She was happier, too, in that she had forgiven Quixtus; for the first time since she had known him she felt a curiosity regarding him, a desire for his friendship; scarcely formulated6, arose a determination to bring something vital into his life. As the notable housewife entering a forlorn man’s neglected house longs to throw open windows, shake carpets, sweep down cobwebs, abolish dingy7 curtains, and fill the place with sunlight and chintz and other gaiety, so did Clementina long to sweep and garnish8 Quixtus’s dusty heart. He had many human possibilities. After all, there must be something sound in a man who had treasured in his mind the memory of her picture. Sheila and herself, between them, would transform him into a gaunt angel. She fell asleep smiling at the thought.
Clementina did not suffer fools gladly. That was why, thinking Quixtus a fool, she had not been able to abide9 him for so many years. And that was why she could not abide the fat Chinese nurse, who showed herself to be a mass of smiling incompetence11. “The way she washes the child makes me sick,” she declared. “If I see much more of her heathen idol’s grin, I’ll go mad and bite her.” So the next day Clementina, with Quixtus as a decorative12 adjunct, hunted up consular13 and other authorities and made with them the necessary arrangements for shipping14 her off to Shanghai, for which she secretly pined, by the next outward-bound steamer. When they got to London she would provide the child with a proper Christian15 nurse, who would bring her up in the fear of the Lord and in habits of tidiness; and in the meanwhile she herself would assume the responsibility of Sheila’s physical well-being16.
“I’m not going to have a flighty young girl,” she remarked. “I could tackle her, but you couldn’t.”
“Why should I attempt to tackle her?” asked Quixtus.
“You’ll be responsible for the child when she stays in Russell Square.”
“Russell Square?” he echoed.
“Yes. She will live partly with you and partly with me—three months with each of us, alternately. Where did you expect the child to live?”
“Upon my soul,” said he, “I haven’t considered the matter. Well—well——”
He walked about the vestibule, revolving17 this new and alarming proposition. To have a little girl of five planted in his dismal18, decorous house—what in the world should he do with her? It would revolutionise his habits. Clementina watched him out of a corner of her eye.
“You didn’t suppose I was going to have all the worry, did you?”
“No, no,” he said hastily. “Of course not. I see I must share all responsibilities with you. Only—won’t she find living with me rather dull?”
“You can keep a lot of cats and dogs and rocking-horses, and give children’s parties,” said Clementina.
Sheila, who had been apparently19 absorbed in the mysteries of the Parisian toilet of a flaxen-haired doll which Clementina had bought for her at an extravagant20 price, cheerfully lifted up her face.
“Auntie says that when I come to stay with you, I’m to be mistress of the house.”
“Indeed?” said Quixtus.
“And I’m to be a real lady and sit at the end of the table and entertain the guests.”
“I suppose that settles it?” he said, with a smile.
“Of course it does,” said Clementina, and she wondered whether his masculine mind would ever be in a condition to grasp the extent of the sacrifice she was making.
That day the remains21 of Will Hammersley were laid to rest in the little Protestant cemetery22. The consular chaplain read the service. Only the two elders stood by the graveside, thinking the ordeal23 too harrowing for the child. Clementina wept, for some of her wasted youth lay in the coffin24. But Quixtus stood with dry eyes and set features. Now he was sane25. Now he could view life calmly. He knew that his memory of the dead would always be bitter. Reason could not sweeten it. It were better to forget. Let the dead past bury its dead. The dead man’s child he would take to his heart for her own helpless, sweet sake. Should she, in years to come, turn round and repay him with treachery and ingratitude26, it would be but the way of all flesh. In the meanwhile he would be loyal to his word.
After the service came to a close he stood for a few moments gazing into the grave. Clementina edged close to him and pointed27 down to the coffin.
“He may have wronged you, but he trusted you,” she said in a low voice.
“That’s true,” said Quixtus. And as they drove back in silence, he murmured once or twice to himself, half audibly:
“He wronged me, but he trusted me.”
That evening they started for Paris.
Undesirous of demonstrative welcome at half-past eight in the morning, Clementina had not informed Tommy and Etta of the time of her arrival, and Quixtus had not indulged in superfluous28 correspondence with Huckaby. The odd trio now so closely related stood lonely at the exit of the Lyons Station, while porters deposited their luggage in cabs. Each of the elders felt a curious reluctance29 to part—even for a few hours, for they had agreed to lunch together. Sheila shed a surprised tear. She had adjusted her small mind to the entrance of her Uncle Ephraim into her life. The sudden exit startled her. On his promising30 to see her very soon, she put her arms prettily31 round his neck and kissed him. He drove off feeling the flower-like pressure of the child’s lips to his, and it was very sweet.
It helped him to take up the threads of Paris where he had left them, a difficult task. Deep shame smote32 him. What could be henceforward his relations with Huckaby whom, with crazy, malevolent33 intent, he had promised to maintain in the path of clean living? With what self-respect could he look into the eyes of Mrs. Fontaine, innocent and irreproachable34 woman, whose friendship he had cultivated with such dastardly design? She had placed herself so frankly35, so unsuspectingly in his hands. To him, now, it was as unimaginable to betray her trust as to betray that of the child whose kiss lingered on his lips. If ever a woman deserved compensation, full and plenteous, at the hands of man, that was the woman. An insult unrealised is none the less an insult; and he, Quixtus, had insulted a woman. If only to cleanse36 his own honour from the stain, he must make compensation to this sweet lady. But how? By faithful and loyal service.
When he solemnly reached this decision I think that more than one angel wept and at the same time wanted to shake him.
And behind these two whom he would meet in Paris, loomed37 the forbidding faces of Billiter and Vandermeer. He shivered as at contact with something unclean. He had chosen these men as ministers of evil. He had taken them into his crazy confidence. With their tongues in their cheeks, these rogues38 had exploited him. He remembered loathsome39 scenarios40 of evil dramas they had submitted. Thank Heaven for the pedantic41 fastidiousness that had rejected them! Billiter, Vandermeer, Huckaby—the only three of all men living who knew the miserable42 secret of his recent life! In a rocky wilderness43 he could have raced with wild gestures like the leper, shouting “Unclean! Unclean!” But Paris is not a rocky wilderness, and the semi-extinct quadruped in the shafts44 of the modern Paris fiacre conveys no idea of racing45.
Yet while his soul cried this word of horror, the child’s kiss lingered as a sign and a consecration46.
The first thing to do was to set himself right with Huckaby. Companionship with the man on the recent basis was impossible. He made known his arrival, and an hour afterwards, having bathed and breakfasted, he sat with Huckaby in the pleasant courtyard of the hotel. Huckaby, neat and trim and clear-eyed, clad in well-fitting blue serge, gave him the news of the party. Mrs. Fontaine had introduced him to some charming French people whose hospitality he had ventured to accept. She was well and full of plans for little festas for the remainder of their stay in Paris. Lady Louisa had found a cavalier, an elderly French marquis of deep gastronomic47 knowledge.
“Lady Louisa,” said he with a sigh of relief and a sly glance at Quixtus, “is a charming lady, but not a highly intellectual companion.”
Huckaby bit his lip.
“Do you remember our last conversation?” he said at last.
“I remember,” said Quixtus.
“I asked you for a chance. You promised. I was in earnest.”
“I wasn’t,” said Quixtus.
Huckaby started and gripped the arm of his chair. He was about to protest when Quixtus checked him.
“I want you to know,” said he, “that great changes have taken place since then. I left Paris in ill-health, I return sound. I should like you to grasp the deep significance underlying49 those few words. I will repeat them.”
“I think I understand,” he replied slowly. “Then Billiter and Vandermeer?”
“Billiter and Vandermeer I put out of my life for ever; but I shall see they are kept from want.”
“They can’t be kept from wanting more than you give them,” said Huckaby, whose brain worked swiftly and foresaw blackmail51. “You must impose conditions.”
“I never thought of that,” said Quixtus.
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” said the other bitterly; “I’m telling you for your own good.”
“If they attempt to write to me or see me, their allowances will cease.”
He covered his eyes with his hand, as though to shut out their hateful faces. There was a short silence. Huckaby’s lips grew dry. He moistened them with his tongue.
“And what about me?” he asked at last.
Quixtus drew away his hand with a despairing gesture, but made no reply.
“I suppose you’re right in classing me with the others,” said Huckaby. “Heaven knows I oughtn’t to judge them. I was in with them all the time”—Quixtus winced52—“but I can’t go back to them.”
“My treating you just the same as them won’t necessitate53 your going back to them.”
Huckaby bent forward, quivering, in his chair. “As there’s a God in Heaven, Quixtus, I wouldn’t accept a penny from you on those terms.”
“And why not?”
“Because I don’t want your money. I want to be put in a position to earn some honourably54 for myself. I want your help as a man, your sympathy as a human being. I want you to help me to live a clean, straight life. I kept the promise, the important promise I made you, ever since we started. You can’t say I haven’t. And since you left I’ve not touched a drop of alcohol—and, if you promise to help me, I swear to God I never will as long as I live. What can I do, man,” he cried, throwing out his arms, “to prove to you that I’m in deadly earnest?”
Quixtus lay back in his chair reflecting, his finger-tips joined together. Presently a smile, half humorous, half kindly55, lit up his features—a smile such as Huckaby had not seen since before the days of the hostless dinner of disaster, and it was manifest to Huckaby that some at least of the Quixtus of old had come back to earth.
“In the last day or two,” said Quixtus, “I have formed a staunch friendship with one who was a crabbed56 and inveterate57 enemy. It is Miss Clementina Wing, the painter, whom you saw, in somewhat painful circumstances, the other day at the tea-room. I will give you an opportunity—I hope many—of meeting her again. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, my dear Huckaby—but so many strange things have happened of late, that I, for the present, mistrust my own judgment58. I hope you understand.”
“Not quite. You don’t mean to tell——”
Quixtus flushed and drew himself up.
“After twenty years, do you know me so little as that?”
Again Quixtus smiled, at a reminiscent phrase of Clementina’s.
“At any rate, my dear fellow,” said he, “even if she doesn’t approve of you, she will do you a thundering lot of good.”
At the smile Huckaby took heart of grace; but at the same time the memory of Clementina, storming over the tea-table, for all the world like a French revolutionary general, filled his soul with wholesome60 dismay. Well, there was no help for it; he must take his chance; so he filled a philosophic61 pipe.
A little later Quixtus met the spotless flower of womanhood whom he had so grievously insulted. She greeted him with both hands outstretched. Without him Paris had been a desert. Why had he not sent her the smallest, tiniest line of news? Ah! she understood. It had been a sojourn62 of pain. Never mind. Paris, she hoped, would prove to be an anodyne63. Only if she would administer it in the right doses; said Quixtus gallantly65. Dressed with exquisite66 demureness67, she found favour in his sight. He realised with a throb1 of thanksgiving that henceforward he could meet her on equal terms—as an honourable68 gentleman—no grotesque69 devilry haunting the back of his mind and clouding the serenity70 of their intercourse71.
“Tell me what you have been doing with yourself,” she said, drawing him to a seat. The little air of intimacy72 and ownership so delicately assumed, captivated the remorseful73 man. He had not realised the charm that awaited him in Paris.
He touched lightly on Marseilles happenings, spoke5 of his guardianship74, of Sheila, of her clinging, feminine ways, drew a smiling picture of his terror when Clementina had first left him alone with the child.
Mrs. Fontaine laughed sympathetically at the tale, and then, with a touch of tenderness in her voice that perhaps was not deliberate, said:
“In spite of the worries, you have benefited by the change. You have come back a different man.”
“In what way?”
“I can’t define it.”
“Try.”
A quick glance met earnest questioning in his eyes. She looked down and daintily plucked at the sunshade across her lap.
“I should say you had come back more human.”
Quixtus’s eyelids75 flickered77. Clementina had used the same word. Was there then an obvious transformation78 from Quixtus furens to Quixtus sane?
He remembered the child’s kiss. “Perhaps it’s my new responsibilities,” he said with a smile.
“I should so much like to see her. I wonder if I ever shall,” said Mrs. Fontaine.
“She is coming here to lunch with Miss Wing,” replied Quixtus, eager now that his good friends should know and appreciate each other. “Won’t Lady Louisa and yourself join us?”
“Delighted,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “Miss Clementina Wing is quite a character. I should like to see more of her.”
On the stroke of one, the time appointed for luncheon80, Clementina and Sheila appeared at the end of the long lounge, Tommy and Etta straggling in their wake. Quixtus rose from the table where his three friends were seated, and advanced to meet them. Sheila ran forward and he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“You didn’t ask these children to lunch, but I brought ’em.”
“They’re very welcome,” said Quixtus, smiling.
Tommy, his fair face aflame with joy, wrung81 his hand. “I told you I would look you up in the H?tel Continental82. By Jove! I am glad to see you. I’ve been an awful ass10, you know. Of course I thought——”
“She goes by the name of Etta,” said Tommy, proudly.
Clementina jerked her thumb towards them:
“Engaged. Young idiots!”
“My dear Miss Etta,” said Quixtus, taking the hand of the furiously blushing girl—“My friend, Tommy, is an uncommonly84 lucky fellow.” He nodded at Sheila, who hung on to his finger-tips. “Have you made friends with this young lady?”
“She’s a darling!” cried Etta.
“You gave yourselves away, you silly geese. People have been grinning at you all the time you were walking here.” Then her glance fell upon the expectant trio a little way off. “Oh Lord!” she said, “those people again!”
“They’re my very good friends,” said Quixtus, “and I want you to meet them again in normal circumstances. I want you to like them.”
“All right,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be civil.”
So it came to pass that the two women again faced each other; Mrs. Fontaine all daintiness and fragrance87 in her simple but exquisitely88 cut fawn89 costume, the chaste90 contours of her face set off by an equally simple ten-guinea black hat with an ostrich91 feather; Clementina, rugged92, powerful, untidy in her ill-fitting mustardy brown stuff skirt and jacket, and heavy, businesslike shoes; and again between the two pairs of eyes was the flicker76 of rapiers. And as soon as they were disengaged and Clementina turned to Lady Louisa, she felt the other’s swift glance travel from the soles of her feet to the rickety old rose in her hat. There are moments when sex gives a woman eyes in the back of her head. She turned round quickly and surprised the most elusive93 ghost of a smile imaginable. For the first time in her life Clementina felt herself at a disadvantage. She winced; then mentally, so as to speak, snapped her fingers. What had she to do with the woman, or the woman with her?
All the presentations having been made, Quixtus led the way to the restaurant of the hotel.
“Clementina,” said he, “may I ask you to concede the place of honour for this occasion to my unexpected but most charming and most welcome guest?”
He indicated Etta still blushing into whose ear Tommy whispered that his uncle always spoke like a penny book with the covers off.
“My dear man,” said Clementina, “stick me anywhere, so long as it’s next the baby and I can see that nobody feeds her on anchovies94 and lobster95 salad.”
She understood perfectly96. The second seat of honour was Mrs. Fontaine’s. She confounded Mrs. Fontaine. But what was Mrs. Fontaine to her or she to Mrs. Fontaine?
They took their places at the round table laid for eight. On Quixtus’s right, Etta; on his left, Mrs. Fontaine; then Sheila, somewhat awed97 at the grown-up luncheon party and squeezing Pinkie very tight so as to give her courage; then Clementina with Huckaby as left-hand neighbour; then Lady Louisa, and Tommy next to Etta.
Clementina kept her word and behaved with great civility. Tommy politely addressed Lady Louisa to the immense relief of Huckaby, who thus temporarily freed from his Martha, plunged98 into eager conversation with Clementina about her picture in the Salon99, which had attracted considerable attention. He did not tell her that, in order to refresh his memory of the masterpiece, he had revisited the Grand Palais that morning. He praised the technique. There was in it that hint of Velasquez which so many portrait-painters tried for and so few got. This pleased Clementina. Velasquez was the god of her art. One bright space in her dreary100 youth was her life with Velasquez in Madrid.
“I too once tried to know something about him,” said Huckaby. “I wrote a monograph—a wretched compilation101 only—in a series of Lives of Great Painters for a firm of publishers.”
Hack102 work or not, the authorship of a Life of Velasquez was enough to prejudice her in Huckaby’s favour. She learned, too, that he was a sometime Fellow of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and a university contemporary of Quixtus. Huckaby, finding her not the rough-tongued virago103 from whom Quixtus had always shrunk, and of whom, at their one meeting in the tea-room, he, himself, had not received the suavest104 impression, but a frank, intelligent woman, gradually forgot his anxiety to please and talked naturally as became a man of his scholarship. The result was that Clementina thought him a pleasant and sensible fellow, an opinion which she expressed later in the day to Quixtus.
With regard to Mrs. Fontaine, her promise of ladylike behaviour was harder to keep. All through the meal her dislike grew stronger. That Quixtus should bend towards Etta, in his courtly fashion, and pay her little gallant64 attentions, was but natural; indeed it was charming courtesy towards Tommy’s betrothed105; but that he should do the same to Mrs. Fontaine and add to it a subtle shade of intimacy, was exasperating106. In the lady’s attitude, too, towards Quixtus, Clementina perceived an air of proprietorship107, a triumphant108 consciousness of her powers of fascination109. When Quixtus addressed a remark across the table to Clementina, Mrs. Fontaine adroitly110 drew his attention to herself. Her manner gave Clementina to understand that, although a frump of a portrait painter might be an important person in a studio, yet in the big world outside, the attractive woman had victorious111 pre-eminence. Now Clementina was a woman, and one whose nature had lately gone through unusual convulsions. She found it difficult to be polite to Mrs. Fontaine. Only once was there a tiny eruption112 of the volcano.
Sheila’s seat at the table being too low for her small body, Clementina demanded a cushion from the ma?tre d’h?tel. When, after some delay, a waiter brought it, she was engaged in talk with Huckaby. She turned in time to see Mrs. Fontaine about to lift Sheila from her seat. With a sudden, rough movement she all but snatched the child out of the other’s arms, and herself saw to Sheila’s sedentary comfort.
She didn’t care what Quixtus or any one else thought of her. She was not going to have this alien woman touch her child. The hussy flirtation113 with Quixtus she could not prevent. But no woman born of woman should come between her and the beloved child of her adoption114.
The incident passed almost unnoticed. The meal ended pleasantly. With the exception of the two women in their mutual115 attitude, everybody was surprisedly delighted with everybody else. Etta thought Quixtus the very dearest thing, next to Admiral Concannon, that had ever a bald spot on the top of his head. Clementina, in a fit of graciousness, gave Huckaby the precious freedom of her studio. He could come and look at her pictures whenever he liked. Sheila, made much of, went away duly impressed with her new friends. Quixtus rubbed his hands at the success of his party. The apparently irreconcilable116 were reconciled, difficulties were vanishing rapidly, his path stretched out before him in rosy117 smoothness.
But Tommy’s quick eyes had noticed the snatching of Sheila.
“Etta,” said he, “I’ve known Clementina intimately all these years, and I find I know nothing at all about her.”
“What do you mean?” asked the girl.
“For the first time in my life,” said he, “I’ve just discovered that the dear old thing is as jealous as a cat.”
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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garnish
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| n.装饰，添饰，配菜 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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remains
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cemetery
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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coffin
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sane
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ingratitude
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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promising
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prettily
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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scenarios
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| n.[意]情节；剧本；事态；脚本 | |
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41
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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42
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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43
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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44
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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45
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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46
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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47
gastronomic
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| adj.美食（烹饪）法的，烹任学的 | |
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48
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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49
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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50
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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51
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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52
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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54
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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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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56
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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58
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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62
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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63
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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64
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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67
demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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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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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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71
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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72
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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74
guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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acidity
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| n.酸度，酸性 | |
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80
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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81
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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82
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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83
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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85
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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86
wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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87
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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88
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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89
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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92
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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93
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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anchovies
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| n. 鯷鱼，凤尾鱼 | |
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95
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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96
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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99
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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100
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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101
compilation
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| n.编译，编辑 | |
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102
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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103
virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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104
suavest
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| adj.平滑的( suave的最高级 )；有礼貌的；老于世故的 | |
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105
betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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106
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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107
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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108
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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109
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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110
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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111
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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112
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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113
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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114
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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115
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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116
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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117
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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