In some such puzzled frame of mind did Quixtus, freed from the obsession8 of the Idea, regard his self of the last few months. He remembered how it had happened. There had been several shocks; the Marrable disaster, the discovery of Angela and Hammersley’s betrayal, that of the disloyalty of his three pensioners9, the cynical10 trick of his uncle. He remembered toying with the Idea on his homeward journey, the farcical faithlessness of the drunken housekeeper—and then, click! the hag Idea had mounted on his shoulders and ridden away with him, as Al Kohol (the very devil himself) rides away with the unresisting drunkard. Every action, every thought of this strange period was clear in his memory. He could not have been mad—and yet he must have been.
To strain the analogy a trifle, the nightmare in the train and the horror of the morning had been his delirium tremens. But here the analogy suffers a solution of continuity. From that climax11 of devil work, the drunkard descends12 but slowly and gradually through tortures innumerable to the normal life of man. Shock is ineffective. But in Quixtus’s case there was a double shock—the seismic13 convulsion of his being at the climactic moment, and the sudden announcement of that, which to all men born is the only Absolute, final, immutable14.
And then click! the hag that had ridden him had been thrown from his shoulders, and he had looked upon the dead through the eyes of a sane man. And now, through the eyes of a sane man he regarded the incredible spectacle of his self of yesterday. He turned from it with shivers of disgust. He must have been mad. A great depression came upon him. He had suffered grievous wrongs, it is true; no man since Job had been more sorely afflicted16; the revelations of human baseness and treachery had been such as to kill his once childlike faith in humanity. But why had loss of faith sent him mad? What had his brain been doing to allow this grotesque17 impulse to over-master it? At the present moment, he assured himself, he had neither more nor less faith in mankind than when he had walked a maniac18 through the London streets, or during last night’s tortured journey in the train. Yet now he desired to commit no wickedness. The thought of evil for evil’s sake was revolting. . . . The self that he had striven to respect and keep clean all his life, had been soiled. Wherein lay purification?
Had he been mad? If so, how could he trust his memory as to what had happened? By the grace of God those acts of wickedness whose contemplation he remembered, had been rendered nugatory19. Even Tommy had not materially suffered, seeing that he had kept the will intact and had placed two thousand pounds to his banking20 account. But could he actually have committed deeds of wickedness which he had forgotten? Were there any such which he had committed through the agency of the three evil counsellors? He racked his memory in vain.
The time at Marseilles passed gloomily. Poynter, the good Samaritan, started the first evening for Devonshire to satisfy his hungry soul with the unutterable comfort of English fields. Clementina and Quixtus saw him off at the station and walked back through the sultry streets together. The next day he was left much to his own company, as Clementina broke the news of death to the child and stayed with her for comfort. He wandered aimlessly about the town, seeking the shade, and wrapping himself in his melancholy21. When he saw Sheila in the afternoon she was greatly subdued22. She understood that her father had gone to Heaven to stay with her mother. She realised that she would never see him again. Clementina briefly23 informed Quixtus of the child’s grief. How she had cried and called for him most of the morning, how she had fallen asleep and had awakened24 more calm. To distract her mind and to give her the air, they hired a taxi-cab and drove on the Corniche Road past the Restaurant de la Réserve. Sheila’s tiny body easily nestled on the seat between them, and she seemed comforted by the human contact. From Pinkie she also derived25 great consolation26. Pinkie was stupid, she explained, and she couldn’t talk; but really she was a fairy princess, and fairy princesses were always affectionate. Pinkie was stuffed with love as tight as she could hold.
“Have you ever been in a motor-car before?” asked Quixtus.
“Oh yes. Of course I have,” she replied in her rich little voice. “Daddy had one in Shanghai. He used to take me out in it.”
Then her lips quivered and the tears started and she flung herself weeping against Clementina.
“Oh, daddy! I want my daddy!”
The essential feminine in Clementina sprang to arms.
“Why did you start her off like this by talking of motor-cars?”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Quixtus. “But how was I to know?”
“Just like a man,” she retorted. “No intuition worth a cent.”
At dinner, a melancholy meal—theirs was the only table occupied in the vast, ghostly salle à manger—she apologised, in her gruff way.
“I was wrong about the motor-car. How the deuce could you have known? Besides, if you talked to the child about triple-expansion boiler27, her daddy would be sure to have had one at Shanghai. Poor little mite28!”
“Yes, poor little mite,” said Quixtus, meditatively29. “I wonder what will become of her.”
“That has got to be our look-out,” she replied sharply. “You don’t seem to realise that.”
“I don’t think I do quite—even after what you said to me yesterday. I must accustom30 myself to the idea.”
“Yesterday,” said Clementina, “you declared that you had fallen in love with her.”
“Many a man,” replied Quixtus with a faint smile, “has fallen in love with one of your sex and has not in the least known what to do with her.”
The grim setting of Clementina’s lips relaxed.
“I think you’re becoming more human. And, talking of humanity—there’s a question that must be cleared up between us, before we settle down to this partnership31. Are you intending to keep up your diabolical32 attitude towards Tommy Burgrave?”
The question had been burning her tongue for over twenty-four hours; from the moment that he had appeared in the vestibule the day before, after his sleep, and seemed to have recovered from the extraordinary nervous collapse33 which had aroused her pity. With considerable self-restraint she had awaited her opportunity. Now it had come—and when an opportunity came to Clementina, she did not go by four roads to take it. Quixtus laid down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair. Knowing her attachment34 to the boy, he had expected some reference to his repudiation35. But the direct question disconcerted him. Should he have to render equally sudden account of all the fantastic iniquities36 of the past? Then something he had not thought of before entered his amazed head. He had never countermanded37 the order whereby the allowance was automatically transferred from his own banking account to Tommy’s. He had intended to write the letter after having destroyed the will, but his reflections on plagiarism38 in wickedness which had led to the preservation39 of that document, had also caused him to forget the other matter entirely40. And he had not thought of it from that day to this.
“As a matter of fact,” said he, looking at his plate, “I have not disinherited Tommy; I have not discontinued his allowance, and I have placed a very large sum of money to his credit at the bank.”
Clementina knitted her brows and stared at him. The man was a greater puzzle than ever. Was he lying? If Tommy had found himself in opulence41, he would have told her. Tommy was veracity42 incarnate43.
“The boy hasn’t a penny to his name—nothing except his mother’s fifty pounds a year.”
“I am telling you the facts. He can’t have inquired about his bank balance recently.” He passed his hand across his forehead, as realisation of the past strange period came to him. “I suppose he can’t have done so, as he has never written to acknowledge the—the large amount of money.”
The man was telling the truth. It was mystifying.
“That is another matter,” said he, lowering his eyes. “For the sake of an answer, let us say that I wanted to test his devotion to his art.”
“We can say it as much as we please, but I don’t believe it.”
“I will ask you, Clementina,” said he, courteously46, “as a great personal favour to let it pass at that.”
“All right,” said Clementina.
He went on with his dinner. Presently another thing struck him. He was to find a plaguey lot of things to strike him in connection with his lunacy.
“If Tommy was penniless,” said he, “will you explain how he has managed to take this expensive holiday in France.”
“Look here, let us talk of something else,” she replied. “I’m sick of Tommy.”
Visions of Tommy’s whooping47 joy, of Etta’s radiance; when they should hear the astounding48 news, floated before her. She could hear him telling the chit of a girl to put on her orange-blossoms and go out with him at once and get married. She could hear Etta say: “Darling Clementina, do run out and buy me some orange-blossoms.” Much the two innocents cared for darling Clementina! There were times when she really did not know whether she wanted to take them both in her arms in a great splendid hug, or to tie them up together in a sack and throw them into the Seine.
“I’m sick of Tommy,” she declared.
But the normal brain of the cultivated man had begun to work.
“Clementina,” said he, “it is you that have been paying Tommy’s expenses.”
“Well, suppose I have?” she replied, defiantly49. She added quickly, womanlike divining the reproach to Tommy, underlying50 Quixtus’s challenge: “He’s a child and I’m an old woman. I had the deuce’s own job to make him accept. I couldn’t go careering about France all by myself—I could, as a matter of practical fact—I could career all over Gehenna if I chose—but it wouldn’t have been gay. He sacrificed his pride to give me a holiday. What have you to say against it?”
A flush of shame mounted to Quixtus’s cheek. It was intolerable that one of his house—his sister’s son—should have been dependent for bread on a woman. He himself was to blame.
“Clementina,” said he, “this is a very delicate matter, and I hope you won’t misjudge me; but as your great generosity51 was based on a most unhappy misunderstanding——”
“Ephraim Quixtus,” she interrupted, seeing whither he was tending, “go on with your dinner and don’t be a fool!”
There was nothing for it but for Quixtus to go on with his dinner.
“I tell you what,” she said, after a pause, in spite of her weariness of Tommy as a topic of conversation; “when Tommy met you in Paris, he didn’t know what you’ve just told me. He thought you had unreasonably53 and heartlessly cut him adrift. And yet he greeted you as affectionately and frankly54 as if nothing had happened.”
“That’s true,” Quixtus admitted. “He did.”
“It proves to you what a sound-hearted fellow Tommy is.”
“I see,” said Quixtus. “Well?”
“That’s all,” said Clementina. “Or if it isn’t it ought to be.”
Quixtus made no reply. There was no reply possible, save the real explanation of his eccentric behaviour; and that he was not prepared to offer. But Clementina’s rough words sank deep in his mind. Judged by ordinary standards, his treatment of Tommy had been unqualifiable; Tommy’s behaviour all that was most meritorious55. In Tommy’s case wherein lay the proof of the essential depravity of mankind? His gloomy faith received a shock which caused him exceeding discomfort56. You see, if you take all the trouble of going mad for the sake of a gospel, you rather cling to it when you recover sanity57. You are rather eager to justify58 to yourself the waste of time and energy. It is human nature.
After dinner she dismissed him. He must go out to a café and see the world. She had to look after the child’s slumbers59, and write letters. Quixtus went out into the broad, busy streets. The Cannebière was crowded with gasping60 but contented61 citizens. On every side rose the murmur62 of mirth and cheerfulness. Solid burgesses strolled arm in arm with their solider wives. Youths and maidens63 laughed together. Swarthy workmen with open shirt-collars showing their hairy throats, bareheaded workgirls in giggling64 knots, little soldiers clinging amorously65 to sweethearts—all the crowd wore an air of gaiety, of love of their kind, of joy in comradeship. At the thronged66 cafés, too, men and women found comfort in the swelter of gregariousness67. Night had fallen over the baking city, and the great thoroughfare blazed in light—from shop windows, cafés, street lamps, from the myriad68 whirling lamps of trams and motors. Above it all the full moon shone splendid from the intense sky of a summer night. Quixtus and the moon appeared to be the only lonely things in the Cannebière.
He wandered down to the quay69 and back again in ever-growing depression. He felt lost, an alien among this humanity that clung together for mutual70 happiness; he envied the little soldier and his girl gazing hungrily, their heads almost touching71, into a cheap jeweller’s window. A sudden craving such as he had never known in his life, awoke within him; insistent72, imperious—a craving for human companionship. Instinctively73 he walked back to the hotel, scarcely realising why he had come; until he saw Clementina in the vestibule. She had stuck on her crazy hat and was pulling on her white cotton gloves; evidently preparing to go out.
“Hullo! Back already?”
“I have come to ask you a favour, Clementina,” said he. “Would it bore you to come out with me—to give me the pleasure of your company?”
“It wouldn’t bore me,” replied Clementina. “Precious few things do. But what on earth can you want me for?”
“If I tell you, you won’t mock at me?”
“I only mock at you, as you call it, when you do idiotic74 things. Anyhow, I won’t now. What’s the matter?”
He hesitated. She saw that her brusqueness had checked something natural and spontaneous. At once she strove to make amends75, and laid her hand on his sleeve.
“We’ve got to be friends henceforth, Ephraim; if only for the child’s sake. Tell me.”
“It was only that I have never felt so dismally76 alone in my life, as I did in that crowded street.”
“And so you came back for me?”
“I came back for you,” he said with a smile.
“Let us go,” said Clementina, and she put her arm through his and they went out together and walked arm in arm like hundreds of other solemn couples in Marseilles.
“That better?” she asked after a while, with a humorous and pleasant sense of mothering this curiously77 pathetic and incomprehensible man.
The unfamiliar78 tone in her voice touched him.
“I had no idea you could be so kind, Clementina. Yesterday morning, when I was ill—I can scarcely remember—but I feel you were kind then.”
“I’m not always a rhinoceros,” said Clementina. “But what am I doing that’s kind now?”
He pressed her arm gently. “Just this,” said he.
Then Clementina realised, with an odd thrill of pleasure, how much more significance often lies in little things than in big ones.
They walked along the quay and looked at the island of the Chateau79 d’If standing52 out grim in the middle of the moonlit harbour, turned up one of the short streets leading to the Rue15 de Rome, and so came into the Cannebière again. A table, just vacated on the outer edge of the terrace of one of the cafés, allured80 them. They sat down and ordered coffee. The little sentimental81 walk arm in arm had done much to dispose each kindly82 towards the other. Quixtus felt grateful for her rough yet subtle sympathy, Clementina appreciated his appreciation83. The atmosphere of antagonism84 that had hitherto surrounded them had disappeared. For the first time since their arrival in Marseilles they talked on general topics. Almost for the first time in their lives they talked of general topics naturally, without constraint85. Hitherto she had always kept an ear cocked for the pedant86; he for the scoffer87. She had been impatient of his quietism; he had nervously88 dreaded89 her brutality90. Now a truce91 was declared. She forebore to jeer92 at his favourite pursuit, it not entering her head to do so; Quixtus, a man of breeding, never rode his hobby outside his ring, except in self-defence. They talked of music—a band was playing in the adjoining café. They discovered a common ground in Bach. Desultory93 talk led them to modern opera. There was a little haunting air, said he, in Hans Joueur de Fl?te.
“This?” cried Clementina, leaning across the table and humming it. “You’re the only English creature I’ve come across who has ever heard of it.”
They talked of other things—of travel. Her tour through France was fresh in her mind. Sensitive artist, she was full of the architecture. Wherever she had gone, Quixtus had gone before her. To her after astonishment94, for she was too much interested in the talk to consider it at the time, he met her sympathetically on every point.
“The priceless treasures of France,” said he, “are the remains95 of expiring Gothic and the early Renaissance96. Of the former you have the Palais de Justice at Rouen—which everybody knows—and the west front of the Cathedral at Vend97?me.”
“But I’ve just been to Vend?me!” cried Clementina. “That wonderful flamboyant98 window!”
“The last word of Gothic,” said Quixtus. “The funeral pyre of Gothic—that tracery—the whole thing is on fire—it’s all leaping flame—as if some God had said ‘Let this noble thing that is dead have a stupendous end.’ Vend?me always seems to me like the end of the Viking. They sent the hero away to sea in a blaze of fire.”
Richelieu, the little town not far from Tours where every one goes, yet so unknown—built by the great Cardinal99 for his court and to-day standing with hardly change of stick or stone, just as Richelieu left it, Quixtus had visited.
“But that’s damnable!” cried Clementina. “I thought we had discovered it.”
He laughed. “So did I. And I suppose everybody who goes there views it with the eyes of a little Columbus.”
“What did you like best about it?”
“The pictures of the past it evoked100. The cavalcade101 of Richelieu’s nobles—all in their Louis Treize finery—the clatter102 of the men-at-arms down that broad, cobble-paved central street. The setting was all there. It was so easy to fill it.”
“That’s just what Tommy did,” said Clementina. “Tommy made a fancy sketch103 on the spot of the Cardinal entering in state in his great heavy carrosse with his bodyguard104 around him.”
This led them on to pictures. She found that he was familiar with all the galleries in Europe—with most of the works of the moderns. She had never suspected that he had ideas of his own on pictures. He hated what he called the “nightmare of technique” of the ultra-modern school. Clementina disliked it also. “All great art was simple,” he remarked. “Put one of Hobbema’s sober landscapes, the Saint Michael of Raphael, amidst the hysteria of the Salon105 des Indépendants, and the four walls would crumble106 into chaotic107 paint.
“Which reminds me,” said he, “of a curious little experience a good many years ago. It was at the first International Art Exhibition in London. Paris and Belgium and Holland poured out their violences to unfamiliar eyes—mine were unfamiliar, at any rate. There were women sitting in purple cafés with orange faces and magenta108 hair. There were hideous109 nudes110 with muscles on their knee-caps, writhing111 in decadent112 symbolism. There were portraits so flat that they gave you the impression of insects squashed against the wall. I remember going through, not understanding it one bit; and then in the midst of all this fever I came across a little gem—so cool, so finished, so sane, and yet full of grip, and I stood in front of it until I got better and then went away. It was a most curious sensation, like a cool hand on a fevered brow. I happened not to have a catalogue, so I’ve never known the painter.”
“What kind of a picture was it?” asked Clementina.
“Just a child, in a white frock and a blue sash, and not a remarkably113 pretty child either. But it was a delightful114 piece of work.”
“Do you remember,” she asked, “whether there was a mother-o’-pearl box on a little table to the left of the girl?”
“Yes,” said Quixtus. “There was. Do you know the picture?”
Clementina smiled. She smiled so that her white, strong teeth became visible. Quixtus had never seen Clementina’s teeth.
“Painted it,” said Clementina, throwing forward both her hands in triumph.
One of her hands met the long glass of coffee and sent it scudding115 across the table. Quixtus instinctively jerked his chair backward, but he could not escape a great splash of coffee over his waistcoat. Full of delight, gratitude116, and dismay, Clementina whipped up her white cotton gloves and before waiters with napkins could intervene, she wiped him comparatively dry.
“Your gloves! Your gloves!” he cried, protesting.
She held up the unspeakable things and almost laughed as she threw them on the pavement, whence they were picked up carefully by a passing urchin—for nothing is wasted in France.
“I would have wiped you clean with my—well, with anything I’ve got, in return for your having remembered my picture.”
“Well,” said he, “the compliment being quite unconscious, was all the more sincere.”
The waiter mopped up the flooded table.
“Let us be depraved,” said Clementina in high good humour, “and have some green chartreuse.”
“Willingly,” smiled Quixtus.
So they were depraved.
And when Clementina went to bed she wondered why she had railed at Quixtus all these years.
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1
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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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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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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6
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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7
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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pensioners
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| n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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10
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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13
seismic
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| a.地震的，地震强度的 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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nugatory
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| adj.琐碎的，无价值的 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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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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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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countermanded
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| v.取消（命令），撤回( countermand的过去分词 ) | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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40
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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41
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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43
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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45
bedlam
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| n.混乱，骚乱；疯人院 | |
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46
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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47
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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48
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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49
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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50
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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51
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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52
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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53
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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55
meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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56
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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57
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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58
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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59
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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60
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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62
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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63
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gregariousness
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| 集群性；簇聚性 | |
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68
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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69
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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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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71
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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72
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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73
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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74
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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75
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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76
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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78
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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79
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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80
allured
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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82
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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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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84
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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85
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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86
pedant
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| n.迂儒；卖弄学问的人 | |
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87
scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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88
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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89
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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90
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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91
truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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92
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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93
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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94
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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97
vend
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| v.公开表明观点，出售，贩卖 | |
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98
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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99
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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100
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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101
cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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102
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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103
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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104
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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105
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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106
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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107
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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108
magenta
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| n..紫红色（的染料）；adj.紫红色的 | |
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109
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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110
nudes
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| （绘画、照片或雕塑）裸体( nude的名词复数 ) | |
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111
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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112
decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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113
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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114
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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115
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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116
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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