One cannot blame Dolly for using the less worthy5 arts of her sex to capture the man she wanted. One cannot think ill of Jim for having been betrayed by his senses into an alliance wherein there was little hope of happiness. Nature has strewn the whole world with her traps; she tricks and inveigles6 all young men and women with these dreams and promises of joy; she schemes and intrigues7 and conspires8 for one purpose, and one purpose only; and in so doing she has no more thought of that spiritual union, which is the only sort of marriage made in heaven, than she has when she sends the pollen10 from one flower to the next upon the wings of the bees.
Human beings in the spring-time of life are the dupes of Nature’s heedless joie de vivre, and fortunate are those who can take her animal pranks11 in good part and avoid getting hurt. Her victims are swayed and tossed about by yearnings and desires, passions and jealousies13, tremendous joys and[104] desperate sorrows: because she is everywhere at work upon the sole occupation which interests her—her scheme of racial survival.
The marvel14 is that so many marriages are happy, considering that youths and maidens15 are flung together, haphazard16, by mighty17 forces, upon the irresistibility18 of which the whole existence of the race depends. Well does Nature know that if once men and women mastered their yearnings, if once men should fail to hunt and women to entice19, the game would be lost, and the human race would become extinct.
During the following week Jim and Dolly saw each other every day; but, though their intimacy20 developed, Jim made no definite proposal of marriage. He was a lazy fellow. It was as though he preferred to drift into that state without undergoing the ordeal21 of the social formalities. He seemed to be carried along by circumstances, yet he dreaded22 what may be termed the business side of the matter.
At length Dolly brought matters to a point in her characteristic manner of assumed ingenuousness23. “I think, dear,” she said, “we had better tell mother about it now, hadn’t we? She will be so hurt if she finds that we’ve been leaving her out of our happiness.”
Jim made no protest. He felt rather stupid, and the thought of going to Mrs. Darling, hand-in-hand with Dolly, seemed to him to be positively24 frightening in its crudity25. It would be like walking straight into a trap. He would have preferred to slip off to a registry-office, and to see no friend or relative for a year afterwards.
[105]
The ordeal, however, proved to be less painful than he had anticipated, thanks to the tact26 displayed by Mrs. Darling. When Dolly came into the room at the cottage, triumphantly27 leading in her captive, the elder woman at once checked any utterance1 which was about to be made by declaring that Jim had just arrived in time to advise her in the choice of a new chintz for her chairs.
“Dolly, dear,” she said, “run upstairs and fetch me that book of patterns, will you?” And as soon as the girl had left the room she added: “I wonder whether your taste will agree with Dolly’s?”
“I expect so,” he replied, significantly.
“I hope so, for your sake,” she smiled; and then, turning confidentially28 to him, she whispered: “Tell me quickly, before she comes back: do you seriously want to marry her, or shall I help you to get out of it?”
She interrupted him, putting a plump hand on his shoulder. “It has been clear to me for some time that Dolly is desperately30 in love with you, and I know she has brought you here to settle the thing. But I’m a woman of the world, my dear boy: I don’t want to rush you into anything you don’t intend; for the fact is, I like you very much indeed.”
Jim made the only possible reply. “But,” he said with conviction, “I want to marry her. I’ve come to ask you. May I?”
Mrs. Darling looked at him intently. “You will have to manage her,” she told him. “She is very young and rather full of absurdities31, you know. But[106] you have knocked about the world: I should think you would be able to get the best out of her, and, anyhow, I shall feel she is in good hands.”
When the girl returned, after a somewhat prolonged absence, her mother looked almost casually32 at her. “Dolly,” she said, “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but you are engaged to be married.”
Thereat the three of them laughed happily, and the rest was plain sailing.
Later that day Dolly strolled arm-in-arm with Jim around the grounds of the manor33, looking about her with an air of proprietorship34 which he found very fascinating. The linking of their lives and their belongings35 seemed to him like a delightful36 game.
“I do like your mother,” he said. “She’s a real good sort.”
Dolly looked up at him quickly. “Poor mother!” she replied. “I don’t know what we can do with her. She won’t like leaving Eversfield.”
“Oh, why should she go?” Jim asked.
“It would never do for her to stay,” Dolly answered firmly. “Mothers-in-law are always in the way, however nice they are. I’m not going to risk her getting on your nerves.” She looked at him with an expression like that of a wise child.
“Well, we’ll rent a flat for her in London,” he suggested, “and I’ll give her the cottage, too, so that she can come down to it sometimes.”
Dolly shook her head. “No,” she said coldly, “she has enough money to keep herself.” His sentiments in regard to her mother had perhaps ruffled37 her somewhat, and an expression had passed over[107] her face which she hoped he had not seen. She endeavoured, therefore, to turn his thoughts to more intimate matters. “I should hate mother to be a burden to you,” she went on. “It’ll be bad enough for you to have to buy all my clothes.”
“I shall love it,” he replied, with enthusiasm.
“Ah, you don’t know how expensive they are,” she hesitated. “You see, it isn’t only what shows on top”—her voice died down to a luscious38 whisper—“it’s all the things underneath39 as well. Women’s clothes are rather wonderful, you know.”
She smiled shyly, and at that moment their marriage was to him a thing most fervently40 to be desired.
Events moved quickly, and it was decided43 that the engagement should not be of long duration. The news of the coming wedding caused a great stir in the village; and when the banns were read in the little church all eyes were turned upon them as they sat, he in the Squire44’s pew, and she with her mother near by. They formed a curious contrast in type: she, with her fair hair, her childlike face, and her dainty little figure; and he with his swarthy complexion45, his dark, restless eyes, and his rather untidy clothes. People wondered whether they would be happy, and the general opinion was that the little lamb had fallen into the power of a wolf. The village, in fact, had not taken kindly46 to the new Squire and his “foreign” ways; and Mrs. Spooner, the doctor’s wife, had voiced the general opinion by nicknaming him “Black Rupert.”
The weeks passed by rapidly, and soon Christmas was upon them. The wedding was fixed47 for the end of January, and during that month Jim caused[108] various alterations48 to be made in the furnishing of the manor, in accordance with Dolly’s wishes, for she held very decided views in this regard, and did not agree with his retention49 of so many of the mid-Victorian features in the drawing-room and the bedrooms. He himself had intended at first to be rid of most of these things, but later he had begun to feel, as Mr. Beadle had said he would, that he owed a certain homage50 to the past.
“Men don’t understand about these things,” Dolly said to him, patting his face; “but, if you want to please me, you’ll let me make a list of the pieces of furniture that ought to be got rid of and sell them.”
The consequence was that a van-load left the manor a few days later, and Miss Proudfoote and the vicar held one another’s hand as it passed, and choked with every understandable emotion, while Mr. and Mrs. Longarm wept openly at the gates.
The wedding-day at length arrived, and the ceremony proved a very trying ordeal to Jim; for Mr. Glenning had organized the village demonstrations51 of goodwill52, with the result that the school children, blue with cold, were lined up at the church door, the pews inside were packed with uncomfortably-dressed yokels53 with burnished54 faces and creaking boots, and a great deal of rice was thrown as the happy couple left the building.
Afterwards there was a reception at the Darling’s cottage; and Jim, wearing a tail-coat and a stiff collar for the first time in his life, suffered torments55 which were not entirely56 ended by a later change into a brand-new suit of grey tweed. Throughout this trying time Mrs. Darling, fat and flushed,[109] proved to be his comforter and his stand-by; and it was through her good offices that the hired car, which was to take them to the railway station at Oxford57, claimed them an hour too early.
Dolly, who had looked like an angel of Zion in her wedding dress, appeared, in her travelling costume, like a dryad of the Bois de Boulogne, and Jim, who had seen something of her trousseau, turned to Mrs. Darling in rapture58.
“I say!” he exclaimed. “You have rigged Dolly out wonderfully! I’ve never seen such clothes.”
Mrs. Darling smiled. “I believe in pretty dresses,” she said, with fervent41 conviction. “They tend to virtue59. I believe that when the respectable women of England took to wearing what were called indecent clothes, they struck their first effective blow at the power of Piccadilly. Has it never occurred to you that young peers have almost ceased to marry chorus girls now that peer’s daughters dress like leading ladies?”
The honeymoon60 was spent upon the Riviera, and here it was that Jim realized for the first time the exactions of marriage. This exquisitely61 costumed little wife of his could not be taken to the kind of inn which he had been accustomed to patronize, and he was therefore obliged to endure all the discomforts62 of fashionable hotel life, with its nerve-racking corollaries—the jabbering63 crowds, the perspiring64, stiff-shirted diners, the clatter65, bustle66 and perplexity, terminating in each case in the dreaded crisis of gratuity-giving and escape.
With all his Bedouin heart he loathed67 this sort of thing, and, had he not been the slave of love,[110] he would have rebelled against it at once. Dolly saw his distress68, but only added to it by her superior efforts to train him in the way in which he should go; and it was with a sigh of profound relief that at length he found himself in Eversfield once more, when the first buds of spring were powdering the trees with green, and the early daffodils were opening to the growing warmth of the sun.
Jim’s work in connection with the estate was not onerous69, but he very soon found that various small matters had constantly to be seen to, and often they were the cause of annoyance70. Rents were not always paid promptly71, and if his agent pressed for them the tenants72 regarded Jim, who knew nothing about it, as stern and exacting74. Mr. Merrivall held his lease of Rose Cottage on terms which provided that the tenant73 should be responsible for all interior repairs; and now he announced that the kitchen boiler75 was worn out, and the question had to be decided as to whether a boiler was an interior or a structural76 fitting. Some eighty acres were farmed by Mr. Hopkins on a sharing agreement, that is to say, Jim took a part of the profits in lieu of rent; but this sort of arrangement is always fruitful of disputes, and, in the case in question, the fact that Jim instinctively77 mistrusted Farmer Hopkins, and Farmer Hopkins mistrusted Jim, led at once to friction78.
Matters came to a head in the early summer. The farmer had decided to remove the remains79 of a last year’s hayrick from the field where it stood to a shed near his stable, and, during the process, he attempted to make a short-cut by drawing his[111] heavily-loaded wagon80 over a disused bridge which spanned a ditch. The bridge, however, collapsed81 under the weight, and the wagon was wrecked82.
The farmer thereupon demanded compensation from Jim, since the latter was the owner of the bridge and therefore responsible for it. Jim, however, replied that that road had been closed for many years to all but pedestrians83, and, if anything, the farmer ought to pay for the mending of the bridge. Mr. Hopkins then declared that he was going to law, and, in the meantime, he aired his grievances84 nightly at the “Green Man,” the village public-house.
The trouble simmered for a time, and then, one morning, the two men met by chance at the scene of the disaster. A wordy argument followed, and Farmer Hopkins, with a mouthful of oaths, repeated his determination to go to law, whereupon Jim lost his temper.
“Look here!” he said. “I don’t know anything about your blasted law, but I do know when I’m being imposed upon. If you mention the word ‘law’ to me again I’ll put my fist through your face.”
“Two can play at that game,” exclaimed the farmer, red with anger.
“Very well, then, come on!” cried Jim, impulsively85, and, pulling off his coat and tossing his hat aside, he began to roll up his shirt-sleeves.
Mr. Hopkins was a bigger and heavier man than the Squire, but Jim had the advantage of him in age, being some five years younger, and they were therefore very well matched. The farmer however, did not wish to fight, and, indeed, was so disconcerted[112] at the prospect86 that he stood staring at Jim’s lithe87, wild figure like a puzzled bull.
“Take your coat off!” Jim shouted. “We’ll have this matter out now. Put up your fists!”
The farmer thereupon dragged off his coat, and a moment later the two men were at it hammer and tongs88, Mr. Hopkins’ fists swinging like a windmill, and Jim, with more skill, parrying the blows and sending right and left to his opponent’s body with good effect. The first bout12 was ended by Jim dodging89 a terrific right and returning his left to the farmer’s jaw90, thereby91 sending him to the ground.
As he rose to his feet Jim shouted at him: “Well, will you now mend your own damned cart and let me mend my bridge?—or do you want to go on?”
For answer the infuriated Mr. Hopkins charged at him, and, breaking his guard, sent his fist into Jim’s eye; but he omitted to follow up the advantage with his idle left, and, in consequence, received an exactly similar blow upon his own bloodshot optic.
It was at this moment that a scream was heard, and Dolly appeared from behind a hedge, a curious habit of hers, that of always wishing to know what her husband was doing, having led her to follow him into the fields.
“James!” she cried in horror—ever since their marriage she had called him “James”—“What are you doing? Mr. Hopkins!—are you both mad?”
“Pretty mad,” replied Jim.
“Call yourself a gentleman!” roared the farmer, holding his hand to his eye.
“Oh, please, please!” Dolly entreated92. “Go home, Mr. Hopkins, before he kills you! James,[113] you ought to be ashamed of yourself, fighting like a common man. You have disgraced me!”
Jim, who was recovering his coat, looked up at her out of his one serviceable eye in astonishment93. Then, turning to his opponent, he said: “We’ll finish this some other time, if you want to.”
He then walked off the field of battle, his coat slung94 across his shoulder and his dark hair falling over his forehead, while Mr. Hopkins sat down upon the stump95 of a tree and spat96 the blood out of his mouth.
For many days thereafter Dolly would hardly speak to her disfigured husband, except to tell him, when he walked abroad with his blackened eye, that he had no shame. Farmer Hopkins, however, mended his wagon in time, and Jim mended his bridge; and there, save for much village head-shaking at the “Green Man” and melancholy97 talk at the vicarage, the matter ended. It was a regrettable affair, and the general opinion in the village was that “Black Rupert” was a man to be avoided. Miss Proudfoote, in fact, would hardly bow to him when next she passed him in the lane; and even Mr. Glenning, who quarrelled with no man, gazed at him, in church on the following Sunday, with an expression of deep reproof98 upon his venerable face.
It was after this painful incident that Jim formed the habit of going for long rambling99 walks by himself, or of wandering deep into the woods near the manor. Sometimes he would sit for hours upon a stile in the fields, sucking a straw and staring vacantly into the distance at the misty100 towers and spires9 of the ancient University, or lie in the grass, gazing[114] up at the sky, listening to the far-off bells, his arms behind his head. Sometimes he would take a book from his uncle’s library—some eighteenth-century romance, or a volume of Elizabethan poetry—and go with it into the woods, there to remain for a whole afternoon, reading in it or in the book of Nature.
These woods had a curious effect upon him, and entering them seemed to be like finding sanctuary101. It was not that his life, at this period, was altogether unhappy: his heart was full of tenderness towards Dolly, and, if her behaviour was beginning to disappoint him, his attitude was at first but one of vague disquietude. Yet here amongst the understanding trees he felt that he was taking refuge from some menace which he could not define; and at times he wondered whether the sensation was due to a mental throw-back to some outlawed103 ancestor who had roamed the merry greenwood, in the manner of Adam Bell and Clim of the Clough and William Cloudesley in the ancient ballads104 of the North of England.
He was conscious of a decided sense of failure and he felt that he was a useless individual. To a limited extent he used his brains and his pen in writing the verses which always amused him, but he rarely finished any such piece of work, and seldom composed a poem of any considerable length.
His character was not of the kind which would be likely to appeal to the stay-at-home Englishman. He did not play golf, and though as a youth he had been fond of cricket and tennis, his wandering life had given him no opportunities of maintaining his skill in these games, and now it was too late to[115] begin again. He was not particularly interested in horseflesh, and he had no mechanical turn which might vent42 itself in motoring. His habits were modest and temperate105; he preferred pitch-and-toss or “shove-ha’penny” to bridge; and he was a poor judge of port wine. He was sociable106 where the company was to his taste, but neither his neighbours at and around Eversfield, nor the professors at Oxford, were congenial to him. When there were visitors to the manor he was generally not able to be found; and when he was obliged to accompany his wife to the houses of other people, he was conscious that her eyes were upon him anxiously, lest he should show himself for what he was—a rebel and an outlaw102.
On one occasion the vicar persuaded him to sing and play his guitar at a village concert; but the result was disastrous107, and the invitation was never repeated. He chose to sing them Kipling’s “Mandalay”; but the pathos108 and the romance of the rough words were lost upon his stolid109 audience, to whom there was no meaning in the picture of the mist on the rice-fields and the sunshine on the palms, nor sense in the contrasting description of the “blasted Henglish drizzle” and the housemaids with beefy faces and grubby hands.
He himself was carried away by the words, and he sang with fervour:—
Ship me somewhere east of Suez, where the best is like the worst
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments, an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be—
[116]
He did not see Dolly’s frowns, nor the pained expression upon the vicar’s face, nor yet the smirks111 of the yokels; and when the song was ended he came suddenly back to earth, as it were, and was abashed112 at the feebleness of the applause.
Later, as he left the hall, he was stopped outside the door by a disreputable, red-haired creature, nicknamed “Smiley-face,” who was often spoken of as the village idiot. He grinned at Jim and touched his forelock.
“Thank ’e, sir,” he said, “for that there song. My, you do sing beautiful, sir!”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Jim answered.
“It was just like dreamin’,” Smiley-face muttered.
Jim looked at him quickly, and felt almost as though he had found a friend. He himself had been dreaming as he sang, and here, at any rate, was one man who had dreamed with him—and they called him the village idiot!
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1
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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3
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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5
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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6
inveigles
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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7
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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8
conspires
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| 密谋( conspire的第三人称单数 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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10
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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15
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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irresistibility
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| n.不能抵抗，难敌 | |
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entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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crudity
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| n.粗糙，生硬；adj.粗略的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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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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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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42
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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43
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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44
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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45
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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46
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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47
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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48
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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49
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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50
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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51
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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52
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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53
yokels
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| n.乡下佬，土包子( yokel的名词复数 ) | |
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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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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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56
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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58
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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60
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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72
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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structural
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| adj.构造的，组织的，建筑（用）的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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99
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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100
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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101
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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102
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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103
outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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105
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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106
sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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107
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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108
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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109
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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110
pagoda
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| n.宝塔（尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔），（印度教或佛教的）塔式庙宇 | |
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111
smirks
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| n.傻笑，得意的笑( smirk的名词复数 )v.傻笑( smirk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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112
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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