had gone; and then there were two. And now one more had gone; and there was only one. . . .
She had not seen Jim Dalton for a long time. When he had called her up, she had put him off with the excuse of work. She could not see him, because she felt that she wanted to see him too much. But she told herself with an easy surety that she was not in love with him; once back with Pa Graham she had fallen into the magic of music once more, magic that left no room for sentimentality, and that, she told herself, was all that her lapse8 had been; sheer sentimentality. But since the idea had occurred to her that she might suspect herself of being in love with him, she was uneasy about seeing him. And surely preventative methods were best!
Yet she longed to see him, to tell him every little detail of the epoch-making trip to New York. Looking back she clung to her part in it, and wanted Jim—wanted him to exult9 with her over the great one’s approval. Who was it who said he travelled faster who travels alone? There had to be someone to spur on the traveller—sometimes! And Jerry had gone, and there was no one. Félicie was frankly10 bored with music. And Jim of her own exclusion11 stayed away, although his telephone calls did not diminish in number. . . .
One afternoon in March as she was walking down Boylston Street, she saw Grant. He passed driving a car, the Grey’s runabout, and by his side was a girl whose peachbloom face, even at a distance, was vaguely13 familiar. As she stared, the girl waved, smiling, and said something to Grant, whose eyes were on the traffic. He swerved14 and brought the car into the curb15, and Joy came to them as Miss Dalrymple, the Bryn Mawr girl, leaned out expectantly.
“Miss Nelson!” she hailed her. “I didn’t know you were in Boston!” Joy interrupted as she started to present Grant. “We’ve already met. I didn’t know you were in Boston, Miss Dalrymple.”
The college girl explained that she was visiting a friend in her vacation, that it was her first visit in Boston, and that she liked it very much. Her eyes dwelt on Grant in na?ve compliment at this last, and Grant smiled appreciatively in return.
Joy nearly smiled, herself. Six months ago, and one would have thought she had ruined a life. Now Grant was looking better, and happier, than she had ever seen him; and he was regarding her with offhand16 friendliness17. The girl at his side was really an exquisite18 thing, with clear, eager eyes like his own. Joy knew that her own radiant eyes had been dulled, first by the experience of disillusionment, and then by monotonous19 routine. She knew that she was thin and pale from a life of irregular restaurant eating; she knew that the exquisite young thing at Grant’s side gained colour by comparison; and she was glad. This could be a last picture that would wipe out all regret, in dreams of what might have been.
Miss Dalrymple was all exclamations20 over Jerry’s marriage. “To think that it happened the very next day, and there we sat never suspecting what was going on! It’s the most romantic thing I ever knew!”
Mabel had written Joy twice; at first when she had been so upset over the unconventionality that marked this Lancaster marriage, then later when she had seen them together and lost her shock, in joy at finding her brother in the heights she was beginning to fear would never be his.
“Mabel always said he was awfully21 romantic,” the college girl was saying; “that explained his cynicism, for they say cynics are always really romantic—that’s the way they hide it. But did you ever hear of anything so sudden?”
Miss Dalrymple turned to Grant. “You know, Miss Nelson’s cousin had her brother all picked out for me—when Miss Nelson walked in with the most fascinating girl you ever saw, who walked right off with him.”
“Then I owe Miss Nelson—a very great debt!” said Grant, with a smile that broke in the middle as he looked at Joy and saw her amusement shrieking23 from beneath the sheltered surface of polite friendliness. The air was tingling24 with omissions25, as Joy said her good-byes and left them. Their status was plain—an affair well along in interest and momentum26.
The girl with the skin of peachdown and the wide, untroubled eyes was the logical mate for Grant Grey. Each could give the other as nearly all that the other desired as was possible in an earthly union. It would be one of those unions that seemed eminently27 right—and it would even seem so to Mrs. Grey! Joy laughed aloud at that last thought. The heart-caught-on-the-rebound sneer28, on which so many girls inwardly feed while apparently29 they are smilingly urbane30 to their former suitors’ flames, never even occurred to her. It was a perfect union, while the union of her nature and Grant’s would always have been imperfect at best.
Inexplicably31 it made her feel the more lonely.
It was soon after that that a bulky letter arrived from her father, the contents of which threw her into the laughter of misgiving32. It seemed that the Lamkins had returned from an extensive trip South and West, and had spread throughout the length and breadth of Foxhollow Corners the glorified33 account of Joy Nelson’s gallivanting around Noo York with perfectly34 impossible people, to one of which she seemed to be engaged “in a light way.” The rumour35 had swollen36 until it was reported that Joy had been secretly married over in New York and had taken up her abode37 there permanently38. Of course her father had heard the last rumour first, and with businesslike precision had sifted39 it through to the Lamkins and heard their representations of the “facts.”
“I am disturbed,” he wrote, “and ask you for verification before I take any steps in this matter. The town seems to be rolling tales of your New York escapades as a sweet morsel40 under its tongue. You told me nothing of any side of your New York visit that could be interpreted this way. It is not possible for the child of your mother to have done anything really wrong, but in New York you may have forgotten the obligations that the name of Nelson puts upon you. After all, home people are the ones that will mean your life, when you finish your studying and come back to normal existence once more; and it does not do to antagonize them as you so evidently have the Lamkins. It is a difficult thing for a father to be sole guardian41 of a daughter; there are so many questions a father alone cannot decide. I wish you would come home, and take up your music here, perhaps in the church choir42.”
He ended the letter with the thought that he might come to Boston soon, as he had never yet seen her environment there.
Joy read the letter with mixed emotions which had culminated43 in the rather shaky laughter. How could she explain to her father that what the Lamkins had heard had been a mere44 prank45 played for the benefit of the waiters and surrounding interested ones even as the Lamkins? It was the sort of thing that he could never understand. And he spoke46 as though all her fiercely eager study were to end in nothing—“a normal life once more.” The church choir! She jumped up and poured forth47 a long cadenza, which enveloped48 the room in an exultation49 of sound. At the close she balanced two notes evenly, one against the other, tracing them up and down—when all at once her throat began to flutter, effort ceased, and she stood in rapt wonder, listening. Her first real trill was born.
The church choir!
It was that afternoon, while she was hesitating over a reply to her father, that Jim called her on the phone.
“Do you realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen you, Joy?” he asked.
She did. “I’ve been so busy——” she faltered50. “And now that Jerry is gone, I can’t very well entertain in the apartment alone——”
“Then we can meet somewhere and go to dinner. Meet me at the Touraine, at half-past six. I must see you, Joy.”
She went back to her letter in a more peaceful frame of mind. By now her sentimental7 lapse was well over, and she would be glad to see Jim again. After all, he was the only real friend she had. She finally pushed the letter paper away from her. Jim would advise her as to how she would reply. Somehow he always knew what to do.
When she drifted into the Touraine exactly five minutes late—Jerry and Sarah had taught her that system—men hate to wait and yet one must never be on time—Jim came forward to meet her, and she found herself clinging to his hand for a longer space of time than is allotted52 to the usual formal clasp. All her past loneliness rose about her and seemed to choke her utterance53, with something else that left her without speech.
“Let’s not eat here,” said Jim; “there’s something so public about this place. Everyone just seems to come here to look everyone else over.”
Out in the evening air, speech returned to her, and they bridged the time they had not seen each other by a few sentences while walking through those strange cross-alleys that only Boston can boast until they came to a cobble-stoned street that comprises part of the city’s modest Chinatown, and “counted out” on the different restaurants facing them. A fa?ade of ornate gilt54 with curtained windows won the count, and they were soon in a little stall away from the bright lights of the central room.
The order given, Joy told the complete story of the New York trip, with the loneliness Jerry’s leaving her had brought. “What shall I do?” she concluded. “If father comes down here, he’ll find me living alone in the apartment—which he certainly would not like.”
“Joy, you know that you can’t stay in that place alone,” said Jim. “That’s one reason why I insisted on seeing you to-night—I wanted to find out your plans.”
“Jerry wants me to stay in it till July—and it’s so much easier for me in every way—especially practicing—than if I boarded anywhere——”
Jim shook his head. “This Félicie Durant you speak of, who lives in Brighton with her great-aunt—perhaps she could persuade her aunt to rent Jerry’s apartment, and then keep you as a boarder. If you suggest that scheme to her, she might think of offering to take you in with them even if they didn’t care to move.”
“That is—a good suggestion,” she said uncertainly. She was in that state of mind where she hated to take any steps, make any plans.
“If that fails, you’ll have to apply to the Students’ union for lists of recommendable places,” he added with quiet finality.
“Oh, is that what one does?” She felt foolishly incompetent55. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been making inquiries56 myself. I knew you were alone there, and that you couldn’t stay that way.”
Joy felt an embracing peace, the peace of decision in which Jim always enveloped her. “Jim,” she said suddenly, “what have I ever done—or been, except a foolish girl—that you should be so good to me? At the very first, you did—more than I can ever repay—and then you went on—always helping57 me, in ways that really were help—and understanding so well—sometimes better than I understand myself!”
Jim looked at her across the table, and the keen friendliness dropped from his eyes, all at once; leaving them naked. Involuntarily Joy turned away her face. When his voice came, it was quiet, with a new current bearing it along.
“It is because I have understood so well—that I’ve never told you what I must tell you now. The brakes won’t hold—I think I have loved you, Joy, from the time your lip quivered when you told me to take you back to Tom.”
A pause while the Chinese waiter took away their dishes. Of all moments to bring in his tardy58 self!
Joy started to speak, to falter51 her way with lips suddenly tender, but he was looking away from her now and beyond.
“I think you ought to know, Joy—that I love you more than anyone else in this world. You—you mean life to me.”
There was no wild heart-beat trembling in her being as she heard his words, nothing but peace and a great content. “Oh, Jim!” she said in a little voice, then waited for his eyes to meet hers. . . . It had not come within the halo of dreams nor in the area of the disturbing thrills of youth—it came in a golden calm. Jim was the Perfect Knight59, of whom she had dreamed in the days when she supposed one had but to wait and the knight would come a-riding; the Perfect Knight, with spotless shield and shining armour60. The shield was his spotless life, making him more than worthy61 of her; the armour was the white strength of his soul and his body with which he had defended her at all times, since the very first.
Then weirdly62, unaccountably, across the even rhapsody of her meditation63 came a voice from the chapels64 of memory; a voice full, perfectly poised65, with each word as flawless as if it had been engraved66 on a cameo.
“Love comes down to a hearth-fire, after marriage; and we who sing are not content with hearth-fires. Remember that always, little one; we who sing are not content with hearth-fires.”
Only that second of recollection before Jim’s eyes met hers, and Joy chose her fate. She urged her eyes away from him, with a sick little shiver; and keeping them fixed67 on some distant point, she said in a voice so slight it almost slipped away before it struck the hearing: “Jim—please—don’t!”
“I—won’t,” he said, in a voice that did not alter. “I—I knew it was—hopeless, Joy, before I spoke; and I shall not bother you about it again; but I wanted you to know, while I was able to see you—you have not let me see you for so long.”
“Jim—I’m so sorry——” she cried, against the destruction that was descending68 upon her soul so lately filled with peace.
“Sorry! Sorry is—an awful little word. I didn’t want to make you—sorry. I just wanted you to know—I would have been a conceited69 ass12 indeed if I had thought you could—care for me.”
“It’s not that.”
The words were clipped out in an even, glassy tone, as hard as a window-pane and as easy to break or see through. But the shutters70 were down behind, for the one who most wanted to see. . . .
Jim did not bring the subject up again until they were at the door of the apartment.
“Please don’t let anything I’ve said worry you, Joy. And—we still are friends—aren’t we?”
“Oh, yes, Jim!” she cried, and then fell silent, ashamed.
“This world would indeed be an empty place for me—if anything should happen to that friendship.”
He took her hand, and she knew in a bitter little rush how much she wanted to have his arms around her—to feel again encompassing71 her the peace that she had destroyed. Pale as the novice72 who goes to her vows73, she took her hand away and left him.
She sat at the piano, striving to drown the turbulence74 within her by a glory of sound. With shaking, silver lips, she tried to form the words of the Jewel Song—she should be able really to sing it now—for to-day had come her first trill! “All passes; Art alone endures.” She was so wise not to have allowed the sentiment of the moment to overpower her. It was just such moments that were responsible for the “mute, inglorious Pattis” of the world.
The trill came, neat and exquisite. Then haltingly—
“Je ris—de me voir—
Si belle—”
Her voice limped into silence. . . .
She left the piano. This loneliness was getting on her nerves. She would see Félicie to-morrow. Yes, to-morrow was coming—and she could not wait to have Pa hear that trill!
On hearing Joy’s proposition, Félicie consulted her great-aunt, but neither of them wished to leave their eminently satisfactory lodgings75 in Brighton.
“It’s awful for you to be alone, though, Joy,” she said. “Auntie suggested that you come and stay with us—she’s deaf, you know, so she won’t mind your practicing, if you don’t mind living in the little room off the kitchen——I’d take you in with me, but there’s really no room, the way everything’s fixed.”
Having decided76 to accept this enthusiastic invitation before it had been issued, Joy surprised Félicie by being pleased with the offer of the little room near the kitchen. “Of course, I’d pay board,” she said, “and take my meals out.”
“Well, all right,” said Félicie, “only auntie will be annoyed if you don’t eat with her. She’s lonely, now that I go out so much of the time.”
They left the situation to be fought out with “auntie,” and Joy wrote Jerry of her decision to leave the apartment as soon as she could get her things together.
Jerry replied by bursting in upon Joy one morning in the first chill days of April, while Joy was poaching a dejected egg in the kitchenette. A new radiant Jerry, all softness and winsome77, assured charm that is the gain of those who are exorbitantly78 loved in return for their own great love. She danced over the apartment in pretended high spirits at being back, and then packed her clothes in a rush of concentration that betrayed her haste.
“This is the first time I’ve been away from him—and I didn’t know I was going to feel like this!” she confessed.
“There’s just one thing, though. You have no use for the wine-closet, I take it?”
Joy had not taken a drink since the night she watched the effect of it from the sofa, with Wigs79 and Davy babbling80 in her ear.
“Then,” said Jerry briskly, “we might just as well do a little government-agent work.” At Joy’s look of astonishment81: “Oh, I never drink now. There’s—too much else to think about. Phil and I smoke together—but that’s as far as we go. Seems funny when I think in idle moments how I’ve taken it down all my life and now have just dropped it off without—much—effort. But somehow, you don’t feel like the good old stuff when you’re in love. There’s something about it——”
They took the liquor case by case to the bathroom where they became carried away by an orgy of opening bottles and watching their contents gurgle into the tub.
“We could bathe in champagne82 now, if we felt like it,” said Jerry reflectively. “I’ve often thought I would, but I guess I was pretty well doused83 on the inside when I had the little idea.”
Joy watched it gurgle down the pipe and thought of the inferno84 that innocent-looking liquid could cause. . . . What it had caused in her own experience. . . . In the lights and shades of the mixture tumbling to the sewers85 where it belonged, she saw Jack86 Barnett’s face for a fleeting87 horror, that shifted to Packy’s, quite as terrible. And she saw Sarah. . . . And then they all blended together in a whirling mass, and flickered88 away. The bathtub was empty. . . .
“I’ve got to admit,” Jerry was saying, in rather an artificial voice, “that in spite of everything it makes me feel sort of ill to see all that joy-getter spilling itself away in such a casual fashion.”
Joy looked at her, and saw that her mouth was slightly twisted, her eyes bearing a strained expression. It had evidently been more of an effort for her than Joy had realized.
That Jerry could have stopped drinking altogether! Even to her inexperienced knowledge it seemed an impossibility. Jerry was staring into the bathtub again, with the hungry look of the street-gamin. . . . Joy turned away, and with her old-time quick sensitiveness, Jerry laughed and joined her.
“I don’t deny it isn’t hard at times and harder at others, old girl,” she said; “but there are things in everyone’s life that are hard not to do, and all the same one simply can’t do ’em!”
The day was unlike their old times together. On the surface, both girls were affectionate, and delighted to be with one another again; but below the surface everywhere intruded89 the man who had come between their friendship, changing everything irrevocably. Jerry was changed. For the better, one could not doubt; but nevertheless she was not the Jerry that Joy had known and loved. She was softer, with that new glow within her lighting90 everything she did or said. Her speech already showed meditation, her manner was more reposeful91. Content and love were fast enfolding her into serenity—and, Joy thought, who wanted a serene92 Jerry?
Their conversation was strained, although voluble. Jerry’s bristled93 with mention of Phil, directly or indirectly94. This stimulated95 Joy’s desire to talk of Jim; and the realization96 that she could not, that she had not Jerry’s excuse or right, brought effort into her responses.
They telephoned Félicie, and Jerry took them both to the Copley for dinner, over which they lingered. Félicie was wearing her usual look of unbroken loveliness, and arrayed for a Sixty Club dance in Brookline. Her attitude towards Jerry was frankly pitying, which abated97 none the less when she saw that Jerry’s attitude duplicated hers.
“It’s all right to act as if you’d pulled the moon down to earth, for a while,” she said tolerantly. “I know how these things come out. Pretty soon this one-man stuff will get monotonous. Monotony! Sooner or later you see it in all married life! And you’ll get monotonous to him, too! Husbands always get so husband-like when their wives begin getting always the same!”
Jerry laughed. “Better take the plunge98 like a shot the way I did, Félicie. Then you’ll have no time to think up objections. Monotony! The way I used to live—the way you’re living now—is the real monotony. Continually seeing one side only of large numbers of young men—one party after another—oh well, there’s no use wasting my flow of English on the subject.”
There was no use. A youth with an attitude of cultivated boredom99 and repressed correctness, came in for her, and she left them “wishing she could stay, but you see how it is.”
“She never looks eager,” said Joy; “you wouldn’t think she valued a good time so highly.”
Jerry the excitement-eater was dead, that was plain. Joy had always wished to see that side of her dispensed101 with. Then why did this change, this miraculous102, softening103 change, stir irritation104 within her, throw a breach105 between them?
She could not fathom106 the reason until she took Jerry to the eleven o’clock and told her good-bye. There, with a farewell look at Jerry’s brilliant face, enhanced by the beloved freckles107, it came to her in a rush. She was jealous—jealous both ways! Before, she had been jealous of Phil Lancaster only for taking Jerry from her; now, she was jealous of Jerry herself, for the world in which she lived, the world upon which Joy had turned her back. . . .
She did not sleep well that night. Disturbing thoughts pressed urgently about her, and would not postpone108 their hearing.
It was a powerful force that had led Jerry to stop drinking, to drop her Excitement-Eating ways without regret. To pit oneself against such a force—to eliminate it from one’s life—was an undertaking109 at the mysterious door of which Joy paused and shivered. . . .
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1
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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waxworks
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| n.公共供水系统；蜡制品，蜡像( waxwork的名词复数 ) | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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shrieking
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tingling
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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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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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37
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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38
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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39
sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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40
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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41
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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42
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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43
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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45
prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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46
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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47
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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48
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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50
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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51
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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52
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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54
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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55
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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56
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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57
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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58
tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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59
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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60
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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61
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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62
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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63
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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encompassing
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| v.围绕( encompass的现在分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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74
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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exorbitantly
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79
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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80
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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81
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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82
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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83
doused
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| v.浇水在…上( douse的过去式和过去分词 )；熄灯[火] | |
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84
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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85
sewers
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| n.阴沟，污水管，下水道( sewer的名词复数 ) | |
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86
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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87
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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88
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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90
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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91
reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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92
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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93
bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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94
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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95
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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96
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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97
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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98
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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99
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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100
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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101
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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102
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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103
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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104
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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105
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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106
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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107
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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108
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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109
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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