“Why worry? You can find a thousand little Dorothys in a week if you look for them—all a-growing and a-blowing, with never a wicked spell on them at all.”
“You are wrong,” he replied. “One can find thousands of Susans and Janes and Gertrudes—all very charming girls, I admit; but there’s only one Dorothy. She’s very remarkable5. She has an intellect. She has a distracting quality, something uncanny, you know, in her perceptions and intuitions. I’m dead serious, Marcelle, believe me——”
She let him talk his heart out. Her soul, dry and athirst, drank in his boy’s freshness—how greedily she scarcely realized. In her character of nurse she had acted as Mother Confessor to many a poor lonely wretch6; but in every case she had felt it was to the nun-descended uniform she wore, to its subconsciously7 recognized sanctity, and not to the mere8 kindly woman beneath, that she owed the appeal or the revelation. But now to young Godfrey Baltazar she was intensely, materially woman. Foolishly woman in her unconfessed craving10 to learn the details of his life and character and outlook on the world.
Once he checked an egotistic exposition.
“Look here,” he said, struck by a sudden qualm, “I’m always holding forth11 about myself—what about you?”
“There’s nothing about me. I’m just a nurse. A nurse is far too busy and remote from outside things to be anything else than a nurse.”
“But you started out as a mathematical swell12 at Newnham. Oh yes, you did! Men like my father don’t coach rotters—least of all women. What happened? You went in for the Tripos, of course?”
She shook her head. “No, my dear. The magic had gone out of my life. I tried Newnham for half the next term—facing the music—but it was too much for me. I broke down. I had to earn my livelihood13. My original idea was teaching. I gave it up. Took to nursing instead. And now you know the whole story of my life.”
“I can’t understand anybody really bitten with mathematics giving it up.”
She smiled. “I don’t think I was really bitten. Not like you.”
Then she led him from herself to his own ambitions, on this as on other occasions. Gradually she established between them a relationship very precious. It was the aftermath of her own romance.
One day, business calling her to London, she changed into mufti, and hurried down the front steps to the car that was to take her to the station. She found Godfrey waiting by the car door.
“My word! You look topping!” he cried in blatant14 admiration15, and she blushed with pleasure like a girl.
He begged for a jaunt16 to the station and back. The air would do him good. She assented17, and they drove off.
“You look younger than ever,” he went on. “It’s a sin to hide your beautiful hair under that wretched Sister’s concern. Now I see really the kind of woman you are——”
“What have clothes got to do with it?”
“Lots. The way you select them, the way you put them on, the way you express yourself in them. No one can express themselves in a beastly uniform. Now, all kinds of instincts, motives18, feelings, went into that hat. There’s a bit of defiance19 in it. As who should say: ‘Now that I’m an ordinary woman again, demureness20 be damned!’?”
She said: “I’m glad I meet with your lordship’s approval,” and she felt absurdly happy for the rest of the day. In her heart she thanked God that he regarded her not merely as a kind old thing to whom, as a link between himself and his father, he was benevolently21 disposed. Out of sight, she would then be out of his mind. But she held her own as a woman; unconsciously had held it all the time. Now the little accident of the meeting in mufti secured her triumph. When he left the home he would not drift away from her.
He had said on the platform, waiting for her train:
“As soon as we can fix it up, I’ll get hold of Dorothy, and you and I and she’ll have a little beano at the Carlton. I do so want her to meet you.”
The wish, she reflected afterwards, signified much: Dorothy to meet her, not she to meet Dorothy. The kind old thing, as a matter of boyish courtesy, would be asked to meet Dorothy. But Dorothy was to meet somebody in whom he took a certain pride.
She remembered a story told her by a friend who had gone to see her boy at a famous public school on the occasion of the Great Cricket Match. At the expansive moment of parting he said: “Mother, I suppose you know that the men feel it awfully22 awkward being seen with their people, but as you were out and away the most beautiful woman in the crowd, I went about not caring a hang.”
She would have to get herself up very smart for Dorothy. In the train coming back she fell a-dreaming. If John Baltazar and she had stuck it out in all honour for a few years, Death, which was in God’s hands and not theirs, would have solved all difficulties. They would have been married. The five-year-old child would have called her “mother.” She would be “mother” still to this gallant23 lad whose youth and charm had suddenly swept through the barren chambers24 of her heart. And in the night she asked again the question which in the agonized25 moments of past years she had cried to the darkness: “Why?”
Why had he left her? If he had been strong enough to keep love within the bounds of perfect friendship, she, the unawakened girl, living in passionate26 commune with intellectual and spiritual ideals, would have found for some years, at least, all her cravings satisfied in such a tender and innocent intercourse27. And if he had claimed her body and her soul, God knows they were his for the taking.
So why? Why the breaking of so many lives? His own, so vivid, most of all.
In the quivering splendour of her one girlish month of love, a distracted Semele, she had scarcely seen her Jovian lover, as he was in human form. She pictured him, Heaven knows how romantically. But always, in her picturing, she took for granted the canon of chiaroscuro28, of light and shade. In judging him afterwards, she had no conception of a being to whom compromise was damnation. A phrase—an instinctive29 cutter of Gordian knots—might have brought illumination; but there was none to utter it.
She was amazed, dumbfounded, conscience-stricken, all but soul-destroyed, when the astounding30 fact of John Baltazar’s disappearance31 became known. The familiar houses and trees and hedges on the Newnham Road pointed32 to her as accusing witnesses. Yet she kept her own counsel, and, keeping it, suffered to breaking-point. Many months passed before she could look life again squarely in the face—and then it was the new life that had lasted for so many years. And still, with all her experience of human weakness and human fortitude33, she lay awake asking herself the insoluble question.
So little occasion had been given for scandal, that her name was associated in no man or woman’s mind with the extraordinary event. Clue to John Baltazar’s disappearance, save the notorious shrewishness of his wife, there was none. Common Rooms, heavy with the secular34 atmosphere of casuistic argument, speculated in vain. A man of genius, destined35 to bring the University once more into world-wide fame—watched, therefore, by the University with sedulous36 care and affection; a man with the prizes of the earth (from the academic point of view) dangling37 within his grasp, does not, they contended, forsake38 all and go out into the darkness because his wife happens to be a scold. Another woman? To Common Rooms the idea was preposterous39. Besides, if there had been one, the married members would have picked up in their homes the gossip of one of the most nervous gossip centres in the United Kingdom. Mad, perhaps? But Mrs. Baltazar proclaimed loudly the sagacious method by which he realized his private fortune, before setting out for the Unknown. And Common Rooms, like Marcelle, asked the same perplexing question: Why?
The next day, in the grounds of Churton Towers, the young man, returning to his father’s fascinating mystery, propounded40 the dilemma41 that had kept her from sleep the night before, and he, in his turn, asked: “Why?”
“The only solution of it is,” said he, “that he burned the house down in order to roast the pig.”
She flashed a glance at him. “You seem to know him better than I.”
At that moment, John Baltazar, about whom there was all this coil, leaning over the gate of a derelict and remote moorland farmstead, perhaps asked himself the same question; for in moments of intellectual and physical relaxation42 he was wont43, like most solitaries44, to look down the vista45 of his years.
A low granite46 wall, in which was set the wooden gate, encircled the few acres of his domain47. Behind him, a one-storied, granite-built, thatched dwelling49 and the adjoining stable and byre and pigsties50 and dismantled51 dairy. Surrounding the buildings, with little selection as to appropriateness of site, were flower garden, mostly of herbaceous plants, vegetable garden, wire-enclosed poultry52 runs variegated53 with White Wyandottes and Rhode Island Reds, and half an acre of rough grass on which some goats were tethered.
John Baltazar leaned over the gate and, smoking his cherry-wood pipe, gazed with the outer eye on the familiar scene of desolate54 beauty. Within his horizon he was the only visible human being, his the only human habitation. All around him spread the rolling landscape of granite and heather and wind-torn shrub55. The granite hills, some surmounted56 by gigantic and shapeless masses of rock left freakishly behind in glacial movements of unknown times, glowed amethyst57 and pale coral; the heather slopes in the sunlight blazed in the riot of royal purple, and the shadowed plains lay in a sullen58 majesty59 of gloom. Heather and granite, granite and heather, moorland and mountain, beauty and barrenness. God and granite and heather. No place for man. No more a place for man than the Sahara. For man, to his infinite despair, had tried it; had built the rude farmstead, had, Heaven knows why—perhaps through pathetic pride of ownership—with infinite sweating, piled up the three-foot ring of stones, had sought to cultivate the illusory covering of earth, had dug till his sinews cracked and turned up the eternal granite instead of clods, and had sickened and starved and died; and had abandoned the stricken place to the unhelpful sun and the piercing winds and the snows—and to John Baltazar, who now, smoking his pipe, formed part of this tableland of desolation.
Fifty, he looked ten years younger. A short, uncombed thatch48 of coarse brown hair showed no streak60 of grey; nor did a closely clipped moustache of a lighter61 shade. His broad forehead was singularly serene62, save for an accusing deep vertical63 line between the brows. And a faint criss-cross network, too, appeared beneath the strong grey eyes when they were dimmed by relaxation of effort, but vanished almost magically when they were illuminated64 by thought. A grey sweater, somewhat tightly fitting, revealed a powerful frame. Knicker-bockers and woollen stockings and heavy shoes completed his attire65. His hands, glazed66 and coarsened, at first sight betrayed the labourer rather than the scholar. But the fingers were sensitively long, and the deep filbert nails showed signs of personal fastidiousness, as did his closely shaven cheek.
A wiry-coated Airedale came to him and sought his notice. He turned and caressed67 the dog’s rough head.
“Well, old son, finished the day’s work? You’re a rotten old fraud, you know, pretending to be bossing around, and never doing a hand’s turn for anybody.”
The dog, as though to justify68 his existence, barked, darted69 a yard away, ran up, barked again and once more started.
“Dinner time already?”
The sound of the word signified to the dog the achievement of his mission. He barked and leaped joyously70 as his master slowly strolled towards the house. On the threshold appeared a young Chinaman, of smiling but dignified71 demeanour, wearing Chinese dress.
“Dinner is served, sir,” he said, making way respectfully for Baltazar to pass.
“So Brutus has just informed me, Quong Ho.”
“It is always good,” said Baltazar, “to associate with intelligent beings.”
He entered the house-piece, the one large living room of the building, and took his place at a small table by a western window, simply but elegantly set with clean cloth and napkin, shining silver and glass, and a little bowl of roses placed on a strip of blue-and-gold Chinese embroidery73. It was a room, at the first glance, of characterless muddle74; at the second, of studied order. A long, narrow room, built north and south, with two windows on the west side and two on the east. An old-fashioned cooking range stretched beneath the great chimney-piece that took up most of the northern end, for the room was rudely planned as kitchen and dining-room and parlour and boudoir, all combined, and hams in the brief days of its prosperity had hung from its rafters. The spaces on the distempered walls not occupied by unpainted deal bookshelves were filled with long silken rolls of Chinese paintings. Turkey carpets covered the stone floor. Nearly the whole length of the eastern wall ran a long deal table, piled with manuscripts and pamphlets, but with a clear writing space by the north-east window, at which stood a comfortably cushioned writing chair. A settee and an arm-chair by the chimney corner, an old oak chest of drawers that seemed to wonder what it did in that galley75, a bamboo occasional table and the little dining table by the south-western window completed the furniture. But the room was spotlessly clean. Everything that could shine shone. Every pile of papers on the long deal table was squared with mathematical precision.
The young Chinaman served the dinner which he had prepared—curried eggs, roast chicken, goat’s milk cheese—with the deftness76 of long training. He paused, expectant, with an unstoppered decanter.
“Burgundy, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
Quong Ho filled a tumbler with water.
“How long has that half-bottle of wine been opened?”
“If I remember accurately77, sir, this is the fifteenth day.”
“It’s not fit to drink, Quong Ho. To-morrow you will throw it away and open another half-bottle.”
“It shall be done as you wish, sir,” said Quong Ho. “Except, sir, that I do not propose to waste the wine, for though it is too stale for drinking purposes, it is an invaluable78 adjunctive in cookery for soups and sauces.”
“Adjunctive? That’s a new word. Where did you get hold of it?”
“Possibly from you, sir, who have been my master in the English language for the last ten years.”
“You didn’t get it from me. It’s a beast of a word.”
“Then possibly, sir, I have met it in my independent reading. Perhaps in The Rambler of your celebrated80 philosopher, Johnson, which I have been perusing81 lately with great interest.”
Baltazar leaned back in his chair.
“The words I recognize as those of Poet Gray,” said Quong Ho.
“That is true,” said Baltazar. “But destiny, as far as I have the handling of things, won’t condemn83 you to a vast unfathomed cave of ocean. What I tried to imply was, that you’re a wonderful fellow—what the Americans in their fruity idiom which I haven’t yet taught you, call a peach.”
“I will make a mental note of it, sir,” said Quong Ho.
Baltazar grinned over his plate and went on with his dinner, the dog Brutus by his side watching the process with well-bred yearning84 and accepting an occasional mouthful with a gluttony politely concealed85. Towards the close of the meal Quong Ho brought in lamps and candles—Baltazar loved vivid illumination—and drew the curtains. In the house Quong Ho wore Chinese slippers86 and walked like a ghost. He began to clear away as soon as Baltazar rose from the table. The latter filled and lit his pipe and consulted his watch.
“You can come for your lesson in an hour’s time.”
“In an hour precisely,” said Quong Ho.
“Have you prepared the work I set you?”
“With thorough perfection, sir.”
“You’ll be President of the Chinese Republic yet,” said Baltazar.
“It is no mean ambition,” said Quong Ho.
Baltazar took a book from his shelves devoted87 to general reading—an amazing medley88 of dingy89 volumes such as one sees only in an ill-arranged second-hand90 bookseller’s stock. It was a second-hand bookseller’s stock in literal truth, for Baltazar had bought a catalogue en bloc91. It saved infinite trouble. The collection provided him with years of miscellaneous feeding. It contained little that was modern, nothing that was of contemporary moment; on the other hand, it gave him many works which he had ear-marked for perusal92, hitherto in vain, from his boyhood. There were the works of Robertson—the Histories of Scotland, Charles V and America; Davila’s Wars in France; the Aldine Edition of the British Poets in many volumes; an incomplete Dodsley’s Old Plays; the works of one Surtees—he who wrote of the immortal93 Jorrocks and Soapey Sponge and Facey Romford; Elzevir editions of Saint Augustine and Tertullian; The Architectural Beauties of England and Wales; Livingstone’s Travels; and Queechy, by the author of The Wide, Wide World. A haggis of a library. No one but John Baltazar could have bought it at one impulsive94 swoop95.
He took down the volume, almost haphazard96, for it was his luxurious97 custom to devote after dinner a digestive hour to haphazard reading; a bound volume of pamphlets, which had once entertained him with the Times reprint of the Obituary98 of The Duke of Wellington. He sat down in his arm-chair, turned over some dreary99 pages, tried to interest himself in “What is it all About? or an Enquiry into the Statements of the Rev9. C. H. Spurgeon that the Church of England Teaches Salvation100 by Baptism, instead of Salvation by the Blood of our Blessed Master Jesus Christ, and that Many of the Clergy101 are guilty of Dishonesty and Perjury102, by the Rev. Joseph Bardsley, M.A.,” sadly shook his head, and, turning over more gloomy pages, came upon an oasis103 in the desert: “The Fight at Dame104 Europa’s School, showing how the German Boy thrashed the French Boy, and how the English Boy looked on.” He read the mordant105 sarcasm106 of eighteen hundred and seventy-one with great enjoyment107, and had just finished it when Quong Ho, notebook under arm, entered the room.
“Quong Ho,” said he, “I’ve just been reading a famous satirical pamphlet on the part which England played in the Franco-Prussian War. When you have time you might read it. The English is impeccable. You won’t find any ‘adjunctives’ in it. It lashes108 England for not having gone to the help of France in 1870.”
“Why should one nation undertake another’s quarrel?” asked Quong Ho, with a curious flash in his eyes. “Why should China shed her blood for the sake, by way of illustration, of Denmark?”
“There is an answer, Quong Ho,” replied Baltazar, “to your astute109 question. In ancient times China and Denmark were as far apart as Neptune110 and Mercury. But wireless111 telegraphy has brought them to each other’s frontiers. Nowadays nations act and react on one another in a very subtle way. You must read a little more of modern European History, for Europe is the nerve centre of a system of nervous telepathy which forms a network round the earth. Nothing can happen in Europe nowadays without its sensitive reaction in China. You must remember that, at every instant of your life, if you wish to model a new China. For the old China has gone. I loved it, as you know, Quong Ho. But it’s as dead as Assyria. Another struggle between France and Germany would implicate112 the civilized113 world. Great Britain would not look on as in 1870, but would be on the side of France, and Japan would be on the side of Great Britain, and China——”
“Let us hope it never will happen,” said Baltazar. “In the meantime there’s something of greater importance.” He rose, went to his writing chair by the long deal table. “Let us see. What is it to-night? Elliptic Functions, isn’t it?”
And while John Baltazar, serene in his reading of political philosophy, was guiding Quong Ho through mazes115 of mathematical abstraction, German aircraft were dropping bombs about England.
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1
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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jaunt
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| v.短程旅游；n.游览 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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demureness
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| n.demure（拘谨的，端庄的）的变形 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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chiaroscuro
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| n.明暗对照法 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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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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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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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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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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solitaries
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| n.独居者，隐士( solitary的名词复数 ) | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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46
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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48
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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49
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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50
pigsties
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| n.猪圈，脏房间( pigsty的名词复数 ) | |
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51
dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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52
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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53
variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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54
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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55
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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56
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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60
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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61
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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62
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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65
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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67
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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69
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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71
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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74
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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76
deftness
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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79
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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81
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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82
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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83
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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85
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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86
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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87
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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89
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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90
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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91
bloc
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| n.集团；联盟 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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95
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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97
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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98
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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99
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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100
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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101
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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102
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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103
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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104
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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105
mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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106
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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107
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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108
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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109
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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110
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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111
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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112
implicate
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| vt.使牵连其中，涉嫌 | |
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113
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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114
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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115
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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