“You’re both of you as kind as can be, and I’m more than grateful for all you’ve done; but I do wish you’d see that it’s no use arguing. It only hurts and makes us tired. Do help yourself, Mr. Trivett. And—another cup of tea, Mr. Fenmarch?”
Mr. Fenmarch, on her left, passed his cup with a sigh. He was a dusty, greyish man, his face covered with an indeterminate growth of thin short hair. His eyes were of a dull, unspeculative blue.
“As your solicitor2, my dear Olivia,” said he, “I can only obey instructions. As the friend of your family, I venture to give you advice.”
“Why the deuce your father didn’t tie you up in a trusteeship till you were twenty-five, at any rate,” said Mr. Trivett on her right, helping3 himself to whisky and soda4—the table, covered with a green baize cloth, was littered with papers and afternoon refreshments5. “Why the dickens——” he began again after a sizzling gulp6.
“Yes, it’s most unfortunate,” said Mr. Fenmarch, cutting off his friend’s period. “And what you are going to do with yourself, all alone in the world, with this enormous amount of liquid money is more than I can imagine.”
Olivia smiled and tapped the blue-veined hand that set down his teacup.
“Of course you can’t. If imagination ran away with a solicitor, it would land him in the workhouse.”
“That’s where it will land you, Olivia,” said Mr. Trivett. “Common sense is the better mount.”
“That’s rather neat,” she said.
“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have said it,” retorted Mr. Trivett, sinking his red jowls into his collar, which made them redder than before.
“You’re so quick and clever,” said Olivia, “that I can’t understand why you won’t see things from my point of view.”
“You’ve got to learn that a man of experience can’t take the view of a wrong-headed young woman.”
As a matter of fact, he was genuinely angry. He was the senior partner in Trivett and Gale, Auctioneers and Estate Agents, in the comfortable little Shropshire town of Medlow; or rather the only surviving partner, for Gale, Olivia’s father, and his two sons had one after the other been wiped out in a recent world accident. Olivia’s decision, inspired from no other fount he could think of than lunacy, involved the withdrawal10 of considerable capital from the business. This, of course, being an honourable11 man, he could not dispute; but here were peace and reconstruction12 and inflated13 prices, and heaven knew how much percentage on the middleman’s capital, and here was this inexperienced girl throwing away a safe income and clamouring for a settlement in full. They had argued and argued. It may be stated here that Mr. Trivett was the Executor of her father’s estate, which made his position the more delicate and exasperating14.
And now Mr. Trivett’s exasperation15 reached the table-thumping point.
Olivia smiled wearily.
“It’s such a pity.”
“What’s a pity?”
“Oh, everything. One thing is that there’s no more gold. Of course, I know you can’t understand. But that’s your fault, not mine. I should have liked to realize all that I’ve got in sovereigns. Do you think they’d fill a bath? Have you ever thought how lovely it would be to wallow in a bath of sovereigns? Treasury16 notes are not the same thing. They’re either very dirty and smell of plumbers17, or very new and smell of rancid oil. Gold is the real basis of Romance.”
“We’ll not see a gold coin in England again for the next fifty years.”
“Well, well,” she said; “anyhow, there’s still some romance in mounting the deadly breech of the bank counter with a drawn19 cheque in one’s hand.”
“I’m afraid, my dear Olivia,” said Mr. Fenmarch mildly, “I don’t quite see what we’re talking about.”
“Why, we’ve discussed it every day for the last three months,” cried Olivia, “and now this is the very last end of everything. A final settlement, as you call it! That’s what you two dears have come for, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Mr. Fenmarch.
“Then it’s all so simple. You’ve shown me this”—she picked up a foolscap document and dropped it—“the full statement of account of my father’s estate, and I approve—I being the only person concerned. You’ve got to give me one last cheque for that amount”—she tapped the document—“and I give you my receipt, signed over a penny stamp—you’ll have to stand me a penny stamp, for I’ve only got three-halfpenny ones in the house—and there’s an end of the matter.”
“My clerk made out the receipt and put the penny stamp on,” said Mr. Fenmarch, untroubled by her smile. “Here it is.”
“Solicitors’ clerks seem to think of everything,” said Olivia. “Fancy his remembering the penny stamp!”
“It’s charged up against you, in Fenmarch’s bill—item ‘sundries,’?” remarked Mr. Trivett, pointing a fat forefinger20.
“Why, naturally. Why should Mr. Fenmarch shower pennies on me? It’s the delicate thoughtfulness that I admire. I hope you’ll raise that young man’s salary.”
Mr. Fenmarch looked pained, like a horse to whom one had offered wooden oats, and swung his head away. Mr. Trivett opened his mouth to speak, but before he spoke21 finished his whisky and soda.
“My dear Olivia,” said he, “I’m sorry to see you so flippant. You’ve disappointed me and Mrs. Trivett who’ve known you since you were born, more than I can say. Until your poor mother died—God bless her—we thought you the most capable, level-headed young woman in this town. But for the last three months—you’ll forgive my freedom in saying so—you have shown yourself to be quite impossible.”
He paused, angry. Olivia smiled and drummed on the table.
“Have some more whisky.”
“No, I won’t,” he said in a loud voice. “Whisky’s too expensive to ladle out in that offhand22 fashion. It’s a luxury, as you’ll jolly well soon discover. I’m talking for your good, Olivia. That’s why Fenmarch and I are here. Two minutes will wind up the business. But we have your interests at heart, my girl, and we want to make a last appeal.”
“Yes, I know, I know. I’ve said already that you and Mr. Fenmarch were dears. But what would you have me do? I’m twenty-three. Alone in the world.”
“You have your uncle and aunt at Clapham,” said Mr. Trivett.
“I’ve also some sort of relations in the monkey cage at the Zoo,” said Olivia.
The repartee24 to the effect that it was the fittest home for her only occurring to Mr. Trivett when he was getting into bed that night, he merely stared at her gaspingly. She continued:
“I’m absolutely alone in the world. Do you think it reasonable for me to stay in this dull old house, in this mouldering25 old town, where one never sees a man from one year’s end to another, living for the rest of my life on the few hundreds a year which I could get if my capital were properly invested?”
“We don’t grant your premises26, Olivia,” said Mr. Fenmarch. “?‘The Towers’ may be old, but it is not dull. Medlow is not mouldering, but singularly progressive, and the place seems to—to pullulate with young men. So I think our advice to you is eminently27 reasonable.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Olivia. “That’s where all the trouble comes in. Our ideas of dullness, mouldering and pullu—what you call it; don’t correspond. Mother was very fond of a story of Sydney Smith. Perhaps she told you. He was walking one day with a friend through the slums and came across two women quarrelling across the street, through opposite windows. And Sydney Smith said: ‘They’ll never come to an agreement, because they are arguing from different premises.’?”
There was a silence.
“I’ll have a drop more whisky,” said Mr. Trivett.
“I think I see the point of the remark,” said Mr. Fenmarch greyly. “It was a play on the two meanings of the word.”
“That was what my mother gave me to understand,” said Olivia.
Then, after another spell of chill silence, she cried, her nerves on edge:
“Do let us come to the end of it!”
“We will,” said Mr. Trivett impressively. “But not before I’ve made a few remarks in protest, with Fenmarch as witness. I’m sorry there’s not another witness——”
“Oh, I’ll get one!” cried Olivia. “Myra—the faithful Myra.”
“Myra’s a servant, also a fool; and you’ve got her under your thumb,” said Mr. Trivett.
“Well, well,” said Olivia, “we’ll give Myra a miss. But I know what you’re going to say—and the kind heart that makes you say it.”
A touch of real tenderness crept into her fine dark eyes and almost softened Mr. Trivett. She looked so young, so slender, so immature28 in her simple mourning. Her soft black hair clustered over her forehead in a manner which he felt was inconsistent with a woman fighting her way alone in the world. She hadn’t a bit of colour in her cheeks; wanted feeding up, he thought. She was capable enough in her own sphere, the management of her house, the care of a bed-ridden mother, the appreciation29 of legal technicalities. Until she had got this bee in her bonnet30 he had admired her prodigiously31; though, with the reserve which every Englishman makes in his admiration32, he deplored33 the shrewdness of her tongue. But this idea of hers, to realize all her money in hard cash at the bank and go off into unknown perils34 was preposterous35. She was not fit for it. You could take her by the neck in one hand and by the waist in another and break her to bits. . . . He was a good, honest man with fatherly instincts developed by the possession of daughters of his own, strapping36 red-cheeked girls, who had stayed soberly at home until the right young man had come along and carried them off to modest homes of unimpeachable37 respectability. So when he met the tenderness in Olivia’s eyes he mitigated38 the asperities39 of his projected discourse40 and preached her a very human little sermon. While he spoke, Mr. Fenmarch nodded his unhumorous head and stroked the straggling grey hairs on his cheek. When he had ended, Mr. Fenmarch seconded, as it were, the resolution.
Then Olivia thanked them prettily41, promised to avoid extravagance, and, in case of difficulty, to come to them for advice. The final cheque was passed over, the final receipt signed across the penny stamp provided with such forethought, and Olivia Gale entered into uncontrolled possession of her fortune.
The men rose to take their leave. Olivia held the hand of the burly red-faced man who had been her father’s partner and looked up at him.
“I know, if you could have your way, you would give me a good hiding.”
He laughed grimly. “Not the least doubt of it.” Then he patted her roughly on the shoulder.
“And you, Mr. Fenmarch?”
He regarded her drearily42. “After a long experience in my profession, Olivia, I have come to one conclusion—clients are a mistake. Good-bye.”
Left alone, Olivia stood for a moment wondering whether, after all, the dusty lawyer had a jaded43 sense of humour. Then she turned and caught up the cheque and sketched44 a few triumphant45 dancing steps. Suddenly, holding it in her hand, she rushed out into the hall, where the men were putting on their overcoats.
“We’ve forgotten the most important thing, Mr. Trivett. You wrote me something about an offer for the house.”
“An enquiry—not an offer,” replied Mr. Trivett. “Yes. I forgot to mention it. A Major somebody. Wait——” He lugged46 out a fat pocket-book which he consulted. “That’s it. Major Olifant. Coming down here to-morrow to look over it. Appointment at twelve, if that suits you. Unfortunately, I’ve an engagement and can’t show him round. But I’ll send Perkins, if you like.”
“If the Major wants to eat me, he’ll eat up poor little Mr. Perkins, too,” said Olivia. “So don’t worry.”
She waited until Myra, the maid, had helped them into their overcoats and opened the front door. After final leavetakings, they were gone. Olivia put up her hands, one of them still holding the cheque, on Myra’s gaunt shoulders and shook her and laughed.
“I’ve beaten them at last. I knew I should. Now you and I are going to have the devil’s own time.”
“We’ll have, Miss Olivia,” said Myra, withdrawing like a wooden automaton47 from the embrace, “the time we’ll be deserving.”
Myra was long, lean, and angular, dressed precisely48 in parlourmaid’s black; but the absence of cap on her faultlessly neat iron grey hair and the black apron49 suggested a cross between the housekeeper50 and personal maid. She shared, with a cook and a vague, print-attired help, the whole service of the house. The fact of Myra had been one of the earliest implanted in the consciousness of Olivia’s awakening51 childhood. Myra was there, perdurable as father and mother, as Polly, the parrot, whose “Drat the child” of that morning was the same echo of Myra’s voice, as it was when, at the age of two, she began to interpret the bird’s articulate speech. And, as far as she could remember, Myra had always been the same. Age had not withered52 her, nor had custom staled her infinite invariability. She had been withered since the beginning of time, and she had been as unchanging in aspect and flavour as Olivia’s lifelong breakfast egg. Myra’s origins were hidden in mystery. A family legend declared her a foundling. She had come as a girl from Essex, recommended by a friend, long since dead, of Mrs. Gale. She never spoke of father, mother, sisters, and brothers; but every year, when she took her holiday, she was presumed to return to her native county. With that exception she seemed to have far less of a private life than the household cat. It never occurred to Olivia that she could possibly lead an independent existence. Her age was about forty-five.
“They think I’m either mad or immoral,” said Olivia. “Thank God, they’re not religious, or they’d be holding prayer meetings over me.”
“They might do worse,” replied Myra.
The girl laughed. “So you disapprove53, too, do you? Well, you’ll have to get over it.”
“I’ve got over many things—one more or less don’t matter. And if I were you, Miss, I wouldn’t stand in this draughty hall.”
“All that I’m thinking of,” said Olivia, in high good humour, “is that, with you as duenna, I shall look too respectable. No one will believe it possible for any one except an adventuress.”
“That’s what I gather you’re going to be,” said Myra. If she had put any sting into her words it would have been a retort. But no one knew what emotions guided Myra’s speech. With the same tonelessness she would have proclaimed the house to be on fire, or dinner to be ready, or the day to be fine.
“Well, if you don’t like the prospect54, Myra, you needn’t come,” said Olivia. “I’ll easily find something fluffy55 in short skirts and silk stockings to do for me.”
“We’re wasting gas, Miss,” said Myra, pulling the little chain of the bye-pass and thereby56 plunging57 the hall in darkness.
“Oh, bother you!” cried Olivia, stumbling into the passage and knocking against the parrot’s cage outside the dining-room door, and Polly shrieked58 out:
“Drat the child! Drat the child!”
Before entering the dining-room she aimed a Parthian shot at Myra.
“I suppose you agree with the little beast. Well, the two of you’ll have to look after each other, and I wish you joy.”
She cleared the dining-room table of the tea things and the whisky and glasses and the superfluous59 papers, and opened the window to let out the smell of Mr. Trivett’s strong cigar, and crossed the passage to the drawing-room opposite, where a small fire was still burning. And there, in spite of the exultation60 of her triumph over Mr. Trivett and Mr. Fenmarch, she suddenly felt very dreadfully alone; also just a whit61 frightened. The precious cheque, symbol of independence, which she had taken up, laid down, taken up again, during her little household duties, fell to the ground as she lay in the arm-chair by the fireside.
Was her victory, and all it implied, that of a reasonable being and a decent girl, or that of a little fool and a hussy?
Perhaps the mother whom she worshipped and to whom she had devotedly62 sacrificed the last four years of her young life was the inspiration of her revolt. For her mother had been a highly bred woman, of a proud old Anglo-Indian family, all Generals and Colonels and Sirs and Ladies, whose names had been involved in the history of British India for generations; and when she threw the Anglo-Indian family halo over the windmills and married young Stephen Gale, who used to stand in the market-place of Medlow and bawl63 out the bidding for pigs and sheep, the family turned her down with the Anglo-Indian thoroughness that had compelled her mother to lose her life in a plague-stricken district and her father to lose his on the North-West Frontier. The family argument was simple. When you—or everything mattering that means you—have ruled provinces and commanded armies and been Sahibs from the beginning of Anglo-Indian time, you can’t go and marry a man who sells pigs at auction9, and remain alive. None of the family deigned64 to gauge65 the personal value of the pig-seller. The Anglo-Brahmin lost caste. It is true that, afterwards, patronizing efforts were made by Brahminical uncles and aunts and cousins to bridge over the impassable gulf66; but Mrs. Gale, very much in love with her pig-selling husband, snapped her fingers at them and told them, in individually opposite terms, to go hang.
It was a love match right enough. And a love match it remained to the very end of all things; after she had borne him two sons and a daughter; all through the young lives of the children; up to the day when the telegram came announcing the death of their elder son—the younger had been killed in the curious world accident a month or so before—and Stephen Gale stood by her bedside—she had even then succumbed67 to her incurable68 malady—and said, shaken with an emotion to which one does not refer nowadays:
“Mary, my dear, what am I to do?”
And she, the blood in her speaking—the blood that had given itself at Agra, Lucknow, Khandahar, Chitral—replied:
“Go, dear.”
Olivia, sitting by, gripped her young hands in mingled69 horror and grief and passionate70 wonder. And Stephen Gale, just fifty, went out to avenge71 his sons and do what was right in his wife’s eyes—for his wife was his country incarnate72, her voice, being England’s voice. A love match it was and a love match it remained while he stuck it for two or three years—an elderly man at an inglorious Base, until he died of pneumonia—over there.
Mrs. Gale had lingered for a year, and, close as their relations had been all Olivia’s life, they grew infinitely73 closer during this period of bereavement74. It was only then that the mother gave delicate expression to the nostalgia75 of half a lifetime, the longing76 for her own kind, and the ways and thoughts and imponderable principles of her own caste. And, imperceptibly, Olivia’s eyes were opened to the essential differences between her mother and the social circle into which she had married. Olivia, ever since her shrewd child’s mind began to appreciate values, knew perfectly77 well that the Trivetts and the Gales78 were not accounted as gentlefolk in the town. She early became aware of the socially divided line across which she could not pass so as to enter Blair Park, the high-class girls’ school on the hill, but narrowed her to Landsdowne House, where the daughters of the tradespeople received their education. And when the two crocodiles happened to pass each other on country walks she hated the smug, stuckup Blair Park girls with their pretty blue and white ribbons round their straw hats, and hated her red ribbon with “LH” embroidered79 on it, as a badge of servitude. When she grew up she accepted countless80 other social facts as immutable81 conditions of existence. Mortals were divided by her unquestioning father into three categories—“the swells,” “homely82 folk like ourselves,” and “common people.” So long as each member of the three sections knew his place and respected it, the world was as comfortable a planet as sentient83 being could desire. That was one factor in his worship of his wife: she had stepped from her higher plane to his and had loyally, unmurmuringly identified herself with it. He had never a notion, good man, of the shocks, the inner wounds, the instinctive84 revolts, the longings85 that she hid behind her loving eyes. Nor had Olivia; although as a schoolgirl she knew and felt proud that her mother really belonged to Blair Park and not to Landsdowne House. As she grew up, she realized her mother’s refining influence, and, as far as young blood would allow, used her as a model of speech and manner. And during the long invalid86 years, when she read aloud and discussed a wide range of literature, she received unconsciously a sensitive education. But it was only in this last poignant87 intimacy88, when they were left starkly89 alone together, that she sounded the depths of the loyal, loving, and yet strangely suffering woman.
“I remember once, long ago, when you were a mite90 of five,” Mrs. Gale had said in a memorable91 confidence, “we were staying at a hotel in Eastbourne, and I got into conversation on the verandah with a Colonel somebody—I forget his name—with whom we had spoken several times before—one of those spare brown, blue-eyed men, all leather and taut92 string, that wear their clothes like uniform. You see, I was born and bred among them, dear. And we talked and we talked and I didn’t know how the time flew, and I missed an appointment with your father in the town. And he came and found us together—and he was very angry. It was the only time in our lives he said an unkind word to me. It was the only time I gave him any sort of cause for jealousy93. But he really hadn’t. It was only just the joy of talking to a gentleman again. And I couldn’t tell him. It would have broken his dear heart.”
This was the first flashlight across her mother’s soul, and in its illumination vanished many obscure and haunting perplexities of her girlhood. Had Mrs. Gale lived the normal life of women, surrounded by those that loved her, she would doubtless have gone to her grave without revealing her inner self to living mortal. But infinite sorrow and the weakness engendered94 by constant physical pain had transformed her into a spirituality just breathing the breath of life and regarding her daughter less as a woman than as a kindred essence from whom no secrets could be hid. At her bedside Olivia thus learned the mystery of birth and life and death. Chiefly the mystery of life, which appealed more to her ardent95 maidenhood96.
So when at last her mother faded out of existence and Olivia’s vigil was over, she faced a world of changing values with a new set of values of her own. She could not formulate97 them; but she was acutely conscious that they were different from those of the good, honest Mr. Trivett and the dull and honourable Mr. Fenmarch, and that to all the social circle which these two represented they would be unintelligible98. In a way, she found herself possessed99 of a new calculus100 in which she trusted to solve the problems which defied the simple arithmetic of the homely folk of Medlow.
All these memories and vague certainties passed through the girl’s mind as she sat before the fire in self-examination after her victory, and conflicted with the prosaic101 and indicatively common-sense arguments of her late advisers102. She knew that father and brothers, all beloved and revered103, would have been staunchly on the side of the Trivetts. On the other hand, her mother, as she had said to her husband on the edge of a far, far greater adventure, would have said: “Go, dear.” Of that she had no doubt. . . . Yet it meant cutting herself adrift from Medlow and all its ways and all its associations. It meant a definite struggle to raise herself from her father’s second social category to the first. It meant, therefore, justifying104 herself against odious105 insinuations on the part of her scant106 acquaintance.
And then the youth in her rose insistent107. During all these years of stress and fever which had marked her development from child into woman she had done nothing but remain immured108 within the walls familiar from her babyhood. Other girls had gone afar, in strange independence, to vivid scenes, to unforgettable adventures, in the service of their country, in the service of mankind—just as her brothers and father had gone—and she had stayed there, ineradicable, in that one little tiny spot. The sick-room, the kitchen, the shops in Old Street, where, in defiance109 of Food Controller, she had fought for cream and butter and eggs and English meat so that her mother could live; the sick-room again, the simple white and green bedroom which meant to her little more than the sleep of exhaustion110; the sick-room once more, with its pathos111 of spiritual love and physical repulsion—such had been the iron environment of her life. Sorrow after sorrow, and mourning after mourning had come, and the little gaieties of the “homely folk” of her father’s definition had gone on without her participation112. And her girl friends of Landsdowne House had either married rising young tradesmen in distant towns, or had found some further scope for their energies at the end of the Great Adventure and were far away. In the meanwhile other homely folk whom she did not know had poured into the town. All kinds of people seemed to be settling there, anyhow, without rhyme or reason. It was only when there was not a house to be rented in the neighbourhood that she understood why.
“You have a comfortable home of your own. Why, on earth, don’t you stay in it?” Mr. Trivett had asked.
But she had stayed in it, alone, for the three months since her mother’s death, waiting on the law’s delays; and those three months had been foretaste enough of the dreary113 infinite years that would lie before her, should she remain. She was too young, too full of sap, to face the blight114 of sunlessness. She longed for the sights and the sounds and the freedom of the great world. What she would do when she got into it, she did not exactly know. Possibly she might meet a fairy prince. If such a speculation115 was that of a hussy, why then, she argued, all women are hussies from birth. As for being a fool for defying advice on the proper investment of her money—well, perhaps she was not quite such a fool as Mr. Trivett imagined. If she did not spend her capital, it would be just as safe lying on deposit at the bank as invested in stocks and shares; safer, for she had lately had wearisome experience of the depreciation116 of securities. She would not be senselessly extravagant117; in fact, with the sanguineness118 of youth she hoped to be able to live on the interest on her deposit and the rent of the furnished house. But behind her, definite, tangible119, uninfluenced by Stock Exchange fluctuations120, would be her fortune. And then—a contingency121 which she did not put before Mr. Trivett and Mr. Fenmarch, for a woman seldom discloses her main argument to a male adversary—there might come a glorious moment in some now unconjecturable adventure when it might be essential for her to draw cheques for dazzling sums which she could put in her pocket and go over mysterious hills and far away. She stood on the edge of her dull tableland and gazed wide-eyed at the rolling Land of Romance veiled by gold and purple mist. And in that Land, from immemorial time, people carried their money in bags, into which they dipped their hands, as occasion required, and cast the unmeaning counters at the feet of poverty or into the lap of greed.
When she sat down to her solitary122 supper, she had decided123 that she was neither hussy nor fool. She held baffling discourse with Myra, who could not be enticed124 into enthusiasm over the immediate125 future. Teasing Myra had been her joy from infancy126. She sketched their career—that of female Don Quixote and Sancho Panza—that of knights127 of old in quest of glorious adventure. She quoted, mock heroically:
“The ride abroad redressing129 human wrong.”
“Better redress128 the young London women which I see the pictures of in the illustrated130 papers,” said Myra.
“I’m sure of it,” said Myra, with an expressionless face. “Anyways, you’re not going to buy one of them things when you get to London.”
“I am,” replied Olivia. “And you’ll have to help me put it on.”
“You can’t help folks put on nothing,” said Myra.
“What do you think you’ll do when you’re really shocked?” asked Olivia.
“I never think what I’ll do,” replied Myra. “It’s waste of time.”
Olivia enjoyed her supper.
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1
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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3
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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4
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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5
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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6
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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7
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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8
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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9
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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10
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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11
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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12
reconstruction
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| n.重建，再现，复原 | |
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13
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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14
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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17
plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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20
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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21
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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22
offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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23
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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24
repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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25
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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26
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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27
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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28
immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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29
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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30
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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31
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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32
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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33
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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35
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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36
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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37
unimpeachable
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| adj.无可指责的；adv.无可怀疑地 | |
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38
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
asperities
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| n.粗暴( asperity的名词复数 )；（表面的）粗糙；（环境的）艰苦；严寒的天气 | |
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40
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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41
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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42
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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43
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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44
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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46
lugged
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| vt.用力拖拉（lug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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47
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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48
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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49
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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50
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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51
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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52
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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53
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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54
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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55
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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56
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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57
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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58
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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60
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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61
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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62
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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63
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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64
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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66
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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67
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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68
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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69
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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70
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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71
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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72
incarnate
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| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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73
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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74
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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75
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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76
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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77
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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78
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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79
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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80
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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81
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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82
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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83
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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84
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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85
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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86
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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87
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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88
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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89
starkly
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| adj. 变硬了的,完全的 adv. 完全,实在,简直 | |
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90
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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91
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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92
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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93
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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94
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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96
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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97
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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98
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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99
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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100
calculus
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| n.微积分；结石 | |
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101
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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102
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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103
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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105
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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106
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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107
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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108
immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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110
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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111
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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112
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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113
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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114
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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115
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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116
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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117
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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118
sanguineness
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119
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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120
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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121
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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122
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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123
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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124
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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126
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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127
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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128
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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129
redressing
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| v.改正( redress的现在分词 )；重加权衡；恢复平衡 | |
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130
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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131
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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