“Oh Clementina, let us stay here for a week!”
When they stood an hour afterwards on the great suspension bridge that connects Vienne with the little town of Sainte-Colombe, and drank in the afternoon beauty of the place, Tommy amended2 his proposition.
“Oh Clementina,” said he, “let us stay here for ever!”
Clementina sighed, and watched the broad blue river sweeping3 in its majestic4 curve between the wooded mountains from whose foliage5 peeped a myriad6 human habitations, the ancient Chateau7-Fort de la Batie standing8 a brave and mutilated sentinel on its dominating hill, the nestling town with its Byzantine towers and tiled roofs, the Gothic west front of the Cathedral framed by the pylons9 of the bridge, the green boulevarded embankment and the fort of Sainte-Colombe in its broader and more smiling valley guarded, it too, by its grim square tower, the laughing peace of the infinite web of afternoon shadow and afternoon sunlight. Away up the stream a barge10 moved slowly down under a sail of burnished11 gold. A few moments afterwards coming under the lee of the mountains, the sail turned into what Tommy, who had pointed12 it out, called a dream-coloured brown. From which it may be deduced that Tommy was growing poetical13.
In former times Clementina would have rebuked14 so nonsensical a fancy. But now, with a nod, she acquiesced15. Nay16 more, she openly agreed.
“We who live in a sunless room in the midst of paint-pots, know nothing of the beauty of the world.”
“That’s true,” said Tommy.
“We hope, when we’re tired, that there is such a place as the Land of Dreams, but we imagine it’s somewhere east of the sun, and west of the moon. We don’t realise that all we’ve got to do to get there is to walk out of our front door.”
“It all depends upon the inward eye, doesn’t it?” said the boy. “Or, perhaps, indeed, it needs a double inward eye—two personalities17, you know, harmonised in a subtle sort of way, so as to bring it into focus. You see what I mean? I don’t think I could get the whole dreamy adorableness of this if I hadn’t you beside me.”
“Of course I do,” he replied, earnestly.
Her lips worked themselves into a smile.
“I never thought my personality could harmonise with any other on God’s earth.”
She started, as if hurt. “Ah! don’t say that.”
“To yourself, I mean, dearest Clementina. You’ve never allowed yourself a good quality. Now you’re beginning to find out your mistake.”
“When it’s pointed out that I can harmonise with your beautiful nature!”
At the flash of the old Clementina, Tommy laughed.
“I’m not going to deny that there’s good in me. Why should I? If there wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have asked me to be your companion,” he added quickly, fearing lest she might put a wrong construction on his words. “When a good woman does a man the honour of admitting him to her intimate companionship, he knows he’s good—and it makes him feel better.”
Her left elbow rested on the parapet of the bridge, and her chin rested on the palm of her hand. Without looking at him she stretched out the other hand and touched him.
“Thank you for saying that, Tommy,” she said in a low voice.
Their mutual21 relations had modified considerably22 during the journey. The change, in the first place, had come instinctively23 from Tommy. Hitherto, Clementina had represented little to his ingenuous24 mind but the rough-and-ready comrade, the good sort, the stunning25 portrait-painter. With many of his men friends he was on practically the same terms. Quite unconsciously he patronised her ever so little, as the Prince Charmings of life’s fairy-tale are apt to patronise those who are not quite so charming or quite so princely as themselves. When he had dined with the proud and gorgeous he loved to strut26 before her aureoled in his reflected splendour; not for a moment remembering that had Clementina chosen to throw off her social nonconformity she could have sat in high places at the houses of such a proud and gorgeous hierarchy28 as he, Tommy Burgrave, could not hope, for many years, to consort29 with. Sometimes he treated her as an old family nurse, who spoiled him, sometimes as a bearded master; he teased her; chaffed her, laid traps to catch her sharp sayings; greeted her with “Hullo,” and parted from her with an airy wave of the hand. But as soon as they set off on their travels the subtle change took place, for which the fact of his being her guest could only, in small degree, account. Being in charge of all arrangements, and thus asserting his masculinity, he saw Clementina in a new light. For all her unloveliness she was a woman; for all her lack of convention she was a lady born and bred. She was as much under his protection as any dame30 or damsel of the proud and gorgeous to whom he might have had the honour to act as escort; and without a moment’s self-consciousness he began to treat Clementina with the same courteous31 solicitude32 as he would have treated such dame or damsel, or, for the matter of that, any other woman of his acquaintance. Whereas, a month or two before he would have tramped by her side for miles without the thought of her possible fatigue33 entering his honest head, now her inability to stroll about the streets of these little provincial34 towns, without physical exhaustion35, caused him grave anxiety. He administered to her comfort in a thousand ways. He saw to the proper working of the shutters36 in her room, to the smooth opening of the drawers and presses; put the fear of God into the hearts of chamber-maids and valets through the medium of a terrific lingua franca of his own invention; supplied her with flowers; rose early every morning to scour37 the town for a New York Herald38 so that it could be taken up to Clementina’s room with her coffee, and petit croissant. His habit of speech, too, became more deferential39, and his discourse40 gained in depth and sincerity41 what it lost in picturesque42 vernacular43. To sum up the whole of the foregoing in a phrase, Tommy’s attitude towards Clementina grew to be that of an extremely nice boy towards an extremely nice maiden44 aunt.
This change of attitude acted very powerfully on Clementina. As she had remarked, it was a new sensation to be taken care of: one which she liked very much indeed. All the sternly repressed feminine in her—all that she called the silly fool woman—responded to the masculine strength and delicacy46 of touch. She, on her side, saw Tommy in a new light. He had developed from the boy into the man. He was responsible, practical, imperious in his frank, kindly47, Anglo-Saxon way. It was a new joy for the woman, who, since girlhood, had fought single-handed for her place in the world, to sit still and do nothing while difficulties vanished before his bright presence just as the crests48 of alarming steeps vanished before the irresistible49 rush of the car.
Once when a loud report and the grinding of the wheels announced a puncture50, she cried involuntarily.
“I’m so glad!”
Tommy laughed. “Well, of all the feminine reasons for gladness!”—Clementina basked51 in her femininity like a lizard52 in the sun. “I suppose it’s because you can sit in the shade and watch Johnson and me toiling53 and broiling54 like niggers on the road.”
She blushed beneath her swarthy skin. That was just it. She loved to see him throw off his coat and grapple like a young Hercules with the tyre. For Johnson’s much more efficient exertions55 she cared not a scrap56.
Her heart was full of new delights. It was a new delight to feel essentially57 what she in her irony58 used to term a lady; to be addressed with deference59 and tenderness, to have her desires executed just that instant before specific formulation which gives charm and surprise. Every day she discovered a new and unsuspected quality in Tommy, and every evening she dwelt upon the sweetness, freshness, and strength of his nature. The lavender fragrance60, the nice maiden-aunt-ity of her relations with Tommy, I am afraid she missed.
It gave her an odd little thrill of pleasure when Tommy propounded61 his theory of the perfect focal adjustment of the good in their natures. When he implicitly62 gave her rank as angel she was deeply moved. So she stretched out her hand and touched him and said “Thank you.”
“You said nothing about my proposal to stay here for ever,” he remarked, after a while.
“I’m quite ready,” she replied absently. “Why shouldn’t we?”
Tommy pointed out a white chateau that flashed through the greenery of the hill behind the cathedral.
“That’s the place we’ll take. We’ll fill it with books—chiefly sermons, and flowers—chiefly poppies, and we’ll smoke hashish instead of tobacco, and we’ll sleep and paint dream-pictures all the rest of our lives.”
“I suppose you can’t conceive life—even a dream-life—without pictures to paint in it?”
“Not exactly,” said he. “Can you?”
“I shouldn’t be painting pictures in my dream-life.”
“What would you be doing?”
But Clementina did not reply. She looked at the brave old sentinel fort glowing red in the splendour of the westering sun. Tommy continued—“I’m sure you would be painting. How do you think a musician could face an existence without music? or a golfer without golf?” and he broke into his fresh laugh. “I wonder what dream-golf would be like? It would be a sort of mixed arrangement, I guess, with stars for balls and clouds for bunkers and meads of asphodels for putting greens.” He suddenly lifted his hands, palm facing palm, and looked through them at the framed picture. “Clementina dear, if I don’t get that old Tour de la Batie with the sunset on it, I’ll die. It will take eternity63 to get it right, and that’s why we must stay here for ever.”
“We’ll stay as long as you like,” said Clementina, “and you can paint to your heart’s content.”
“You’re the dearest thing in the world,” said Tommy.
Dinner time drew near. They left the bridge reluctantly, and mounted the great broad flight of forty steps that led to the west door of the Cathedral. A few of the narrow side streets brought them into the Place Miremont, where their hotel was situated64. In the lazy late afternoon warmth it looked the laziest and most peaceful spot inhabited by man. The square, classic Town Library, hermetically closed, its inner mysteries hidden behind drawn65 blinds, stood in its midst like a mausoleum of dead and peaceful thoughts. Nothing living troubled it save a mongrel dog asleep on the steps. No customer ruffled66 the tranquillity67 of the shops around the Place. A red-trousered, blue-coated little soldier—so little that he looked like a toy soldier—and an old man in a blouse, who walked very slowly in the direction of the café, were the only humans on foot. Even the hotel omnibus, rattling68 suddenly into the square, failed to break the spell of quietude. For it was empty, and its emptiness gave a pleasurable sense of distance from the fever and the fret69 of life.
It is even said that Pontius Pilate found peace in Vienne, lying, according to popular tradition, under a comparatively modern monolith termed the Aiguille.
“Are you quite sure this place isn’t too dead-and-alive for you?” Clementina asked, as they approached the hotel.
He slid his hand under her arm.
“Oh no!” he cried, with a little reassuring70 squeeze. “It’s heavenly.”
While she was cleansing71 herself for dinner, Clementina looked in the glass. Her hair, as usual, straggled untidily over her temples. She wore it bunched up anyhow in a knot behind, and the resentful hair-pins invariably failed in their office. This evening she removed the faithful few, the saving remnant that for the world’s good remains72 in all communities, even of hair-pins, and her hair thick and black fell about her shoulders. She combed it, brushed it, brought it up to the top of her head and twisting it into a neat coil held it there with her hand, and for a moment or two studied the effect somewhat dreamily. Then, all of a sudden, a change of mood swept over her. She let the hair down again, almost savagely73 wound it into its accustomed clump74 into which she thrust hair-pins at random75, and turned away from the mirror, her mouth drawn into its old grim lines.
Tommy found her rather uncommunicative at dinner which was served to them at a separate side table. At the table d’h?te in the middle of the room, eight or nine men, habitués and commercial travellers fed in stolid76 silence. She ate little. Tommy; noticing it, openly reproached himself for having caused her fatigue. The day in the open air—and open air pumped into the lungs at the rate of thirty or forty miles an hour—was of itself tiring. He ought not to have dragged her about the town. Besides, he added with an appearance of great wisdom, a surfeit77 of beauty gave one a soul-ache. They had feasted on nothing but beauty since they had left Chalon-sur-Sa?ne that morning. He, too, had a touch of soul-ache; but luckily it did not interfere78 with his carnal appetite. It ought not to interfere with Clementina’s. Here was the whitest and tenderest morsel79 of chicken that ever was and the crispest bit of delectable80 salad. He helped her from the dish which she had refused at the hands of the waiter, and she ate meekly81. But after dinner, she sent him off to the café by himself, saying that she would read a novel in the salon82 and go to bed early.
The loneliness of the salon, instead of resting her, got on her nerves; which angered her. What business had she, Clementina Wing, with nerves? Or was Tommy right? Perhaps it was soul-ache from which she was suffering. Certainly, one strove to pack away into oneself anything of beauty, making it a part of one’s spiritual being. One could be a glutton83 and suffer from the consequences. The soul-ache, if such it were, had nothing of origin in the emotions that had prompted her touch on Tommy’s arm, or the coiling of her hair on the top of her head. Nothing at all. Besides, it was a very silly novel, a modern French version of Daphnis and Chloe, in which Daphnis figured as a despicable young neuropath whom Tommy would have kicked on sight, and Chloe, a sly hussy whom a sensible mother would have spanked84. She threw it into a corner and went to her room to brace85 her mind with Tristram Shandy.
She had not been long there, however, when there came a knocking at her door. On her invitation to enter, the door opened and Tommy stood breathless on the threshold. His eyes were bright and he was quivering with excitement.
“Do come out. Do come out and see something. I hit upon it unawares, and it knocked me silly. I’ve run all the way back to fetch you.”
“What is it?”
“What about the soul-ache?”
“Oh! Let us have an orgy while we’re about it,” he cried recklessly. “It’s worth it. Do come. I want you to feel the thing with me.”
The appeal was irresistible. It was spirit summoning spirit. Without thinking, but dimly conscious of a quick throbbing87 of the heart, Clementina put on her hat and went with Tommy out of the hotel. The full moon blazed from a cloudless sky, flooding the little silent square. She paused on the pavement.
“Yes, it’s beautiful,” she said.
“Oh—that’s only the silly old moon,” cried Tommy. “I’ve got something much better for you than that.”
“What is it?” she asked again.
“You wait,” said he.
He took her across the square, through two or three turns of narrow cobble-paved streets, whirled her swiftly round a corner and said;
“Look!”
Clementina looked, and walked straight into the living heart of the majesty88 that once was Rome. There, in the midst of an open space, the modern houses around it obscured, softened89, de-characterised by the magic-working moon, stood in its proud and perfect beauty the Temple of Augustus and Livia. Twenty centuries, with all their meaning, vanished in a second. It was the heart of Rome. There was the great Temple, perfect, imperishable, with its fluted90 Corinthian columns, its entablature, its pediment, its noble cornice throwing endless mysteries of shadow. No ruin, from which imagination flogged by scholarship might dimly picture forth91 what once had been; but the Temple itself, untouched, haughty92, defying Time, the companion for two thousand years of the moon that now bathed it lovingly, as a friend of two thousand years’ standing must do, in its softest splendour, and sharing with the moon its godlike scorn of the hectic93 and transitory life of man.
Clementina drew a sharp breath of wonder. Moisture clouded her eyes. She could not speak for the suddenness of the shock of beauty. Tommy gently took her arm, and they stood for a long time in silence, close together. In their artists’ sensitiveness they were very near together, too, in spirit. She glanced at his face in the moonlight, alive with the joy of the thing, and her heart gave a sudden leap. All the beauty of the day translated itself into something even more radiant that flooded her soul, causing the rows of fluted columns to swim before her eyes until she shut them with a little sigh of content.
At last they moved and walked slowly round the building.
“I just couldn’t help fetching you,” said Tommy.
“Oh, I’m glad you did. Oh so glad. Why didn’t we know of this before we came.”
“Because we are two thrice-blessedly ignorant cockneys, dear. I hate to know what I’m going to see. It’s much better to be like stout94 Cortez and his men in the poem and discover things, isn’t it? By Jove, I shall never forget running into this.”
“Nor I,” said Clementina.
“The moment the car turned the bend to-day I knew something was going to happen here.”
More had happened than Tommy dreamed of in his young philosophy. Nor did Clementina enlighten him. She slid his arm from under hers and took it, and leaned ever so little on it, for the first time for many, many years a happy woman.
When they left the Temple she pleaded for an extension of their walk. She was no longer tired. She could go on for ever beneath such a moon.
“A night made for lovers,” said Tommy, “and we aren’t the only ones—look!”
And indeed there were couples sauntering by, head to head, talking of the things the moon had heard so many million times before.
“I suppose they take us also for lovers,” said Clementina foolishly.
“I don’t care if they do,” said Tommy. “Let us pretend.”
“Yes,” said Clementina. “Let us pretend.”
They wandered thus lover-like through the town, and came on the quay95 where they sat on the coping of the parapet, and watched the moonlit Rhone and the brave old Chateau-Fort on the hill.
“Are you glad you came with me?” she asked.
“It has been a sort of enchanted96 journey,” he replied, seriously. “And to-night—well to-night is just to-night. There are no words for it. I’ve never thanked you—there are things too deep for thanks. In return I would give you everything I’ve got—in myself, you know—if you wanted it. In fact,” he added, with a boyish laugh, “I’ve given it to you already whether you want it or not.”
“I do want it, Tommy,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “You don’t know how much I want it.”
“I do believe you are fond of me.”
“Fond of you!” he cried. “Why, of course I am. There’s not another woman like you in the world.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Bless you,” he said. Then he rose. “We’ve sat out here long enough. Your hands are quite cold and you’ve only that silly blouse on. You’ll catch a chill.”
If any one had had a sufficiently100 fantastic imagination and sufficient audacity101 to prophesy102 to Clementina before she started from London the effect upon her temperament103 of a Roman Temple and moonshine, she would have said things in her direct way uncomplimentary to his intelligence. She would have forgotten her own epigram to the effect that woman always has her sex hanging round the neck of her spirit. But her epigram had proved its truth. She was feeling a peculiar104 graciousness in the focal adjustment above considered, was letting her spirit soar with its brother to planes of pure beauty, when lo! suddenly, spirit was hurled105 from the empyrean into the abyss by the thing clinging round its neck, which took its place on the said planes with a pretty gurgle of exultation.
That is what had happened.
And is it not all too natural? There are plants which will keep within them a pallid106 life in a coal-cellar—but put in the sun and the air and the rain will break magically into riotous107 leaf and bud and flower. Love, foolish, absurd, lunatic, reprehensible—what you will—had come into the sun and the air and the rain, and it had broken magically into blossom. Of course, she had no business to bring it into the air; she ought to have kept it in the coal-cellar; she ought not to have let the door be opened by the wheedlings of a captivating youth. In plain language, a woman of six-and-thirty ought never to have fallen in love with a boy of twenty-three. Of course not. A vehement108 passionate109 nature is the easiest thing in the world to keep under control. A respectable piece of British tape ought to be strong enough leash110 for any tiger of the jungle.
That Clementina, ill-favoured and dour27, should have given herself up, in the solitude111 of her room, to her intoxication112 is, no doubt, a matter for censure113. It was mad and bad and sad, but it was sweet. It was human. The rare ones from whom no secrets of a woman’s pure heart are hid might say that it was divine. But the many who pity let them not grudge114 her hour of joy to a woman of barren life.
But it was only an hour. The grey dawn crept into the sleepless115 room, and the glamour116 of the moonlight had gone. And there was a desperate struggle in the woman’s soul. The boy’s words rang in her ears. He was fond of her, devoted to her, would give up his life to her. He spoke117 sincerely. Why should she not take the words at a little above their face-value? No strong-natured woman of five-and-thirty, with Clementina’s fame and wealth and full great sympathy need fear rebuff from a generous lad who professes118 himself to be her devoted, devoted, devoted slave. All she has to do is to put up the banns. Whether ultimate bliss119 will be achieved is another matter. But to marry him out of hand is as easy as lying. It did not need Clementina’s acute intelligence for her to be fully45 aware of this. And another temptation crept over her pillow to her ear, peculiarly insidious120. The boy would be free to pursue his beloved art without sordid121 cares. There would be no struggle and starvation and fringed hems19 to his trousers. A woman who really loves a man would sooner her heart were frayed122 than his trouser-hems.
She rose and threw wide the shutters. The little Place Miremont looked ghostly in the white light, and the classic Bibliothèque, with its round-headed windows, more than ever a calm mausoleum of human wisdom. It is strange how coldly suggestive of death is the birth of day.
Clementina crept back to bed and, tired out, fell asleep. The waiter bringing in the breakfast tray awakened123 her. On the New York Herald which Tommy had gone to the railway station to procure124, lay a dewy cluster of red and yellow roses; on a plate a pile of letters, the top one addressed in Etta Concannon’s great girlish scrawl125.
Why in the world should a bunch of parrot-tulips have flared126 before her eyes? They did. They had marked the beginning of it. The red and yellow roses marked the end.
“Attendez un moment,” she said to the waiter, while she tore open the envelope and glanced through Etta’s unimportant letter. “Bring me a telegraph form.”
He produced one from his pocket. If you ask a waiter in a good French provincial hotel for anything—a copy of Buckle’s History of Civilisation127 or a boot-jack—he will produce it from his pocket. He also handed her a pencil.
“Join me at once. Book straight through to Lyons. Wire train. Will meet you at station. Promise you”—Her lips twisted into a wry130 smile as the word she sought entered her head—“heavenly time. My guest of course. Clementina. H?tel du Nord, Vienne.”
“By the way, gar?on,” she said, handing him the telegram, “why is this called the H?tel du Nord?”
“Parceque, Madame, c’est ici, à Vienne, que commence le Midi,” replied the waiter.
He bowed himself out. A courtier of Versailles at the levée of the Pompadour could not have made his speech and exit with better grace.
Later in the day Clementina received the reply from Etta.
“You darling, starting to-morrow. Arrive Lyons seven o’clock morning Thursday.”
Tommy, fired by the picture made by the bend of the Rhone and the Chateau-Fort de la Batie, spent most of the day on the quay, with the paraphernalia131 of his trade, easel and canvas and box of colours and brushes, painting delightedly, while Clementina, beneath an uncompromising white umbrella with a green lining132, bought on her travels, sat near by reading many tales out of one uncomprehended novel. Just before dinner she informed him of the almost immediate133 arrival of Etta Concannon.
“Oh, I say!” he exclaimed in an injured voice. “That spoils everything.”
“I don’t think so,” said Clementina.
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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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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pylons
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| n.（架高压输电线的）电缆塔( pylon的名词复数 )；挂架 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hems
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| 布的褶边，贴边( hem的名词复数 )； 短促的咳嗽 | |
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injustice
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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instinctively
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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30
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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31
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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32
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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33
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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34
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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35
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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36
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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37
scour
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| v.搜索；擦，洗，腹泻，冲刷 | |
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38
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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39
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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40
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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41
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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42
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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43
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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44
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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45
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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46
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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47
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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48
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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49
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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50
puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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51
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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52
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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53
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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54
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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55
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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56
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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57
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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58
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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59
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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60
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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61
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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63
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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64
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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65
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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66
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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68
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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69
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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70
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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71
cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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72
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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73
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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74
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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75
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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76
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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77
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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78
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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79
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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80
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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81
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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82
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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83
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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84
spanked
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| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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86
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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87
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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88
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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89
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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90
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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91
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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92
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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93
hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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95
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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96
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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98
mendaciously
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99
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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100
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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101
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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102
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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103
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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104
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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105
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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106
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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107
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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108
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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109
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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110
leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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111
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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112
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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113
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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114
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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115
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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116
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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117
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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118
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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119
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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120
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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121
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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122
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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124
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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125
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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126
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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127
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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128
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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129
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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130
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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131
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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132
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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133
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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