Clare Bowring went to her room that night feeling as though she had been at the theatre. She could not get rid of the impression made upon her by the scene she had witnessed, and over and over again, as she lay awake, with the moonbeams streaming into her room, she went over all she had seen and heard on the platform. It had, at least, been very like the theatre. The broad, flat stage, the somewhat conventionally picturesque1 buildings, the strip of far-off sea, as flat as a band of paint, the unnaturally2 bright moonlight, the two chief figures going through a love quarrel in the foreground, and she herself calmly seated in the shadow, as in the darkened amphitheatre, and looking on unseen and unnoticed.
But the two people had not talked at all as people talked on the stage in any piece Clare had ever seen. What would have been the “points” in a play had all been left out, and instead there had been abrupt4 pauses and awkward silences, and then, at what should have been the supreme5 moment, the lady in white had asked for a cigarette. And the two hasty little kisses that had a sort of perfunctory air, and the queer, jerky “good-byes,” and the last stop near the door of the hotel—it all had an air of being very badly done. It could not have been a success on the stage, Clare thought.
And yet this was a bit of life, of the real, genuine life of two people who had been in love, and perhaps were in love still, though they might not know it. She had been present at what must, in her view, have been a great crisis in two lives. Such things, she thought, could not happen more than once in a lifetime—twice, perhaps. Her mother had been married twice, so Clare admitted a second possibility. But not more than that.
The situation, too, as she reviewed it, was nothing short of romantic. Here was a young man who had evidently been making love to a married woman, and who had made her believe that he loved her, and had made her love him too. Clare remembered the desperate little sob6, and the handkerchief twice pressed to the pale lips. The woman was married, and yet she actually loved the man enough to think of divorcing her husband in order to marry him. Then, just when she was ready, he had turned and told her in the most heartless way that it had been all play, and that he would not marry her under any circumstances. It seemed monstrous7 to the innocent girl that they should even have spoken of marriage, until the divorce was accomplished9. Then, of course, it would have been all right. Clare had been brought up with modern ideas about divorce in general, as being a fair and just thing in certain circumstances. She had learned that it could not be right to let an innocent woman suffer all her life because she had married a brute10 by mistake. Doubtless that was Lady Fan’s case. But she should have got her divorce first, and then she might have talked of marriage afterwards. It was very wrong of her.
But Lady Fan’s thoughtlessness—or wickedness, as Clare thought she ought to call it—sank into insignificance11 before the cynical12 heartlessness of the man. It was impossible ever to forget the cool way in which he had said she ought not to take it so tragically14, because it was not worth it. Yet he had admitted that he had promised to marry her if she got a divorce. He had made love to her, there on the Acropolis, at sunset, as she had said. He even granted that he might have believed himself in earnest for a few moments. And now he told her that he was sorry, but that “it would not do.” It had evidently been all his fault, for he had found nothing with which to reproach her. If there had been anything, Clare thought, he would have brought it up in self-defence. She could not suspect that he would almost rather have married Lady Fan, and ruined his life, than have done that. Innocence15 cannot even guess at sin’s code of honour—though sometimes it would be in evil case without it. Brook16 had probably broken Lady Fan’s heart that night, thought the young girl, though Lady Fan had said with such a bitter, crying laugh that they were not children and that their hearts could not break.
And it all seemed very unreal, as she looked back upon it. The situation was certainly romantic, but the words had been poor beyond her imagination, and the actors had halted in their parts, as at a first rehearsal17.
Then Clare reflected that of course neither of them had ever been in such a situation before, and that, if they were not naturally eloquent18, it was not surprising that they should have expressed themselves in short, jerky sentences. But that was only an excuse she made to herself to account for the apparent unreality of it all. She turned her cheek to a cool end of the pillow and tried to go to sleep.
She tried to bring back the white dreams she had dreamt when she had sat alone in the shadow before the other two had come out to quarrel. She did her best to bring back that vague, soft joy of yearning19 for something beautiful and unknown. She tried to drop the silver veil of fancy-threads woven by the May moon between her and the world. But it would not come. Instead of it, she saw the flat platform, the man and woman standing20 in the unnatural3 brightness, and the woman’s desperate little face when he had told her that she had never loved him. The dream was not white any more.
So that was life. That was reality. That was the way men treated women. She thought she began to understand what faithlessness and unfaithfulness meant. She had seen an unfaithful man, and had heard him telling the woman he had made love him that he never could love her any more. That was real life.
Clare’s heart went out to the little lady in white. By this time she was alone in her cabin, and her pillow was wet with tears. Brook doubtless was calmly asleep, unless he were drinking or doing some of those vaguely21 wicked things which, in the imagination of very simple young girls, fill up the hours of fast men, and help sometimes to make those very men “interesting.” But after what she had seen Clare felt that Brook could never interest her under imaginable circumstances. He was simply a “brute,” as the lady in white had told him, and Clare wished that some woman could make him suffer for his sins and expiate22 the misdeeds which had made that little face so desperate and that short laugh so bitter.
She wished, though she hardly knew it, that she had done anything rather than have sat there in the shadow, all through the scene. She had lost something that night which it would be hard indeed to find again. There was a big jagged rent in the drop-curtain of illusions before her life-stage, and through it she saw things that troubled her and would not be forgotten.
She had no memory of her own of which the vivid brightness or the intimate sadness could diminish the force of this new impression. Possibly, she was of the kind that do not easily fall in love, for she had met during the past two years more than one man whom many a girl of her age and bringing up might have fancied. Some of them might have fallen in love with her, if she had allowed them, or if she had felt the least spark of interest in them and had shown it. But she had not. Her manner was cold and over-dignified for her years, and she had very little vanity together with much pride—too much of the latter, perhaps, to be ever what is called popular. For “popular” persons are generally those who wish to be such; and pride and the love of popularity are at opposite poles of the character-world. Proud characters set love high and their own love higher, while a vain woman will risk her heart for a compliment, and her reputation for the sake of having a lion in her leash23, if only for a day. Clare Bowring had not yet been near to loving, and she had nothing of her own to contrast with this experience in which she had been a mere24 spectator. It at once took the aspect of a generality. This man and this woman were probably not unlike most men and women, if the truth were known, she thought. And she had seen the real truth, as few people could ever have seen it—the supreme crisis of a love-affair going on before her very eyes, in her hearing, at her feet, the actors having no suspicion of her presence. It was, perhaps, the certainty that she could not misinterpret it all which most disgusted her, and wounded something in her which she had never defined, but which was really a sort of belief that love must always carry with it something beautiful, whether joyous25, or tender, or tragic13. Of that, there had been nothing in what she had seen. Only the woman’s face came back to her, and hurt her, and she felt her own heart go out to poor Lady Fan, while it hardened against Brook with an exaggerated hatred26, as though he had insulted and injured all living women.
It was probable that she was to see this man during several days to come. The idea struck her when she was almost asleep, and it waked her again, with a start. It was quite certain that he had stayed behind, when the others had gone down to the yacht, for she had heard the voices calling out “Good-bye, Brook!” Besides he had said repeatedly to the lady in white that he must stay. He was expecting his people. It was quite certain that Clare must see him during the next day or two. It was not impossible that he might try to make her mother’s acquaintance and her own. The idea was intensely disagreeable to her. In the first place, she hated him beforehand for what he had done, and, secondly27, she had once heard his secret. It was one thing, so long as he was a total stranger. It would be quite another, if she should come to know him. She had a vague thought of pretending to be ill, and staying in her room as long as he remained in the place. But in that case she should have to explain matters to her mother. She should not like to do that. The thought of the difficulty disturbed her a little while longer. Then, at last, she fell asleep, tired with what she had felt, and seen, and heard.
The yacht sailed before daybreak, and in the morning the little hotel had returned to its normal state of peace. The early sun blazed upon the white walls above, and upon the half-moon, beach below, and shot straight into the recess28 in the rocks where Clare had sat by the old black cross in the dark. The level beams ran through her room, too, for it faced south-east, looking across the gulf29; and when she went to the window and stood in the sunshine, her flaxen hair looked almost white, and the good southern warmth brought soft colour to the northern girl’s cheeks. She was like a thin, fair angel, standing there on the high balcony, looking to seaward in the calm air. That, at least, was what a fisherman from Praiano thought, as he turned his hawk-eyes upwards30, standing to his oars31 and paddling slowly along, top-heavy in his tiny boat. But no native of Amalfi ever mistook a foreigner for an angel.
Everything was quiet and peaceful again, and there seemed to be neither trace nor memory of the preceding day’s invasion. The English old maids were early at their window, and saw with disappointment that the yacht was gone. They were never to know whether the big man with the gold cigarette case had been the Duke of Orkney or not. But order was restored, and they got their tea and toast without difficulty. The Russian invalid32 was slicing a lemon into his cup on the vine-sheltered terrace, and the German family, having slept on the question of the Pope and Bismarck, were ruddy with morning energy, and were making an early start for a place in the hills where the Professor had heard that there was an inscription33 of the ninth century.
The young girl stood still on her balcony, happily dazed for a few moments by the strong sunshine and the clear air. It is probably the sensation enjoyed for hours together by a dog basking34 in the sun, but with most human beings it does not last long—the sun is soon too hot for the head, or too bright for the eyes, or there is a draught35, or the flies disturb one. Man is not capable of as much physical enjoyment36 as the other animals, though perhaps his enjoyment is keener during the first moments. Then comes thought, restlessness, discontent, change, effort, and progress, and the history of man’s superiority is the journal of his pain.
For a little while, Clare stood blinking in the sunshine, smitten37 into a pleasant semi-consciousness by the strong nature around her. Then she thought of Brook and the lady in white, and of all she had been a witness of in the evening, and the colour of things changed a little, and she turned away and went between the little white and red curtains into her room again. Life was certainly not the same since she had heard and seen what a man and a woman could say and be. There were certain new impressions, where there had been no impression at all, but only a maiden38 readiness to receive the beautiful. What had come was not beautiful, by any means, and the thought of it darkened the air a little, so that the day was not to be what it might have been. She realised how she was affected39, and grew impatient with herself. After all, it would be the easiest thing in the world to avoid the man, even if he stayed some time. Her mother was not much given to making acquaintance with strangers.
And it would have been easy enough, if the man himself had taken the same view. He, however, had watched the Bowrings on the preceding evening, and had made up his mind that they were “human beings,” as he put it; that is to say, that they belonged to his own class, whereas none of the people at the upper end of the table had any claim to be counted with the social blessed. He was young, and though he knew how to amuse himself alone, and had all manner of manly40 tastes and inclinations41, he preferred pleasant society to solitude42, and his experience told him that the society of the Bowrings would in all probability be pleasant. He therefore determined43 that he would try to know them at once, and the determination had already been formed in his mind when he had run after Clare to give her the shawl she had dropped.
He got up rather late, and promptly44 marched out upon the terrace under the vines, smoking a briar-root pipe with that solemn air whereby the Englishman abroad proclaims to the world that he owns the scenery. There is something almost phenomenal about an Englishman’s solid self-satisfaction when he is alone with his pipe. Every nation has its own way of smoking. There is a hasty and vicious manner about the Frenchman’s little cigarette of pungent45 black tobacco; the Italian dreams over his rat-tail cigar; the American either eats half of his Havana while he smokes the other, or else he takes a frivolous46 delight in smoking delicately and keeping the white ash whole to the end; the German surrounds himself with a cloud, and, god-like, meditates47 within it; there is a sacrificial air about the Asiatic’s narghileh, as the thin spire48 rises steadily49 and spreads above his head; but the Englishman’s short briar-root pipe has a powerful individuality of its own. Its simplicity50 is Gothic, its solidity is of the Stone Age, he smokes it in the face of the higher civilisation51, and it is the badge of the conqueror52. A man who asserts that he has a right to smoke a pipe anywhere, practically asserts that he has a right to everything. And it will be admitted that Englishmen get a good deal.
Moreover, as soon as the Englishman has finished smoking he generally goes and does something else. Brook knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and immediately went in search of the head waiter, to whom he explained with some difficulty that he wished to be placed next to the two ladies who sat last on the side away from the staircase at the public table. The waiter tried to explain that the two ladies, though they had been some time in the hotel, insisted upon being always last on that side because there was more air. But Brook was firm, and he strengthened his argument with coin, and got what he wanted. He also made the waiter point out to him the Bowrings’ name on the board which held the names of the guests. Then he asked the way to Ravello, turned up his trousers round his ankles, and marched off at a swinging pace down the steep descent towards the beach, which he had to cross before climbing the hill to the old town. Nothing in his outward manner or appearance betrayed that he had been through a rather serious crisis on the preceding evening.
That was what struck Clare Bowring when, to her dismay, he sat down beside her at the midday meal. She could not help glancing at him as he took his seat. His eyes were bright, his face, browned by the sun, was fresh and rested. There was not a line of care or thought on his forehead. The young girl felt that she was flushing with anger. He saw her colour, and took it for a sign of shyness. He made a sort of apologetic movement of the head and shoulders towards her which was not exactly a bow—for to an Englishman’s mind a bow is almost a familiarity—but which expressed a kind of vague desire not to cause any inconvenience.
The colour deepened a little in Clare’s face, and then disappeared. She found something to say to her mother, on her other side, which it would hardly have been worth while to say at all under ordinary circumstances. Mrs. Bowring had glanced at the man while he was taking his seat, and her eyebrows53 had contracted a little. Later she looked furtively54 past her daughter at his profile, and then stared a long time at her plate. As for him, he began to eat with conscious strength, as healthy young men do, but he watched his opportunity for doing or saying anything which might lead to a first acquaintance.
To tell the truth, however, he was in no hurry. He knew how to make himself comfortable, and it was an important element in his comfort to be seated next to the only persons in the place with whom he should care to associate. That point being gained, he was willing to wait for whatever was to come afterwards. He did not expect in any case to gain more than the chance of a little pleasant conversation, and he was not troubled by any youthful desire to shine in the eyes of the fair girl beside whom he found himself, beyond the natural wish to appear well before women in general, which modifies the conduct of all natural and manly young men when women are present at all.
As the meal proceeded, however, he was surprised to find that no opportunity presented itself for exchanging a word with his neighbour. He had so often found it impossible to avoid speaking with strangers at a public table that he had taken the probability of some little incident for granted, and caught himself glancing surreptitiously at Clare’s plate to see whether there were nothing wanting which he might offer her. But he could not think of anything. The fried sardines55 were succeeded by the regulation braised beef with the gluey brown sauce which grows in most foreign hotels. That, in its turn, was followed by some curiously56 dry slices of spongecake, each bearing a bit of pink and white sugar frosting, and accompanied by fresh orange marmalade, which Brook thought very good, but which Clare refused. And then there was fruit—beautiful oranges, uncanny apples, and walnuts—and the young man foresaw the near end of the meal, and wished that something would happen. But still nothing happened at all.
He watched Clare’s hands as she prepared an orange in the Italian fashion, taking off the peel at one end, then passing the knife twice completely round at right angles, and finally stripping the peel away in four neat pieces. The hands were beautiful in their way, too thin, perhaps, and almost too white from recent illness, but straight and elastic57, with little blue veins58 at the sides of the finger-joints and exquisite59 nails that were naturally polished. The girl was clever with her fingers, she could not help seeing that her neighbour was watching her, and she peeled the orange with unusual skill and care. It was a good one, too, and the peel separated easily from the deep yellow fruit.
He was startled by the sound of his own voice, for he had not meant to speak, and the blood rushed to his sunburnt face. Clare’s eyes flashed upon him in a glance of surprise, and the colour rose in her cheeks also. She was evidently not pleased, and he felt that he had been guilty of a breach62 of English propriety63. When an Englishman does a tactless thing he generally hastens to make it worse, becomes suddenly shy, and flounders.
“I—I beg your pardon,” stammered64 Brook. “I really didn’t mean to speak—that is—you did it so awfully well, you know!”
“It’s the Italian way,” Clare answered, beginning to quarter the orange.
She felt that she could not exactly be silent after he had apologised for admiring her skill. But she remembered that she had felt some vanity in what she had been doing, and had done it with some unnecessary ostentation65. She hoped that he would not say anything more, for the sound of his voice reminded her of what she had heard him say to the lady in white, and she hated him with all her heart.
But the young man was encouraged by her sufficiently66 gracious answer, and was already glad of what he had done.
“Do all Italians do it that way?” he asked boldly.
“Generally,” answered the young girl, and she began to eat the orange.
Brook took another from the dish before him.
“Let me see,” he said, turning it round and round. “You cut a slice off one end.” He began to cut the peel.
“Not too deep,” said Clare, “or you will cut into the fruit.”
“Oh—thanks, awfully. Yes, I see. This way?”
He took the end off, and looked at her for approval. She nodded gravely, and then turned away her eyes. He made the two cuts round the peel, crosswise, and looked to her again, but she affected not to see him.
“Oh—might I ask you—” he began. She looked at his orange again, without a smile. “Please don’t think me too dreadfully rude,” he said. “But it was so pretty, and I’m tremendously anxious to learn. Was it this way?”
His fingers teased the peel, and it began to come off. He raised his eyes with another look of inquiry67.
“Yes. That’s all right,” said Clare calmly.
She was going to look away again, when she reflected that since he was so pertinacious68 it would be better to see the operation finished once for all. Then she and her mother would get up and go away, as they had finished. But he wished to push his advantage.
“And now what does one do?” he asked, for the sake of saying something.
“One eats it,” answered Clare, half impatiently.
He stared at her a moment and then broke into a laugh, and Clare, very much to her own surprise and annoyance69, laughed too, in spite of herself. That broke the ice. When two people have laughed together over something one of them has said, there is no denying the acquaintance.
“It was really awfully kind of you!” he exclaimed, his eyes still laughing. “It was horridly70 rude of me to say anything at all, but I really couldn’t help it. If I could get anybody to introduce me, so that I could apologise properly, I would, you know, but in this place—”
He looked towards the German family and the English old maids, in a helpless sort of way, and then laughed again.
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” said Clare rather coldly.
“No—I suppose not,” he answered, growing graver at once. “And I think it is allowed—isn’t it?—to speak to one’s neighbour at a table d’h?te, you know. Not but what it was awfully rude of me, all the same,” he added hastily.
“Oh no. Not at all.”
Clare stared at the wall opposite and leaned back in her chair.
“Oh! thanks awfully! I was afraid you might think so, you know.”
Mrs. Bowring leaned forward as her daughter leaned back. Seeing that the latter had fallen into conversation with the stranger, she was too much a woman of the world not to speak to him at once in order to avoid any awkwardness when they next met, for he could not possibly have spoken first to her across the young girl.
“Is it your first visit to Amalfi?” she inquired, with as much originality71 as is common in such cases.
Brook leaned forward too, and looked over at the elder woman.
“Yes,” he answered, “I was with a party, and they dropped me here last night. I was to meet my people here, but they haven’t turned up yet, so I’m seeing the sights. I went up to Ravello this morning—you know, that place on the hill. There’s an awfully good view from there, isn’t there?”
Clare thought his fluency72 developed very quickly when he spoke8 to her mother. As he leaned forward she could not help seeing his face, and she looked at him closely, for the first time, and with some curiosity. He was handsome, and had a wonderfully frank and good-humoured expression. He was not in the least a “beauty” man—she thought he might be a soldier or a sailor, and a very good specimen73 of either. Furthermore, he was undoubtedly74 a gentleman, so far as a man is to be judged by his outward manner and appearance. In her heart she had already set him down as little short of a villain75. The discrepancy76 between his looks and what she thought of him disturbed her. It was unpleasant to feel that a man who had acted as he had acted last night could look as fresh, and innocent, and unconcerned as he looked to-day. It was disagreeable to have him at her elbow. Either he had never cared a straw for poor Lady Fan, and in that case he had almost broken her heart out of sheer mischief77 and love of selfish amusement, or else, if he had cared for her at all, he was a pitiably fickle78 and faithless creature—something much more despicable in the eyes of most women than the most heartless cynic. One or the other he must be, thought Clare. In either case he was bad, because Lady Fan was married, and it was wicked to make love to married women. There was a directness about Clare’s view which would either have made the man laugh or would have hurt him rather badly. She wondered what sort of expression would come over his handsome face if she were suddenly to tell him what she knew. The idea took her by surprise, and she smiled to herself as she thought of it.
Yet she could not help glancing at him again and again, as he talked across her with her mother, making very commonplace remarks about the beauty of the place. Very much in spite of herself, she wished to know him better, though she already hated him. His face attracted her strangely, and his voice was pleasant, close to her ear. He had not in the least the look of the traditional lady-killer, of whom the tradition seems to survive as a moral scarecrow for the education of the young, though the creature is extinct among Anglo-Saxons. He was, on the contrary, a manly man, who looked as though he would prefer tennis to tea and polo to poetry—and men to women for company, as a rule. She felt that if she had not heard him talking with the lady in white she should have liked him very much. As it was, she said to herself that she wished she might never see him again—and all the time her eyes returned again and again to his sunburnt face and profile, till in a few minutes she knew his features by heart.
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1
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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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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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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expiate
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| v.抵补，赎罪 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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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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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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meditates
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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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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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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horridly
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| 可怕地，讨厌地 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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