Across a certain one of the windows in that street for a long time had hung from a line, as from the belt of a savage9, tails of hair—black, brown, blond. Below these, two featureless wax faces presented their sallow blankness to the passer, one wreathed with yellow curls, the other capped with brown waves of a regular pattern. Ordered around the twin turned-ebony stands were hairpins10, sticks of cosmetic11 wrapped in silver paper, slabs12 of chalk laid on pink cotton, china pots with pictures of flowers or beauties and pleasing inscriptions13 in French, fuzzy white balls[61] of down, combs, gilt-brass ornaments14, kid-capped phials containing amber15 and ruby16 liquids. On the inside of the heavy shutter17, caught back against the street-wall by day, was pasted a large print. This told you in what a prodigious18 way Madame Finibald's Gold Elixir19 would make your hair grow, and showed you the picture of a lady who doubtless had used it—her hair was extraordinary, it nearly reached to her feet.
Perhaps it had been found that the neighborhood was become hardened to the sight of the luxuriant pictured hair; perhaps some who had provided themselves with the small copy of it, to be obtained inside on a bottle full of brown stuff, had grown inclined to treat of it lightly: "Ah, Madame Finibald!" perhaps one irritated customer had said to the old proprietress, coming to have made clear to her why after three bottles of Gold Elixir her locks were still not thick, still not glossy20 and splendid as the announcement promised they should be, "it's easy to cork21 up herb tea. It's easy to make hair long in a picture, and it's easy to make it thick. I[62] don't believe there ever was any such person as that young woman on the label!" One morning saw a change in Madame Finibald's window. All the accustomed things were crowded to the sides to make room for a chair; on this sat a girl with brown-gold hair that reached in very truth to the floor.
On every morning and every afternoon, through a long winter, first one end and then the other of the little street was crossed by a youth who kept to the larger thoroughfares with the stream. He carried books; he went rapidly, granting small attention to the things he passed. It is not from that to be supposed that he was profoundly thinking. His face, agreeable in feature and color, was rather wanting in expression; no more interesting than it was interested. He passed at precisely22 the same hour every morning, and the time of his passing in the afternoon varied23 but little. This, from October unto April. But when April set its gold stamp on the weather, had there been any wise person observing this well—constructed blond machine, applauding its regularity24, holding[63] it up perhaps as an example to other young frequenters of schools and lecture-rooms—that wise person would have been troubled, he would have had misgivings25, he would have been at last full of grief.
A change had come over the young man's mood. His eye was acquiring a roving habit. If his step had before been bent26 on duty, it was now less directly bent; if before he had been on time at his appointments, he must now have been always more or less late. He walked leisurely27, swinging his books by a strap28. He loitered before shop-windows, he turned to look after a face. The sky smiled down between the rows of buildings on the occasion of the first balmy day; little clouds floated in it, shimmering29 like dissolving pearls. He returned the soft sky's compliment; he looked up at it, the winter sternness melting from his eyes. At every street corner he was seen to stop, foolishly smiling upward; and, yes, positively30, he was seen there, forgetful of all the people, to sigh and stretch! On that very day he lost three books out of his strap, and did not for some[64] time notice it; when he did, he cared nothing! From a scrawl31 on the fly-leaf the finder of these books learned their rightful owner to be of the house of Fraisier.
He had come hundreds of miles from an obscure town to study in this great city; he had been a serious, mechanical plodder32 for months, feeling that he owed it to himself and to his distant family to fill his head full, full with precious notions. He had formed no friendships with his fellow-students, fearing that they would divert him, or perhaps, fearing the young fellows themselves, among whom he felt singularly green. He lived alone in one little room at the end of the world, took no holidays, had no fun, went to bed early so as to be fresh for his book in the morning. And now, suddenly, he had completely lost the point of view from which it had seemed necessary that he should get dizzily high marks, that he should conquer field after field in the realm of learning, and return to his home exuding33 glory. He could not persuade himself any more but that it befitted him perfectly34 to spend many hours[65] strolling through the streets with his hands in his pockets, amusing his eyes with sights of every sort. He could find no argument that satisfied him why he should not lounge on a garden seat warm with sun, smoking cigarettes half the day, thinking nothing profitable. The wretched boy had lost all sober sense of the duty of man.
If he had limited himself to sitting idle in the garden, watching the year develop in that narrow, charming enclosure, one might have found an excuse for him, the same as for the scientist who studies a specimen35 under a glass; or, one might have said he had been overworking, his new circumstances on coming to the city had induced in him a false sort of fervor36 for work—a reaction was to be expected. But the mood whose first stage had been simple disinclination for study and a taste for pointless wanderings, by the time that in the march of the year the crocuses had gone, took on developments. It was not so often before a many-colored flower-bed he stopped, as before a window full of hats and bonnets37.
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If, again, he had limited himself to staring in at milliners' fronts! The wares38 there do somewhat resemble fantastic flowers, and might explain the interest of a botanist39. But he halted in the same way before shops that offered no excuse for the same attention; windows in which were only idle feminine frocks displayed, flippant fans, frills of fluted40 lace, feathery things for the neck.
One might have imagined from his wonder and interest that all these things had just been invented, that they were a strange spring-crop; that new, too, was the race of smiling, chatting, shopping beings crowding the street on sunny days, new and in fashion only since this spring, such unaccustomed pleasure spoke42 in his eye that shyly followed them in their prettiest representatives. What exquisite43 sense shown, O ever-young Creator, in making the lip red, and the neck white, and the temperate44 cheek between white and red!
The boy had moments of being drunk in a glorified45 way even as is the innocent bee, with nothing but wandering among flowers.[67] Owing to a confusion in the ideas attendant on that mysterious soft travailing among the atoms of the heart warmed through by spring, all sorts of things to him were as flowers! His imagination was so increased in power, that with nothing but a pair of little shoes in a show-case to start from he could build up the most astonishing, dreamy stories: he could set feet in the shoes and rear a palatial46 flesh-and-blood structure over them, as easy as sigh; fit the whole with graces, laces, circumstances and adventures—contrive even to tangle47 its fate pleasingly with his own.
Which may make supposed that he was a youth of some boldness. Far from it. He scarcely knew what a woman's eyes were like, except in profile or fugitive48 three-quarters; on the other hand, he was well acquainted with her back hair. Hair, in which he could pursue long studies unconfounded, seemed to him the most beautiful thing in all the world.
One day, with a view to lengthening49 the way by taking a road that though shorter must from novelty be richer in diversion than[68] his daily track, he turned into the little street that cut off the triangle of the A. He paused before the window of the worn watches and sleeve-links; he took his time over the faded finery of the second-hand50 clothes shop; he examined certain yellowed wood-cuts and stained books he found in a narrow open stall. As he seemed coming to the end of the street's resources, he looked over the way and thoughtfully felt his cheek: he could not find there what would have justified51 a refreshing52 station at the barber's. He continued his way slowly, to make it last. Now, he stopped where several others were likewise stopping—he had come to Madame Finibald's.
The girl sat amid her hair, either unconscious or disdainful of the eyes watching her beyond the glass. She looked in a book open on her lap; now and then she turned over a leaf, sometimes revealing a picture on the page. Her chair was low, perhaps so that her hair should amply trail; its lowness made an excuse for the listlessness of her posture53; her feet were outstretched and[69] crossed, the passers might know that one of her shoes was laced with pink twine54. If she moved her eyes from her book a moment, it was only to sweep them past the faces, unseeing, and lift them to the strip of sky between the houses—so blue this day, the little bit there was of it.
Her face one scarcely noticed for the first moment more than any rosy55 apple; for oh! her hair!—her hair claimed all the attention a man had to give, did her shining hair falling stately along her cheeks, all over her shoulders, below her waist, beyond her garment—richer, of course, than any possible queen's cloak. The light rippled56 over it, changing on it all the time, when nothing else in the window appeared to live.
Within the shadow of the shop was discerned a watchful57, wrinkled old face, chiefly differing from a parrot's in the slyness of its eyes. Fraisier catching58 sight of it thought of a witch on guard over a princess enchanted59 and imprisoned60 in a glass-case.
The little group in front of Madame Finibald's dispersed61, formed anew with other[70] faces many times in the hour; Fraisier remained, his eyes climbing up, sliding down the golden ropes of hair.
At last, though the girl gave no sign, he was made uncomfortable by the sense that she must, even without looking, have seen how long he stood. He inquired timidly of her face. It was informed with a gentle brazenness62, fortified63 to be stared at all the day. Yet there was a suggestion of childishness in its abstracted expression; she wore the sort of look one has seen on the face of a little girl playing at being somebody else far more splendid than herself. A close observer might have suspected that she really thought it rather grand to sit there in the gorgeousness of her hair, and was amused with pretending not to know that a soul looked on.
Fraisier, because her eyes were lowered, found hardihood to stare his fill at her face. He surrendered without struggle before the round cheeks, the short little nose, the good-natured mouth and chin, which, in truth, took more than their just space in the face. But[71] most—oh, still most! delighted him the brown-gold hair that tumbled over her forehead and ears in little curls.
He was realizing from the mutterings of what was left him of a conscience how late it must be getting—he must be taking himself off; he was making long the one minute more he allowed himself, when her pupils slid between the lashes64 in his direction. He had lost all presence of mind, he could not withdraw his glance. After a second's pause upon his, her eyes slid back to her book and were hidden. Then, without another thought towards duty, he crossed the street to the barber's, from whose window he could see Madame Finibald's; and, coming forth65 with a smoother face than the rose, entered the little eating-shop next door, from which likewise he could command Madame Finibald's.
He went through the little street every day. He took many atrocious meals in the shop, on the table nearest the window.
On such days as brought perfect weather, the girl in Madame Finibald's would turn very often to the sky a look easily inter[72]preted as longing66. Then would Fraisier look up too and sigh. It seemed such a pity, this wasted blue weather.
It seemed such a pity, all this wasted sweetness, he thought in crossing a public garden on his occasional unwilling67 way to a lecture. The quince-tree blossomed in red; under the cherry were little drifts of scented68 snow; up out of the vigorous, rested earth were flowers springing in mad, gay multitudes. The air was silver made air in the morning; and in the afternoon it was gold made air. Birds, busily building, busily twittered. These things did nothing to him, but the more they were lovely and penetrated69 the heart, the more to make him lonesome.
He took himself away from their radiance without one regret for them, to spend his time in preference in an ugly little street where one could scarcely have known what season it was, where there was nothing to see that was beautiful but certain long, long hair. In thought, though, let it be said in vindication70 of spring's power of enthralling71, having done up the hair in braids, and extinguished[73] it with a hat, he was always, always guiding it to the contemned72 garden. When once it was in the garden, May there had become perfect.
He wondered whether it could be she had become aware of his persistent73 presence. He feared she had, and as often that she had not. He imagined sometimes that when he looked her face was quivering with a conquered desire to smile. That disconcerted him a shade. Sometimes he thought she looked suspiciously rosy for a girl unconscious of all the world. Sometimes he looked away, with the idea that if he turned suddenly he should find her stealing a glance at him. But he dared not look very quickly, lest the action should be too marked; and turning with discreet74 alacrity75, he could never feel sure.
One day, at last, having settled in his mind that this tame conduct was unworthy of a man, refusing himself a second in which to think better of any matter, he crossed the street and charged the shop. A bell snapped sharply as he opened the door. It startled him to the point of gasping76. He grew[74] crimson77, finding himself opposed in truth, as many a night before in dream, by Madame Finibald's sly and lowly smile, breathing the same faintly drug-perfumed air as the princess breathed, no glass screen between himself and the hair. He could have touched it, had he been so bold.
He stammered79 a request for soap—scented soap. He wished himself tens of ten miles away, or time out of mind dead, when—wonderful! The maiden80 in the window looked frankly81 over her shoulder. Was it that her eyes brimmed with friendly laughter, or did it seem so to him because his head had become incapable82 of a true notion? His heart, so to speak, found its feet; he made a muddle83 of every sentence he launched upon, but his words had a voice behind them. So much he contrived84 to convey: he was very hard to please in the matter of soap. He sniffed85 at a variety of proffered86 tablets, whose virtues87 Madame Finibald, in very truth like a witch with a philter to sell, assiduously set forth; each cake he examined seemed to hold in her estimation just a little higher[75] place than the foregoing. At the end of ten minutes, without positively losing her good-humor, she declared that he had seen all in the shop, she was sorry and surprised they could not suit him, they might have a fresh stock in on the morrow. He was leaving in clumsy embarrassment88, empty handed, with a promise to return, when the princess lightly jumped from the window-place, and, sweeping89 the hair off her face, said: "There is one more sort, ma'am. I saw it up there, high, when I dusted. Let me get it."
She fetched the steps, and in a moment had climbed and lifted down a box. She set it on the counter; she opened it herself and held towards him, with a direct glance, a packet with a red rose printed on the wrapper.
Madame Finibald, with an exclamation90, snatched it from the girl's hand, and began, as if here had been a little grandchild recovered to her old age, to speak with tenderness of its merits. The girl stood near, twining and untwining a lock around her finger, while she unaffectedly looked at the cus[76]tomer. Her hair came below her knees; every moment she had to toss it back out of her face.
"Go back to your window, wicked child!" cried the old witch, suddenly, as if catching at a piece of gold as it was being taken out of her pocket. "Go back!"
"I am tired of sitting!" said the little princess, twisting her shoulders in her frock with the prettiest peevishness91. "I have sat and sat and sat! I have finished my story. Let me go out and get a bun. You know you said I could when it was noon."
She caught at her hair, and, to the infinite wonder of one looking on, began twisting, twisting, twisting, coiling, coiling, coiling, driving in great skewers—while he filled his blissful pockets with rose-scented soap.
The bell snapped in fretful reprehension92 for her passing out. Less than a minute after, it exclaimed in annoyed surprise for his.
Now was he no longer made lonesome by every coquettish touch the more that the year put to her toilet. For the girl of the[77] regal hair smiled to him, surreptitiously with her lips, but unguardedly with her eyes, when he came by her glass-case; while he dawdled93 in the window opposite, she communicated with him by signs no other eye could have perceived. Even before their acquaintance had become very old, she slipped out to walk in the garden, and they sat on the green seats and had long, foolish, youthful talks—delightful, foolish, youthful times.
Her conversation took an amusing interest from the peculiarities95 of her education. She had seen and heard much in her short life in a hard world, where it was no one's affair to keep anything from her young ken—much of dark, and petty, and unpicturesque—preserving through all a sort of hardy96 innocence97; and she had borrowed from a cheap circulating library a vast lot of fiction dealing98 with the supremely99 grand. Her preference in literature, however, had remained for fairy tales, a taste formed when it had been one of her duties to read aloud to certain little children of the rich. She knew them by the score. It was to this, perhaps, some of her[78] remarks owed the fanciful touch that redeemed100 them from the commonness of her general conversation—a genial101 commonness, condoned102 to such young lips. She had a childish way of lending a personality to everything, that amused him more than epigram would have done. She ascribed intention to the wind that blew off her hat, and stopped to express her mind to it. She assumed consciousness in the bench they sat on; she wanted to take the same one, lest it should think they slighted it because it was rickety, for which it was not to blame. Every flower was to her a person. "Hush103! They are listening!" she said, looking from the corner of her eye at a bank of knowing pansies. She scolded a button for coming off, as if the want of principle shown by it had been a thing to revolt her. She stood in a one-sided relation of good-fellowship with the brown birds hopping41 among the gravel104, and the fishes in the pond; she spared them many crumbs105. With homely106 good-heartedness she took into an amused regard all the family of spring—[79]buds, blades, insects—addressing speech to them as if she had been a giant and they a very little people.
Never can spring return without Fraisier's remembering that spring. It was bright; by it all the springs following have been cast in the shadow.
The long hair was woven through and through his thoughts; but not as a disturbing, upheaving element. The girl made him waste a great deal of time, but nothing else—not the life of his heart. Because of her good-nature, her entire want of coquetry or perverseness107, his feeling for her complicated itself in nowise; rather it grew simpler as it insensibly changed. His wonder and fine dread108 at feminine appurtenances had worn away a little with increased familiarity; he reposed109 on that fact as if it had been such an one as becoming accustomed to the noise of guns. He felt under delicate obligations to her for having routed his shyness, and not at all tormented110 him in any of the thousand ways he apprehended111 a feminine being would have at her command.
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As he was less and less in awe112 of her and that suspected arsenal113, though a charming, fearful element went out of his sentiment, his affection perhaps grew more. She made such a good little comrade! Insidiously114, she connected herself in his mind with future days—she who cared only for the day and the pleasure thereof. When he spoke of a thing it would be pleasant to do, a place pleasant to visit, he said, always unreflectingly, yet from a sincere heart: "Some day we must go there. Let us do such a thing some time." When he described the hills and ponds of home, he said what they might have done had she been there last summer or the years before, how they might have rowed and rambled115. He painted the good time they might have together, in some not impossible, but not specified116 time, place, and circumstances.
So the green from tender grew brilliant—grew deep—became void of interest to the accustomed eye, and more or less dust settled over it. It was manifest to all that spring was past.
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Then began an anxious time. Those lectures, those miserable117 lectures! Those courses, those wretched courses, which he had neglected! That blessed information he had spared to cull118 when the time was for it! These things seemed likely to get their revenge. When he awoke to a sense of his danger—very late! only when the bloom was off the year, when lily and early rose had gone where they could divert no mortal more—he could not believe that he should not, by fitting exertion119, catch up in time at the appointed goal. He worked rabidly, with a wet cloth around his head. He thought not of girls in those days, I promise you; he recked not of bronze-gold hair!
It was written that he should not be saved. He closed his school term pitiably conditioned.
When the worst was known, at least was time to breathe, however sore the lungs, then his mind reverted121 to her. He had been man enough to harbor no spite towards her, accuse her of nothing. He sent her a message and waited at the appointed place,[82] wondering a little, while he waited, at his follies122 of the spring. They seemed so unnecessary, looked back upon now. Why, in a very real, practical world like this one, where a man's failure to pass his exams was sure to call forth from his progenitor123 letters such as his pocket at this moment contained, conduct one's self as if existing in a world of lambs and purling streams and shepherdesses? He was one with the actual world in looking with astonishment124 and condemnation125 upon his own works. The sky above was hard, barren blue; it seemed so easy, looking back, to have stuck to the approved road. What had possessed126 him?
Then she appeared. At sight of her his heart dropped its armor. She brought back a whiff of the sweetness of a past atmosphere. Was it possible he had ever been the happy boy he seemed to remember! He smiled up in her face with cheek-muscles stiffened127 by disuse, and eyes ringed with studious shadows. She had on a flimsy frock, printed all over with little flowers that seemed to him to smell good; her hair, where the great wad[83] projected beyond the straw brim, was touched with a warm, peculiar94 glory. He had meant to keep himself well hardened against her, tell her the various things necessary in a matter-of-fact way, and bid her good-bye indefinitely. He felt more like crying with his disgraced head in her lap.
He conquered his weakness.... A pretty man he made!
He got out with sufficient composure and dignity what he had to say. He told her all that had happened, the change it made in the coming months. He was not going home for the holidays; he could not endure to see the folks. He was going into the country to spend the summer in hard study, to make sure of "passing" next term. He was going to the particular place he mentioned because he had a friend there, a fellow he had taken up with in the last weeks, one that had had the same bad luck as himself. This man's family lived there; it would not be quite so dreary128 as being alone.
She chaffed and consoled him in turns. Now that the world had gone all wrong with[84] him, her eyes seemed to him sweeter and softer than he had ever observed. What a good, kind little friend! Lord! what a good, crazy, light-hearted time they had had, and how pretty she looked to-day! What wonderful, thrice wonderful hair it was, waving and ringletting about her glowing summer face, coiling massively on the back of her head! No woman on earth had such hair!
He did wish for a moment that Green, his new friend, might see her—he was proud of her. One night, when they had sat grinding together for mutual129 assistance, the oil giving out, Green had told him of a cousin of his. Fraisier had said nothing of any girl. He only wished that Green might see the hair of this girl whose name he had foreborne to speak.
Good-bye, Minnie! He should be working like a slave all through the burning golden days—let her think of him a little. He should be very lonesome. When he had studied until his eyes smarted and his head swam, there would be nothing pleasant to do, no one pleasant to talk with—she might[85] spare a moment to be sorry for him now and then. He should be back in the fall. Bless the beautiful and beautiful and beautiful hair! Good-bye, Minnie!
She so little perished from his mind after their parting that whenever—as Green and he lay under the trees, withdrawn130 from the world and devoted131 to arduous132 studies, keeping off the insects by smoke—Green began talking about that cousin of his, Fraisier became half sick with reminiscence. He could not resist replying by talking—with the finest, shyest reverence133 always—of Minnie. There was a dreamy solace134 in talking of her to some one. She described so well, too; so unusually. He had a proud secret assurance that as an incident in a man's life she altogether eclipsed a cousin in interest.
"How long is your cousin's hair?" he asked, with assumed casualness, once. Green stared a little, and confessed not having the slightest idea. Fraisier opened his arms as wide as they could go, and said, vaguely135 blushing, "The young lady I spoke of has hair as long as this!"
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"Come! I should like to see it!" spoke Green, in such a tone that Fraisier turned a deep, vexed136 red.
He said nothing, but on the next day took his books to a different place, choosing to keep to himself so long as Green did not seek him with a suitable apology.
The spot selected by the young men as a meeting ground lay at an equal distance between Green's home and the cottage in which Fraisier had taken up his summer quarters. It was on the skirts of a wood, and, by some accident of the land, often cool when other places were hot. The rolling pasture it commanded was dotted with scrubby evergreens137, and crossed by a small brook138 the cow's hoofs139 had in some places trodden broad and shallow. It was colored in patches with the frequent pink of clover-heads, surprised here and there with the white of a long-necked, belated daisy.
Fraisier took himself to a spot just not so far from the usual haunt but that Green when he came might see him.
It was a fair, soft, simmering morning,[87] promising140 a scorching141 day. He stretched himself under the trees and lighted a pipe—he had taken to a pipe in place of cigarettes since coming into the wilderness142. He composed himself for a serious forenoon's work, deciding that it was much more profitable, after all, to study alone—Green was always digressing.
The spot he had chosen was not so good, it proved, as the one he had left clear for Green. A path ran through the woods, just within the trees; there was a frequent patter of bare feet on the dust, children with pails passed looking for things. He waited to proceed with his theorem till their high piping, scattered143 voices had died away. It was not so cool, either; as a fact, it was hotter than most places. He did not crave144 the exertion of seeking a better; this was at least shady. He turned over on his back and closed his eyes, yielding gracefully145 to the force of circumstances.
A light blow in the face, from an acorn146, perhaps, roused him. He thought of Green, and, instantly broad awake, looked for the development of some practical joke.
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It was not Green—he saw it with a sort of disappointment. It was one of the berry-seeking children that had caught sight of him snoozing, and followed its natural instinct. A boy's grinning head was seen bobbing above one of the neighboring bushes. He turned from it in disgust and felt surlily about the grass for his pipe, about his person for a match—
Gracious powers! what sort did the young one take him for, with this free persecution147? Another acorn had hit him smartly on the head.
"Look out, there!" he called, making a feint of rising to give chase.
"Come on!" shouted the boy, gayly, from behind the bush. There was a burst of laughter, a flash and flutter of pink, and the boy, who turned out to be a girl, came precipitately148 towards him. She stopped just short of a collision, and dropped in the grass panting with laughter. He stared at her blankly. Every time she looked up and caught sight of his expression she doubled herself and fairly writhed149.
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"Minnie! My God! What—what have you done to yourself?" he exclaimed, and had no breath left.
She moderated her laughter, and presented her smiling face a moment for him to see well what had happened. She ran her fingers over her cropped head, ruffling151 it absurdly, making the short locks stand on end.
"Isn't it funny? Doesn't a person look funny at first? The rest of it is hanging, like a fairy horse's tail, in the window, across the picture of the Elixir lady. (Bad old woman! Cheat! She didn't give me much for it! But, Natty152 Fraisier, I would have taken even less, I did want to come so!) You poor, lonesome boy! I can stay a whole week—perhaps more. I have found a place in the village, just near you. The first child I met told me all I wanted to know. I thought it would have been harder. Mercy! isn't it heavenly still and sweet here, with hills and cows? I was never in the true[90] country before. Mercy! isn't it good? Look out, you flower there—over there, you, miss! That is called a bee; he has a terrible stinger—oh, he is an old acquaintance? Go ahead, then, and give him a nice swing, and honey for his tea. Oh, Natty, I am so glad! Aren't you glad?"
He choked and cleared his throat. No, without that voice, never in the world would he have known her. Before him seemed to be a common little street-boy who had run off in a girl's new pink dress and shiny shoes—an unknown boy whose features had something painfully familiar. Strange! He remembered Minnie's face as possessing a certain harmony in its lines, however childish and trivial they were; this terrible little impostor, though not ill favored, was broad of jaw153 and narrow of forehead; his eyes even were not the same, but smaller and nearer together, while the mouth was larger—its very proneness154 to laughter increased its commonness. And that ridiculous hair—literally chopped off by an unskilled hand and twisted here and there with unpractised tongs155! It[91] was so thick, it had no more light or lustre156 than a hearth-brush.
Her face sobered ever so little as she looked at him. "What is the matter? Poor dear! you haven't got over those exams. But I won't bother, you know, and take up all your time; I have learned better. I won't interfere157 with any work, I promise, Natty. See me swear? On this algebra158! Only, before you begin and when you have done each day, we will go for walks and rows. I saw a boat on the pond. We will have lunch on the grass, and make a fire with sticks we pick up. Look! you put three long sticks like that and hang the kettle in the middle. We will do all those things we used to plan when we never much thought there would be a chance. You poor, lonesome boy, have you been having a horrid159 time? We will make up for it now. Natty, you don't care about the hair, do you? You needn't. You know, I had got mortally sick of sitting in that window. I could not have stood it a day longer. When a fly buzzed on the pane160 I wanted to scream. Again and again I have come near[92] putting my foot through the glass at one of the gaping161 faces, then jumping down and catching the old woman while she told lies about my having used her Elixir faithfully—never touched a drop!—and dancing her up and down all around the room until she dropped. I shall go back to taking care of little children now, as I did before she found me. I do love children! And in that business, I don't mind telling you, I shall do better without all that hair. No matter how tight I did it up, some one was always grumbling162 that it made too much show. You mustn't care a bit about the hair, Natty; I gave it up without a twinge. I cut it off with my own hands. You have no idea how much comfortabler this is in hot weather. My head feels so light! I can dip it in the water any minute. I do love it like this!"
She ran her hands through her hair again, ruffling it still more fantastically. Fraisier winced163. He was sick beyond calculating the degree. "Oh, my poor girl!" he contrived at last to say.
[93]
She looked at him more closely than before in her overrunning joy, and her face fell a little. No doubt she had seen herself in mirrors since her alteration164, but not in a real mirror until she saw herself reflected in his very pale face. She smiled still, but a little foolishly; then no more, and stopped chatting. It was as if a stone had been set to seal up a spring—a large stone laid upon her bubbling heart. There was a silence.
He saw that she must be seeing what he could not keep out of his face. He could not help it; he could get no control over his feelings, over his expression. He was not sure he cared to—he did not try. He was at sea: he did not know what he felt, what he did not feel. The bottom seemed to have dropped out of his heart, out of the world—out of something, everything. He knew not! He only knew he was sick—sick, and incapable of speech, of action, of reflection.
"You can't stay here, child," he heard some one saying, in a matter-of-fact, superficial voice. "Don't you see, yourself, that[94] you can't? For your own sake, I mean. It would never do, Minnie. You must understand that. You don't know what a thing a small country village like this is, for gossip and slanderous165 tongues. I couldn't let you injure yourself so, don't you see?"
"It wouldn't be proper?" she inquired, faintly.
"No, Minnie; no, it wouldn't—at all. Don't you see it?"
She got to her feet, full as pale as he now.
"All right," she said, and after a few mechanical steps, paused a moment, looking down, biting her finger—lost in thought, or waiting for something to happen, for him to say something further.
He could not speak—he could not make himself speak.
"All right," she said again, very distinctly, and turned to go without another word.
"Minnie! Minnie!" he faltered166, and had instinctively167 cast himself after her. His outstretched hand almost touched her pink draperies. She turned on him fiercely, whisking herself out of reach. He was confront[95]ed for a second by a little angry street-boy face, but with the gathered experience and woe168 of half a race in the eyes. "Let me alone! Don't dare to touch me! Nathaniel Fraisier, I hate you!"
She began desperately169 to run. He saw her clutch her poor little ruined head, and heard her cry out, breaking into sobs170: "Oh, my hair! Oh, my hair!"
He dropped in the grass, face downward, and pressed his hands over his ears, trembling. It all seemed so strange, so out of proportion.
In the late afternoon of that same hot day the crabbed171 little bell on Madame Finibald's door snapped to let in a tired, dusty youth, whose dejected face was so flushed, one's thought at sight of him turned at once on sunstroke. He leaned wearily over the counter and asked a few questions, at which madame's liver seemed so shaken she could not keep a hold on her good manners. At the height of her voice she began berating172 all the world, and one absent person. Fraisier tried to calm her, with vague, soothing173 mo[96]tions of his hands patting down the air. When she subsided174 enough for him to be heard, he pointed120 to a long tail of shining hair in the window, and spoke again, growing redder, if possible, than before—so red that his eyes watered, and he had to shade them a moment, leaning his elbows on the counter. She unhitched the hair, shaking it brutally175. He put out his hands in remonstrance176. She flung it down before him with a forbidding proposition and a deep snort of malice177. Meekly178 he emptied his purse on the counter, unfolding the bills, spreading out the silver and lucky pieces to count, reserving only for himself a crumpled179 ticket.
She watched him with gleeful, avaricious180 eyes. After computation, he rose without breath of argument and went down the street to pawn181 his watch and studs and cigarette-case, returning solvent182.
He left with a rather unsightly parcel in his hand; the cover was burst in more than one place. Madame Finibald had not been so particular as she sometimes was in the selection of her wrapping-paper. He had no[97] overcoat and no pocket large enough to put his prize in; he was forced to hold it, conscious how it was heavy and soft and its contents gleamed through the holes.
He got home at dark, reporting to his landlady183 with his back to the light. He wanted nothing to eat: there were lamps and voices in the dining-room. He could not go to bed, worn out as he was: on the porch below his window was singing and picking of strings184.
He went forth into the fields. At last, beyond all sounds but the summer's own, he sank on the grass. He did not look up once at the stars, but lay sprawling185 with his forehead on his crossed arms, and let his heart torture itself at its own good leisure. He drank deeper and deeper of its dark bitterness, forcing himself recklessly to it, reaching a sort of desperate drunkenness. It seemed to his inexperience there could be nothing worse at any time in this life to taste.
He woke long hours afterwards, wondering a little at first, feeling somewhat stiff.[98] The air was warm and still, tremulous with crickets—thrilled through with the shaken baubles186 of the summer's myriad187 little jesters. In his sleep he had rolled over; his face was to heaven. The sky was faint with starlight; the Milky188 Way was a road of diamond sand; the great constellations189 had hung themselves with solemn jewels; down near the rim78 of the world watched far-spaced large earnest beacon-lights—but above, the tiniest irresponsible stars twinkled in and out, like shining ants in ant-hills. He looked, almost wondering why his eyes felt so queer—sore besides heavy; why his breast felt so heavy. He rose sitting; he was on a hillock. Like an opaque190 reproduction of the transparent191, lightsome sky looked the ground about him, which the scythe192 had this season respected; it was dark dotted with daisies. He rubbed his aching head a little, then lay back again, the grass shooting coolly up along his cheeks. After the sound, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion193 from which he had waked, because he had drained it to satisfaction, his head was numbed194, but,[99] the little it worked, clear in its working; his heart was sore, but quieted. Something had changed; all wore another aspect; all seemed farther removed. Hours had gone by already, a month would go—a year—fifteen years. This would be lived out of memory. If it is realized that a thing must cease, has it not begun to die already? At the first one must be patient, and take suffering as a matter of course. He stretched his limbs wearily, not entirely195 deceived by himself, nor unaware196 of depths of heartache under this film of philosophy that had scummed them over in sleep. He drew his hot palms over the grass; his hand came upon the parcel that he had not dared to leave behind nor to open, that he never would have the strength to open—and his philosophy was severely197 shaken. His heart was near bursting out afresh; he laid his face on the wretched, soft, dead little bundle, and agonized198.
Then he revolted against this suffering that seemed to him undeserved, disproportionate. He was not a bad fellow; looking[100] into his heart, he could declare truthfully that it was not in him to willingly harm anything—give any one pain. Why should he feel so endlessly mean, so endlessly miserable? He appealed to Minnie, his reasonable Minnie of old, against this state of things. He defended himself to her; she defended him to himself. When all was said, he had at no time done anything to blame, had that day said nothing that was not wise and for the best, that he would not in like case be forced to say over again. He had been taken unawares; he had not expressed himself with tact—he had been fatally slow. The fact remained that the girl could not have stayed by him, setting the whole country-side agog199. But if his heart still refused to be at peace about this matter, let it be assured he meant to seek till he found the girl; it must be easy enough to find her, though he had failed that day. Alas200! poor little forlorn head, shorn of its great gleaming beauty—poor little discrowned head, at this hour full of what thoughts, God knew! He would make all things right to her; he[101] was extravagantly201 ready to pay any price; he was lavish202 of his future, free of all the gods gave him to give. At the same time that he made these protestations to himself and to her, and he was sincere in making them, he knew that Minnie would never look at him again—he knew that she had understood how he was changed with the change in her; it was beyond his governing, but she must be forgiven for not forgiving it. And looking into his man's heart, he wondered at the mystery of it.
In that hour of being honest, after revolting at it, reasoning about it, trying to sophisticate it away, he came back always to a hopeless contemplation of it as a simple fact, not to be done away with. In the face of it he might clear himself of all blame, perhaps, but he remained humiliated203 and full of a vague pity. As he lay in the grass so, plucking heedlessly in the dark at the little tufts, emptied of all pride under the lofty stars, a dreamy mood followed upon what degree of success he had in suppressing feelings he was determined204 not to en[102]dure, so did they hurt! His thoughts in search of soothing travelled back to days before last spring, when he could hardly have conceived what he had this night been suffering. Peaceful period, but without great charm, he decided205, loyal to his altered taste. He thought of the past spring, the soft awakening206 all without and within a man—the tender, vast burgeoning207, fluttering, shimmering, outreaching! He judged it sadly from a midsummer night. Not all were flowers that put forth in that mad amenity208 of nature; no, not all flowers.
And in connection with all that freshness and fragrance209 and beauty of spring, he thought unavoidably of what had seemed to his new-quickened heart its very expression, its chiefest adornment—the gentle order he loved in so general and devoted a way. His conjuring210 head filled with charming phantoms211, pathetic to his sense at this juncture212; they passed, exquisite pageant213, leaving as if a perfume of themselves through the halls of his mind, not one little grace, one foolish trick, one dainty manner of be[103]ing, lost on his worshipping sensibility: silver laughter—odors of violets—sunny loose hairs and white hand tucking them behind the ear—pretty feet tiptoeing across the street in bad weather—pouted lips cooing to a baby, or quaintly214 attempting its own language to a bird—languid attitudes—belts of a span—caprices—teasing humors—tenderness—pity for small creatures—long lashes blinking a tear—queenly bearing—rods of lily held over bowing heads with such assurance of power as never a sceptre—aye, power greater than any emperor's, founded, dear God—upon what? at the mercy—of what? And he yearned215 and grieved over them, poor youth, as if he had been their maker216.
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1
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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2
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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3
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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4
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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5
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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6
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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7
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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8
lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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9
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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10
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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11
cosmetic
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| n.化妆品；adj.化妆用的；装门面的；装饰性的 | |
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12
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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13
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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14
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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15
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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16
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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17
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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18
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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19
elixir
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| n.长生不老药，万能药 | |
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20
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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21
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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22
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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23
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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24
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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25
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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26
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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27
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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28
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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29
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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30
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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31
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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32
plodder
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| n.沉重行走的人，辛勤工作的人 | |
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33
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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34
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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35
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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36
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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37
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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38
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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39
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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40
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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41
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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42
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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43
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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44
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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45
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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46
palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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47
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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48
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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49
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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50
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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51
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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52
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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53
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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54
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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55
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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56
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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57
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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58
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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59
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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60
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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62
brazenness
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| 厚颜无耻 | |
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63
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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64
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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65
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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66
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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67
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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68
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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69
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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70
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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71
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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72
contemned
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| v.侮辱，蔑视( contemn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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74
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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75
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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76
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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77
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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78
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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79
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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81
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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82
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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83
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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84
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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85
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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86
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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88
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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89
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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90
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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91
peevishness
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| 脾气不好；爱发牢骚 | |
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92
reprehension
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| n.非难，指责 | |
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93
dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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95
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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96
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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97
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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98
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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99
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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100
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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102
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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104
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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105
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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106
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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107
perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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108
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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109
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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111
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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112
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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113
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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114
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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115
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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116
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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117
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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118
cull
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| v.拣选；剔除；n.拣出的东西；剔除 | |
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119
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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120
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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121
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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122
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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123
progenitor
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| n.祖先，先驱 | |
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124
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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125
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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126
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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128
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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129
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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130
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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131
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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132
arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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133
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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134
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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135
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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136
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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137
evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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138
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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139
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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141
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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142
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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143
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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144
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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145
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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146
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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147
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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148
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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149
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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151
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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152
natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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153
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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154
proneness
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| n.俯伏，倾向 | |
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155
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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156
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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157
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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158
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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159
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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160
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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161
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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162
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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163
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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164
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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165
slanderous
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| adj.诽谤的，中伤的 | |
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166
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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167
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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168
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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169
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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170
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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171
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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172
berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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173
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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174
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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175
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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176
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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177
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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178
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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179
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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180
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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181
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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182
solvent
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| n.溶剂；adj.有偿付能力的 | |
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183
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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184
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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185
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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186
baubles
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| n.小玩意( bauble的名词复数 )；华而不实的小件装饰品；无价值的东西；丑角的手杖 | |
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187
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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188
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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189
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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190
opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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191
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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192
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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193
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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194
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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196
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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197
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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198
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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199
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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200
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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201
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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202
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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203
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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204
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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205
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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206
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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207
burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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208
amenity
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| n.pl.生活福利设施，文娱康乐场所；（不可数）愉快，适意 | |
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209
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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210
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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211
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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212
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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213
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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214
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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215
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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216
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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