Clementina sat by his rueful bedside and rated him soundly. The idea of one just recovering from pneumonia2 setting his blood boiling hot and then cooling himself on a bridge at midnight in the bitter north-east wind! He was about as sane3 as his uncle. They were a pretty and well-matched pair. Both ought to be placed under restraint. A dark house and a whip would have been their portion in the good old times.
“I’ve got ’em both now,” said Tommy, grinning. “This confounded bedroom is my dark house and your tongue is the whip.”
“I hope it hurts like the devil,” said Clementina.
Tommy wrote from his sick bed a dignified4 and manly5 letter to his uncle, and, like Brutus, paused for a reply. None came. Quixtus read it, and his warped6 vision saw ingratitude7 and hypocrisy8 in every line. He had already spoken to Griffiths about the office-stool in the Star Insurance Company. Tommy’s emphatic9 refusal to sit on it placed him in an awkward position with regard to Griffiths. Openings in a large insurance office are not as common as those for hop-pickers in August. Griffiths, a sour-tempered man at times, would be annoyed. Quixtus, encouraged by Vandermeer, regarded himself as an ill-used uncle, and not only missed all the thrill of his deed of wickedness, but accepted Tommy’s decision as a rebuff to his purely10 benevolent11 intentions. He therefore added the unfortunate Tommy to the list of those whom he had tried and found wanting. He had a grievance13 against Tommy. Such is the topsyturvydom of man after a little thread has snapped in his brain.
Now, it so happened that, on the selfsame day that Tommy crawled again into the open air, Clementina, standing14 before her easel and painfully painting drapery from the lay figure, suddenly felt the whole studio gyrate in a whirling maelstrom15 into whose vortex of unconsciousness she was swiftly sucked. She fell in a heap on the floor, and remained there until she came to with a splitting headache and a sensation of carrying masses of bruised16 pulp17 at various corners of her body instead of limbs. Her maid, Eliza, finding her lying white and ill on the couch to which she had dragged herself, administered water—there was no such thing as smelling-salts in Clementina’s house—and, on her own responsibility, summoned the nearest doctor. The result of his examination was a diagnosis18 of overwork. Clementina jeered19. Only idlers suffered from overwork. Besides, she was as strong as a horse. The doctor reminded her that she was a woman, with a woman’s delicately adjusted nervous system. She also had her sex’s lack of restraint. A man, finding that he was losing sleep, appetite, control of temper and artistic20 grip, would abandon work and plunge21 utterly22 unashamed into hoggish23 idleness. A woman always feels that by fighting against weakness she is upholding the honour of her sex, and struggles on insanely till she drops.
“I’m glad you realise I’m a woman,” said Clementina.
“Why?”
“Because you’re the first man who has done so for many years.”
The doctor, a youngish man, very earnest, of the modern neuropathic school, missed the note of irony24. This was the first time he had seen Clementina.
“You’re one of the most highly strung women I’ve ever come across,” said he, gravely. “I want you to appreciate the fact and not to strain the tension to breaking-point.”
“You wrap it up very nicely,” said Clementina, “but, to put it brutally25, your honest opinion is that I’m just a silly, unreasonable26, excitable, sex-ridden fool of a female like a million others. Isn’t that so?”
The young doctor bore the scrutiny27 of those glittering, ironical28 points of eyes with commendable29 professional stolidity30.
“It is,” said he, and in saying it he had the young practitioner’s horrible conviction that he had lost an influential31 new patient. But Clementina stretched out her hand. He took it very gladly.
“I like you,” she said, “because you’re not afraid to talk sense. Now I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“Go away for a complete change—anywhere will do—and don’t think of work for a month at the very least.”
“All right,” said Clementina.
When Tommy, looking very much the worse for his relapse, came in the next day to report himself in robust32 health once more, Clementina acquainted him with her own bodily infirmities. It was absurd, she declared, that she should break down, but absurdity34 was the guiding principle of this comic planet. Holiday was ordained35. She had spent a sleepless36 night thinking how she should make it. Dawn had brought solution of the problem. Why not make it in fantastic fashion, harmonising with the absurd scheme of things?
“What are you going to do?” asked Tommy. “Spend a frolicsome37 month in Whitechapel, or put on male attire38 and go for a soldier?”
“I shall hire an automobile39 and motor about France.”
“It’s sporting enough,” said Tommy, judicially40, “but I should hardly call it fantastic.”
“Wait till you’ve heard the rest,” said Clementina. “I had originally intended to take Etta Concannon with me; but since you’ve come here looking like three-ha’porth of misery41, I’ve decided42 to take you.”
“Me?” cried Tommy. “My dear Clementina, that’s absurd.”
“I thought you would agree with me,” said Clementina, “but I’m going to do it. Wouldn’t you like to come?”
“I should think so!” he exclaimed, boyishly. “It would be gorgeous. But——”
“But what?”
“How can I afford to go motoring abroad?”
“You wouldn’t have to afford it. You would be my guest.”
“It’s delightful43 of you, Clementina, to think of it—but it’s impossible.”
Whereupon an argument arose such as has often arisen between man and woman.
“I’m old enough to be your grandmother, or at least you think so, which comes to the same thing,” said Clementina.
Tommy’s young pride would not allow him to accept largesse44 from feminine hands, however elderly and unromantic.
“If I had a country house and hosts of servants and several motor-cars and asked you to stay, you’d come without hesitation45.”
“That would be different. Don’t you see for yourself?”
Clementina chose not to see for herself. Here was a dolorous46 baby of a boy disinherited by a lunatic uncle, emaciated47 by illness and unable to work, refusing a helping48 hand just because it was a woman’s. It was preposterous49. Clementina grew angry. Tommy held firm.
“It’s merely selfish of you. Don’t you see I want a companion?”
Tommy pointed50 out the companionable qualities of Etta Concannon. But she would not hear of Etta. The sight of Tommy’s wan12 face had decided her, and she was a woman who was accustomed to carry out her decisions. She was somewhat dictatorial51, somewhat hectoring. She had taken it into her head to play fairy godmother to Tommy Burgrave, and she resented his repudiation52 of her godmotherdom. Besides, there were purely selfish reasons for choosing Tommy rather than Etta, which she acknowledged with inward candour. Tommy was a man who would fetch and carry and keep the chauffeur54 up to the mark, and inspire gendarmes55 and custom-house officials and maitres-d’hotel with respect, and, although Clementina feared neither man nor devil, she was aware of the value of a suit of clothes filled with a male entity56 as a travelling adjunct to a lone57 woman. With Etta the case would be different. Etta would fetch her motor-veil and carry her gloves with the most adoringly submissive grace in the world; but all the real fetching and carrying for the two of them would have to be done by Clementina herself. Therein lay the difference between Clementina and the type generally known as the emancipated58 woman. She had no exaggerated notions of the equality of the sexes, which in feminine logic59 generally means the high superiority of women. Circumstance had emancipated her from dependence60 upon the other sex, but on the circumstance and the emancipation61 she cast not too favourable62 an eye. She had a crystal clear idea of the substantial usefulness of men in this rough and not always ready cosmic scheme. Therefore, for purposes of utility, she wanted Tommy. In her usual blunt manner she told him so.
“You run in here at all hours of the day and night, and it’s Clementina this and Clementina that until I can’t call my soul my own—and now, the first time I ask you to do me a service you fall back on your silly little prejudices and vanity and pride, and say you can’t do it.”
“I tell you what it is,” said Clementina, with a curiously64 vicious feminine stroke, “you’d come if I was a smart-looking woman with fine clothes who could be a credit to you—but you won’t face going about with an animated65 rag-and-bone shop like me.”
Tommy flushed as pink as only a fair youth can flush; he sprang forward and seized her wrists and, unwittingly, hurt her in his strong and indignant grip.
“What you’re saying is abominable66 and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. If I thought anything like that I’d be the most infernal cur that ever trod the earth. I’d like to shake you for daring to say such things about me.”
He flung away her hands and stalked off to the other end of the studio, leaving her with tingling67 wrists and unfindable retort.
“If you really think I can be of service to you,” he said, in a dignified way, having completed the return journey, “I shall be most happy to come.”
Tommy considered within himself for a moment or two, then broke into his boyish laugh.
“I’m an ungrateful pig, and I’ll follow you all over the world. Dear old Clementina,” he added, more seriously, putting his hand on her shoulder, “forgive me.”
Clementina gently removed his hand. She preferred the grip on the wrists that hurt. But, mollified, she forgave him.
So in a few days they started on their travels.
The thirty-five horse-power car whirled them, a happy pair, through the heart of summer. Above the blue sky blazed, and beneath the white road gleamed a shivering streak69. The exhilarating wind of their motion filled their lungs and set their tired pulses throbbing70. Now and then, for miles, the great plane trees on each side of the way formed the never-ending nave71 of an infinite cathedral, the roof a miracle of green tracery. Through quiet, sun-baked villages they passed, at a snail’s pace, hooting72 children and dogs from before their path—and because they proceeded slowly and Tommy was goodly to look upon, the women smiled from their doorways73, or from the running laundry stream where they knelt and beat the wet clothes, or from the fountain in the cool, flagged little square jutting74 out like a tiny transept from the aisle75 of the street. Babies stared stolidly76. Here and there a bunch of little girls, their hair tied in demure77 pigtails, the blue sarrau over their loud check frocks; would laugh and whisper, and one more daring than the rest would wave an audacious hand, and when Tommy blew her a kiss from his fingers there came the little slut’s gracious response, amid mirth and delight unspeakable. Men would look up from their dusty, bare, uneven78 bowling-alley beneath the trees and watch them as they went by. An automobile, in spite of its frequency, is always an event in a French village. If it races mercilessly through; there is reasonable opportunity to curse which always gladdens the heart of man. If it proceeds slowly and shows deference79 to the inhabitants, it is an event rare enough to command their admiration80. Instead of shutting their eyes against a sort of hell-chariot in a whirlwind; they can observe the gracefully81 built car and its stranger though human occupants, which is something deserving a note in the record of an eventless day. If they stopped and quitted the car so as to glance at leisure at old church or quaint33 fountain—and in many an out-of-the-way village in France the water of the community gushes82 forth83 from a beautiful work of art—all the idlers of the sunny place clustered round the car, while the British chauffeur stood by the radiator84, impeccably vestured and unembarrassed as a Fate. At noon came the break for déjeuner; preferably in some little world-forgotten townlet, where, after the hors-d’?uvre, omelette, cutlet, chicken, and fruit—and where is the sad, plague-stricken hamlet of France that cannot, in the twinkling of an eye, provide such a meal for the hungry wayfarer85?—they loved to take their coffee beneath the awning86 of a café on the shady side of the great, sleepy square, and absorb the sleepy, sunny, prosperous spirit of the place; the unpainted bandstand in the centre, the low-lying houses with sleepy little shops and cafés—Heavens! how many cafés!—around it, the modern, model-built H?tel de Ville, the fine avenue of plane trees without which no Grande Place in France could exist, and, above the roofs of the houses, the weather-beaten, crumbling87 Gothic tower of the church surmounted88 by its extinguisher-shaped leaden belfry alive with vivid yellows and olives. And then the road again past the rapidly becoming familiar objects; the slow ox-carts; the herd53 of wayside goats in charge of a dirty, tow-headed child; the squad89 of canvas-suited soldiers; the great lumbering90 waggons91 drawn92 by a string of three gaudily93 and elaborately yoked94 horses, the driver fast asleep on the top of his mountainous load; the mongrel dogs that sought, and happily found not, euthanasia beneath the wheels of the modern car of Juggernaut; the sober-vested peasant women bending beneath their burdens with the calm unexpressive faces of caryatides grown old and withered95. Towards the late afternoon was reached the larger town where they would halt for the night: first came the eternal, but grateful, outer boulevard cool with foliage96, running between newly built, perky houses and shops and then leading into the heart of the older city, grey, narrow-streeted, picturesque97. As the automobile clattered98 through the great gateway99 of the hotel into the paved courtyard, out came the decent landlord and smiling landlady100, welcomed their guests, summoned unshaven men in green-baize aprons101—who, at dinner, were to appear in the decorous garb102 of waiters, and in the morning, by a subtle modification103 of costume (dingy104 white aprons instead of green-baize) were to do uncomplaining work as housemaids—to take down the luggage, and showed the travellers to their clean, bare rooms. After the summary removal of the journey’s dust came the delicious saunter through the strange old town; the stimulus105 of the sudden burst into view of the west front of a cathedral, with its deeply recessed106 and sculptured doorways, and its great, flamboyant107 window struck by the westering sun; the quick, indrawn breath of delight when, in a narrow, evil-smelling, cobble-paved street, they came unexpectedly upon some marvel108 of an early Renaissance109 fa?ade, with its refined riot of ornament110, its unerring proportions, its laughing dignity—laughing all the more and with all the more dignity, as became its mocking, aristocratic soul, because the ground floor was given up to a dingy tinsmith and its upper storeys to the same class of easy-going, slatternly folk who sat at the windows of the other unconsidered houses in the sallow and homely112 street; the gay relief of emerging from such unsavoury and foot-massacring by-ways into the quarter of the town on which the Syndicat d’Initiative prides itself—the wide, well-kept thoroughfare or place with its inevitable113 greenery, its flourishing cafés thick with decorous folk beneath the awnings114, its proud and prosperous shops, its Municipal Theatre, Bourse, H?tel de Ville, its generously spouting115 fountain, its statue of the great son—poet, artist, soldier—of the locality; its crowd of well-fed saunterers—fat and greasy116 citizens, the supercilious117 aristocrat111 and the wolf-eyed anarchist118 might perhaps join together in calling them—but still God’s very worthy119 creatures; its general expression, not of the joy of life, for a provincial120 town is, as a whole, governed by conditions which affect only a part of a great capital, but of the undeniable usefulness and pleasurableness of human existence. Then, after dinner, out again to the cool terrace of a café—in provincial France no one lounges over coffee and tobacco in an hotel—and lastly to bed, with wind and sun in their eyes and in their hearts the peace of a beautiful land.
They had planned the first part of their route—Boulogne, Abbeville, Beauvais, Sens, Tonnerre, Dijon, through the C?té d’Or and down the valley of the Rhone to Avignon. After that the roads of France were open to them to go whithersoever they willed. The ground, the experience, the freedom, all were new to them. To Clementina France had practically been synonymous with Paris—not Paris of the Grands Boulevards, Montmartre, and expensive restaurants, but Paris of the Left Bank, of the studios, of struggle and toil—a place not of gaiety but grimness. To Tommy it meant Paris, too—Paris of the young artist-tourist, a museum of great pictures—the Louvre, the Luxembourg, the Pantheon immortalised by Puvis de Chavannes; also Dieppe, Dinard, and such-like dependencies of Britain. But of the true France such as they beheld121 it now they knew nothing, and they beheld it with the wide-open eyes of children.
After a few days the weariness fell from Clementina’s shoulders; new life sped through her veins122. Her hard lips caught the long-forgotten trick of a smile. She almost lost the art of acid speech. She grew young again.
Tommy held the money-bag.
“I’m not going to look like a maiden123 aunt treating a small boy to buns at a confectioner’s,” she had declared. “I’m going to be a real lady for once and see what it’s like.”
So Clementina did nothing in the most ladylike manner, while Tommy played courier and carried through all arrangements with the impressive air of importance that only a young Briton in somebody else’s motor-car can assume. He had forgotten the little sacrifice of his pride, he had forgotten, or at least he disregarded, with the precious irresponsibility of three-and-twenty, the fact that his income was reduced to the negligible quantity of a pound a week; he gave himself up to the enjoyment124 of the passing hour, and if ever he did cast a forward glance at the clouded future, behold125! the clouds were rosy126 with the reflections of the present sunshine.
He was proud of his newly discovered talent as a courier, and boasted in his boyish way.
“Aren’t you glad you’ve got me to take care of you?”
“It’s a new sensation for me to be taken care of.”
“But you don’t dislike it?”
He was arranging at the bottom of the car a pile of rugs and wraps as a footstool for Clementina, at the exact height and angle for her luxurious127 comfort.
Clementina sighed. She was beginning to like it very much indeed.
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1
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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3
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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6
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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7
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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8
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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9
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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12
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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13
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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14
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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maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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16
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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19
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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21
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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hoggish
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| adj.贪婪的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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29
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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30
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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31
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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32
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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33
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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35
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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36
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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38
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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40
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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41
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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42
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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44
largesse
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| n.慷慨援助，施舍 | |
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45
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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46
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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47
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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48
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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49
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
dictatorial
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| adj. 独裁的，专断的 | |
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52
repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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53
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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54
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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55
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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56
entity
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| n.实体，独立存在体，实际存在物 | |
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57
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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58
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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60
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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61
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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62
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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64
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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67
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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68
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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69
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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70
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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71
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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72
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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73
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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74
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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75
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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76
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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78
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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81
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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82
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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83
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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84
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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85
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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86
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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87
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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88
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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89
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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91
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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92
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gaudily
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| adv.俗丽地 | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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95
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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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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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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99
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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100
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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101
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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102
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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103
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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104
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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105
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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106
recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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107
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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108
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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109
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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110
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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111
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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112
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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113
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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114
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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115
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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116
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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117
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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118
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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119
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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120
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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121
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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122
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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123
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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124
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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125
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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126
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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127
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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