Now, as the pretty suburb of Lowbar is still a good score of years behind the world, its inhabitants could not understand this at all, and the majority of them were rather scandalised than otherwise, when they found that the vicar and his wife had called on the newcomers. Mr. Brandram the doctor had called too; but that was natural. He was a pushing man was Brandram, and a worldly man, so unlike Priestley, the other doctor, who was a retiring gentleman. So at least said Priestley's friends and Brandram's enemies. Brandram was a little man of between fifty and sixty, neat, and a little horsy in his dress, cheerful in his manner, fond of recommending good living, and fond of taking his own prescription11. He was a little "fast" for Lowbar, going to the theatre once or twice in the year, and insisting upon having novels for the Book-Society; whereas Priestley's greatest dissipation was attending a "humorous lecture" at the Mechanics' Institute, and his lightest reading a book of Antipodean travel. Brandram called at Elm Lodge12, of course, and saw both Geoff and Margaret, and talked of the Academy pictures,--which he had carefully got up from the catalogue and the newspaper-notices,--and on going away, left Mrs. Brandram's card. For three weeks afterwards, that visit supplied the doctor with interesting discourse13 for his patients: he described all the alterations14 which had been made in the house since Mrs. Pierce's death; he knew the patterns of the carpets, the colours of the curtains, the style of the furniture. Finally, he pronounced upon the newcomers; described Geoff as a healthy man of a sanguineous temperament15, not much cut out for the Lowbar folk; and his wife as a beautiful woman, but lymphatic.
These last were scarcely the details which the Lowbar folk wanted to know. They wanted to know all about the _ménage_; in what style the newcomers lived; whether they kept much or any company; whether they agreed well together. This last was a point of special curiosity; for, in common with numberless other worthy, commonplace, stupid people, the Lowbar folk imagined that the private lives of "odd persons"--under which heading they included all professors of literature and art of any kind--were passed in dissipation and wrangling16. How the information was to be obtained was the great point, for they knew that nothing would be extracted from the vicar, even if he had been brimful of remarks upon his new parishioners, which, indeed, he was not, as they neither of them happened to be at home when he called. It would be something to be well assured about their personal appearance, especially _her_ personal appearance; to see whether there were really any grounds for this boast of beauty which Dr. Brandram went talking about in such a ridiculous way. The church was the first happy hunting-ground pitched upon; and during the first Sunday after Geoff's and Margaret's arrival the excitement during divine service was intense; the worshippers in the middle and side aisles17, whose pews all faced the pulpit, and whose backs were consequently turned to the entrance-door, regarding with intense envy their friends whose pews confronted each other between the pulpit and the altar, and who, consequently, while chanting the responses or listening to the lesson, could steal furtive18 glances on every occasion of the door's opening, without outraging19 propriety20. But when it was found that the newcomers did not attend either morning or evening service,--and unquestionably a great many members of the congregation had their dinner of cold meat and salad (it was considered sinful in Lowbar to have hot dinners on Sunday) at an abnormally early hour for the purpose of attending evening service on the chance of seeing the new arrivals,--it was considered necessary to take more urgent measures; and so the little Misses Coverdale--two dried-up little chips of spinsters with corkscrew ringlets and black-lace mittens21, who kept house for their brother, old Coverdale, the red-faced, white-headed proctor, Geoffrey's next-door neighbour--had quite a little gathering22 the next day, the supposed object of which was to take tea and walk in the garden, but the real object to peep furtively23 over the wall and try and catch a glimpse of her who was already sarcastically24 known as "Dr. Brandram's beauty." Some of the visitors, acquainted with the peculiarities26 of the garden, knowing what mound27 to stand on and what position to take up, were successful in catching28 a glimpse of the top of Margaret's hair--"all taken off her face like a schoolgirl's, and leaving her cheeks as bare as bare," as they afterwards reported--as she wandered listlessly round the garden, stooping now and then to smell or gather a flower. One or two others were also rewarded by the sight of Geoffrey in his velvet29 painting-coat; among them, Letty Coverdale, who pronounced him a splendid man, and, O, so romantic-looking! for all ideas of matrimony had not yet left Miss Letty Coverdale, and the noun-substantive Man yet caused her heart to beat with an extra throb30 in her flat little chest; whereas Miss Matty Coverdale, who had a face like a horse, and who loudly boasted that she had never had an offer of marriage in her life, snorted out her wonder that Geoff did not wear a surtout like a Christian31 and her belief that he'd be all the cleaner after a visit to Mr. Ball, who was the Lowbar barber.
But bit by bit the personal appearance of both of them grew sufficiently32 familiar to many of the inhabitants, some of the most courageous33 of whom had actually screwed themselves up to that pitch of boldness necessary for the accomplishment34 of calling and leaving cards on strangers pursuing a profession unnamed in the _Directory_, and certainly not one of the three described in _Mangnall's Questions_. The calls were returned, and in some cases were succeeded by invitations to dinner. But Geoffrey cared little for these, and Margaret earnestly begged they might be declined. If she found her life insupportably dull and slow, this was not the kind of relief for which she prayed. A suburban dinner-party would be but a dull parody35 on what she had known; would give her trouble to dress for, without the smallest compensating36 amusement; would leave her at the mercy of stupid people, among whom she would probably be the only stranger, the only resource for staring eyes and questioning tongues. That they would have stared and questioned, there is little doubt; but they certainly intended hospitality. The "odd" feeling about the Ludlows prevalent on their first coming had worn off, and now the tide seemed setting the other way. Whether it was that the tradesmen's books were regularly paid, that the lights at Elm Lodge were seldom or never burning after eleven o'clock, that Geoffrey's name had been seen in the _Times_, as having been present at a dinner given by Lord Everton, a very grand dinner, where he was the only untitled man among the company, or for whatever other reason, there was a decided37 disposition38 to be civil to them. No doubt Margaret's beauty had a great deal to do with it, so far as the men were concerned. Old Mr. Coverdale, who had been portentously39 respectable for half a century, but concerning whom there was a floating legend of "Jolly dog-ism" In his youth, declared he had seen nothing like her since the Princess Charlotte; and Abbott, known as Captain Abbott, from having once been in the Commissariat, who always wore a chin-tip and a tightly-buttoned blue frock-coat and pipe-clayed buckskin gloves, made an especial point of walking past Elm Lodge every afternoon, and bestowing40 on Margaret, whenever he saw her, a peculiar25 leer which had done frightful41 execution amongst the nursemaids of Islington. Mrs. Abbott, a mild meek42 little woman, who practised potichomanie, delcomanie the art of making wax-flowers, any thing whereby to make money to pay the tradespeople and supply varnish43 for her husband's boots and pocket-money for his _menus plaisirs_, was not, it is needless to say, informed of these vagaries44 on the captain's part.
They were discussed every where: at the Ladies' Clothing-Club, where one need scarcely say that the opinions concerning Margaret's beauty were a little less fervid45 in expression; and at the Gentlemen's Book-Society, where a proposition to invite Geoff to be of their number, started by the vicar and seconded by old Mr. Coverdale, was opposed by Mr. Bryant (of Bryant and Martin, coach-builders, Long Acre), On the ground that the first Of the rules stated that this should be an association of gentlemen; and who could I say what would be done next if artists was to be received? The discussion on this point waxed very warm, and during it Mr. Cremer the curate incurred46 Mr. Bryant's deepest hatred47 for calling out to him, on his again attempting to address the meeting, "Spoke48, spoke!" which Mr. Bryant looked upon as a sneer49 at his trade, and remembered bitterly when the subscription50 was got up in the parish for presenting Mr. Cremer with the silver teapot and two hundred sovereigns, with which (the teapot at least) he proceeded to the rectory of Steeple Bumstead, in a distant part of the country. They were discussed by the regulars in the nine-o'clock omnibus, most of whom, as they passed by Elm Lodge and saw Geoff through the big window just commencing to set his palette, pitied him for having to work at home, and rejoiced in their own freedom from the possibility of conjugal51 inroad; or, catching a glimpse of Margaret, poked52 each other in the ribs53 and told each other what a fine woman she was. They were discussed by the schoolboys going to school, who had a low opinion of art, and for the most part confined the remarks about Geoffrey to his having a "stunnin' beard," and about Margaret to her being a "regular carrots," the youthful taste being strongly anti-pre-Raffaellitic, and worshipping the raven54 tresses and straight noses so dear to the old romancers.
And while all these discussions and speculations55 were rife56, the persons speculated on and discussed were leading their lives without a thought of what people were saying of them. Geoff knew that he was doing good work; he felt that intuitively as every man does feel it, quite as intuitively as when he is producing rubbish; and he knew it further from the not-too-laudatorily-inclined Mr. Stompff, who came up from time to time, and could not refuse his commendation to the progress of the pictures. And then Geoff was happy--at least, well, Margaret might have been a little more lively perhaps; but then--O, no; he was thoroughly57 happy! and Margaret--existed! The curtain had dropped on her wedding-day, and she had been groping in darkness ever since.
Time went on, as he does to all of us, whatever our appreciation58 of him may be, according to the mood we may happen to be in: swiftly to the happy and the old, slowly to the young and the wearied. There is that blessed compensation which pervades59 all human things, even in the flight of time. No matter how pleasant, how varied60, how completely filled is the time of the young, it hangs on them somehow; they do not feel it rush past them nor melt away, the hours swallowed up in days, the days in years, as do the elder people, who have no special excitement, no particular delight. The fact still remains61 that the young want time to fly, the old want him to crawl; and that, fulfilling the wishes of neither, he speeds on _aquo pale_, grumbled62 at by both.
The time went on. So Margaret knew by the rising and setting of the sun, by the usual meals, her own getting up and going to bed, and all the usual domestic routine. But by what else? Nothing. She had been married now nearly six months, and from that experience she thought she might deduce something like an epitome63 of her life. What was it? She had a husband who doated on her; who lavished64 on her comforts, superfluities, luxuries; who seemed never so happy as when toiling65 at his easel, and who brought the products of his work to her to dispose of as she pleased. A husband who up to that hour of her thought had never in the smallest degree failed to fulfil her earliest expectations of him,--generous to a degree, kind-hearted, weak, and easily led. Weak! weak as water.--Yes, and O yes! What you, like, my dear! What you think best, my child! That is for your decision, Margaret. I--I don't know; I scarcely like to give an opinion. Don't you think you had better settle it? I'll leave it all to you, please, dearest.--Good God! if he would only say _something_--as opposed to her ideas as possible, the more opposed the better--some assertion of self, some trumpet-note of argument, some sign of his having a will of his own, or at least an idea from which a will might spring. Here was the man who in his own art was working out the most admirable genius, showing that he had within him more of the divine afflatus66 than is given to nine hundred and ninety-nine in every thousand amongst us--a man who was rapidly lifting his name for the wonder and the envy of the best portion of the civilised world, incapable67 of saying "no" even to a proposition of hashed mutton for dinner, shirking the responsibility of a decision on the question of the proper place for a chair.
Indeed, I fear that, so far as I have stated, the sympathies of women will go against old Geoff, who must, I fancy, have been what they are in the habit of calling "very trying." You see he brought with him to the altar a big generous old heart, full of love and adoration68 of his intended wife, full of resolution, in his old blunt way, to stand by her through evil and good report, and to do his duty by her in all honour and affection. He was any thing but a self-reliant man; but he knew that his love was sterling69 coin, truly unalloyed; and he thought that it might be taken as compensation for numerous deficiencies, the existence of which he readily allowed. You see he discovered his power of loving simultaneously70 almost with his power of painting; and I think that this may perhaps account for a kind of feeling that, as the latter was accepted by the world, so would the former be by the person to whom it was addressed. When he sent out the picture which first attracted Mr. Stompff's attention, he had no idea that it was better than a score others which he had painted, during the course of his life; when he first saw Margaret Dacre, he could not tell that the instinctive71 admiration72 would lead to any thing more than the admiration which he had already silently paid to half-a-hundred pretty faces. But both had come to a successful issue; and he was only to paint his pictures with all the talent of his head and hand, and to love his wife with all the affection of his heart, to discharge his duty in life.
He did this; he worshipped her with all his heart. Whatever she did was right, whatever ought to have been discussed she was called upon to settle. They were very small affairs, as I have said,--of hashed mutton and jams of the colour of a ribbon, or the fashion of a bonnet73. Was there never to be any thing further than this? Was life to consist in her getting up and struggling through the day and going to bed at Elm Lodge? The short breakfast, when Geoff was evidently dying to be off into the painting-room; the long, long day,--composed of servants instruction, newspaper, lunch, sleep, little walk, toilette, dinner, utterly74 feeble conversation, yawns and head-droppings, and finally bed. She had pictured to herself something quiet, tranquil75, without excitement, without much change; but nothing like this.
Friends?--relations? O yes! old Mrs. Ludlow came to see her now and then; and she had been several times to Brompton. The old lady was very kind in her pottering stupid way, and her daughter Matilda was kind also, but as once gushing76 and prudish77; so Margaret thought. And they both treated her as if she were a girl; the old lady perpetually haranguing78 her with good advice and feeble suggestion, and Matilda--who, of course, like all girls, had, it was perfectly79 evident, some silly love-affair on with some youth who had not as yet declared himself--wanting to make her half-confidences, and half-asking for advice, which she never intended to take. A girl? O yes, of course, she must play out that farce80, and support that terribly vague story which old Geoff; pushed into a corner on a sudden, and without any one to help him at the instant, had fabricated concerning her parentage and belongings81. And she must listen to the old lady's praises of Geoff, and how she thought it not improbable, if things went on as they were going, that the happiest dream of her life would be fulfilled--that she should ride in her son's carriage. "It would be yours, of course, my dear; I know that well enough; but you'd let me ride in it sometimes, just for the honour and glory of the thing." And they talked like this to her: the old lady of the glory of a carriage; Matilda of some hawbuck wretch82 for whom she had a liking;--to her! who had sat on the box-seat of a drag a score of times, with half-a-score of the best men in England sitting behind her, all eager for a word or a smile.
She saw them now, frequently, whenever she came over to Brompton,--all the actors in that bygone drama of her life, save the hero himself. It was the play of _Hamlet_ with Hamlet left out, indeed. But what vast proportions did she then assume compared to what she had been lately! There were Rosencrantz and Guildenstern,--the one in his mail-phaeton, the other on his matchless hack83; there was old Polonius in the high-collared bottle-green coat of thirty years back, guiding his clever cob in and out among the courtiers; there was the Honourable84 Osric, simpering and fooling among the fops. She hurried across the Drive or the Row on her way to or from Brompton, and stood up, a little distance off, gazing at these comrades of old times. She would press her hands to her head, and wonder whether it was all true or a dream whether she was going back to the dull solemnity of Elm Lodge, when a dozen words would put her into that mail-phaeton--on to that horse! How often had Rosencrantz ogled85! and was it not Guildenstern's billet that, after reading, she tore up and threw in his face? It was an awful temptation; and she was obliged, as an antidote86, to picture to herself the tortures she had suffered from cold and want and starvation, to bring her round at all to a sensible line of thought.
Some one else had called upon her two or three times. O yes, a Miss Maurice, who came in a coroneted carriage, and to whom she had taken a peculiar detestation; not from any airs she had given herself--O no; there was nothing of that kind about her. She was one of those persons, don't you know, who have known your husband before his marriage, and take an interest in him, and must like you for his sake; one of those persons who are so open and honest and above-board, that you take an immediate distrust of them at first sight, which you never get over. O no, Margaret was perfectly certain she should never like Annie Maurice.
Music she had, and books; but she was not very fond of the first, and only played desultorily87. Geoff was most passionately88 fond of music; and sometimes after dinner he would ask for "a tune," and then Margaret would sit down at the piano and let her fingers wander over the keys, gradually finding them straying into some of the brilliant dance-music of Auber and Musard, of Jullien and Koenig, with which she had been familiarised during her Continental89 experience. And as she played, the forms familiarly associated with the music came trooping out of the mist--Henri, so grand in the _Cavalier seul_, Jules and Eulalie, so unapproachable in the _En avant deux_. There they whirled in the hot summer evenings; the _parterre_, illuminated90 with a thousand lamps glittering like fireflies, the sensuous91 strains of the orchestra soaring up to the great yellow-faced moon looking down upon it; and then the cosy92 little supper, the sparkling iced drink, the--"Time for bed, eh, dear?" from old Geoff, already nodding with premature93 sleep; and away flew the bright vision at the rattle94 of the chamber-candlestick.
Books! yes, no lack of them. Geoff subscribed95 for her to the library, and every week came the due supply of novels. These Margasightret read, some in wonder, some in scorn. There was a great run upon the Magdalen just then in that style of literature; writers were beginning to be what is called "outspoken96;" and young ladies familiarised with the outward life of the species, as exhibited in the Park and at the Opera, read with avidity of their diamonds and their ponies97, of the interior of the _ménage_, and of their spirited conversations with the cream of the male aristocracy. A deference98 to British virtue99, and a desire to stand well with the librarian's subscribers, compelled an amount of repentance100 in the third volume which Margaret scarcely believed to be in accordance with truth. The remembrance of childhood's days, which made the ponies pall101, and rendered the diamonds disgusting,--the inherent natural goodness, which took to eschewing102 of crinoline and the adoption103 of serge, which swamped the colonel in a storm of virtuous104 indignation, and brought the curate safely riding over the billows,--were agreeable incidents, but scarcely, she thought, founded on fact. Her own experience at least had taught her otherwise; but it might be so after all.
So her life wore drearily105 on. Would there never be any change in it? Yes, one change at least Time brought in his flight. Dr. Brandram's visits were now regular; and one morning a shrill106 cry resounded107 through the house, and the doctor placed in its father's arms a strong healthy boy.
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1
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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sojourner
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| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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aisles
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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outraging
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的现在分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarities
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mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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throb
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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parody
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| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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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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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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portentously
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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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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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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52
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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54
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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66
afflatus
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| n.灵感，神感 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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73
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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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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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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83
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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ogled
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| v.（向…）抛媚眼，送秋波( ogle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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desultorily
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| adv. 杂乱无章地, 散漫地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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99
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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101
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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102
eschewing
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| v.（尤指为道德或实际理由而）习惯性避开，回避( eschew的现在分词 ) | |
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103
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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104
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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105
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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106
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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107
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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