But Beatrice Blaine! There was a woman! Early pictures taken on her father's estate at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, or in Rome at the Sacred Heart Convent—an educational extravagance that in her youth was only for the daughters of the exceptionally wealthy—showed the exquisite10 delicacy11 of her features, the consummate13 art and simplicity14 of her clothes. A brilliant education she had—her youth passed in renaissance15 glory, she was versed16 in the latest gossip of the Older Roman Families; known by name as a fabulously17 wealthy American girl to Cardinal18 Vitori and Queen Margherita and more subtle celebrities19 that one must have had some culture even to have heard of. She learned in England to prefer whiskey and soda20 to wine, and her small talk was broadened in two senses during a winter in Vienna. All in all Beatrice O'Hara absorbed the sort of education that will be quite impossible ever again; a tutelage measured by the number of things and people one could be contemptuous of and charming about; a culture rich in all arts and traditions, barren of all ideas, in the last of those days when the great gardener clipped the inferior roses to produce one perfect bud.
In her less important moments she returned to America, met Stephen Blaine and married him—this almost entirely22 because she was a little bit weary, a little bit sad. Her only child was carried through a tiresome23 season and brought into the world on a spring day in ninety-six.
When Amory was five he was already a delightful24 companion for her. He was an auburn-haired boy, with great, handsome eyes which he would grow up to in time, a facile imaginative mind and a taste for fancy dress. From his fourth to his tenth year he did the country with his mother in her father's private car, from Coronado, where his mother became so bored that she had a nervous breakdown25 in a fashionable hotel, down to Mexico City, where she took a mild, almost epidemic26 consumption. This trouble pleased her, and later she made use of it as an intrinsic part of her atmosphere—especially after several astounding27 bracers.
So, while more or less fortunate little rich boys were defying governesses on the beach at Newport, or being spanked28 or tutored or read to from “Do and Dare,” or “Frank on the Mississippi,” Amory was biting acquiescent29 bell-boys in the Waldorf, outgrowing30 a natural repugnance31 to chamber32 music and symphonies, and deriving33 a highly specialized34 education from his mother.
“Amory.”
“Dear, don't think of getting out of bed yet. I've always suspected that early rising in early life makes one nervous. Clothilde is having your breakfast brought up.”
“All right.”
“I am feeling very old to-day, Amory,” she would sigh, her face a rare cameo of pathos36, her voice exquisitely37 modulated38, her hands as facile as Bernhardt's. “My nerves are on edge—on edge. We must leave this terrifying place to-morrow and go searching for sunshine.”
Amory's penetrating39 green eyes would look out through tangled40 hair at his mother. Even at this age he had no illusions about her.
“Amory.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I want you to take a red-hot bath as hot as you can bear it, and just relax your nerves. You can read in the tub if you wish.”
She fed him sections of the “Fetes Galantes” before he was ten; at eleven he could talk glibly41, if rather reminiscently, of Brahms and Mozart and Beethoven. One afternoon, when left alone in the hotel at Hot Springs, he sampled his mother's apricot cordial, and as the taste pleased him, he became quite tipsy. This was fun for a while, but he essayed a cigarette in his exaltation, and succumbed42 to a vulgar, plebeian43 reaction. Though this incident horrified44 Beatrice, it also secretly amused her and became part of what in a later generation would have been termed her “line.”
“This son of mine,” he heard her tell a room full of awestruck, admiring women one day, “is entirely sophisticated and quite charming—but delicate—we're all delicate; here, you know.” Her hand was radiantly outlined against her beautiful bosom45; then sinking her voice to a whisper, she told them of the apricot cordial. They rejoiced, for she was a brave raconteuse, but many were the keys turned in sideboard locks that night against the possible defection of little Bobby or Barbara....
These domestic pilgrimages were invariably in state; two maids, the private car, or Mr. Blaine when available, and very often a physician. When Amory had the whooping-cough four disgusted specialists glared at each other hunched46 around his bed; when he took scarlet47 fever the number of attendants, including physicians and nurses, totalled fourteen. However, blood being thicker than broth3, he was pulled through.
The Blaines were attached to no city. They were the Blaines of Lake Geneva; they had quite enough relatives to serve in place of friends, and an enviable standing48 from Pasadena to Cape49 Cod50. But Beatrice grew more and more prone51 to like only new acquaintances, as there were certain stories, such as the history of her constitution and its many amendments52, memories of her years abroad, that it was necessary for her to repeat at regular intervals53. Like Freudian dreams, they must be thrown off, else they would sweep in and lay siege to her nerves. But Beatrice was critical about American women, especially the floating population of ex-Westerners.
“They have accents, my dear,” she told Amory, “not Southern accents or Boston accents, not an accent attached to any locality, just an accent”—she became dreamy. “They pick up old, moth-eaten London accents that are down on their luck and have to be used by some one. They talk as an English butler might after several years in a Chicago grand-opera company.” She became almost incoherent—“Suppose—time in every Western woman's life—she feels her husband is prosperous enough for her to have—accent—they try to impress me, my dear—”
Though she thought of her body as a mass of frailties54, she considered her soul quite as ill, and therefore important in her life. She had once been a Catholic, but discovering that priests were infinitely55 more attentive56 when she was in process of losing or regaining58 faith in Mother Church, she maintained an enchantingly wavering attitude. Often she deplored60 the bourgeois61 quality of the American Catholic clergy62, and was quite sure that had she lived in the shadow of the great Continental63 cathedrals her soul would still be a thin flame on the mighty64 altar of Rome. Still, next to doctors, priests were her favorite sport.
“Ah, Bishop65 Wiston,” she would declare, “I do not want to talk of myself. I can imagine the stream of hysterical66 women fluttering at your doors, beseeching67 you to be simpatico”—then after an interlude filled by the clergyman—“but my mood—is—oddly dissimilar.”
Only to bishops68 and above did she divulge69 her clerical romance. When she had first returned to her country there had been a pagan, Swinburnian young man in Asheville, for whose passionate70 kisses and unsentimental conversations she had taken a decided71 penchant—they had discussed the matter pro21 and con5 with an intellectual romancing quite devoid72 of sappiness. Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now—Monsignor Darcy.
“Indeed, Mrs. Blaine, he is still delightful company—quite the cardinal's right-hand man.”
“Amory will go to him one day, I know,” breathed the beautiful lady, “and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me.”
Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to his Celtic mother. He had tutored occasionally—the idea being that he was to “keep up,” at each place “taking up the work where he left off,” yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in very good shape. What a few more years of this life would have made of him is problematical. However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed, and after a series of frantic73 telegrams to Europe and America, to the amazement74 of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around and returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier75. You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent.
After the operation Beatrice had a nervous breakdown that bore a suspicious resemblance to delirium76 tremens, and Amory was left in Minneapolis, destined77 to spend the ensuing two years with his aunt and uncle. There the crude, vulgar air of Western civilization first catches him—in his underwear, so to speak.
A KISS FOR AMORY
His lip curled when he read it.
“I am going to have a bobbing party,” it said, “on Thursday,
December the seventeenth, at five o'clock, and I would like it
very much if you could come.
Yours truly,
R.S.V.P. Myra St. Claire.
He had been two months in Minneapolis, and his chief struggle had been the concealing79 from “the other guys at school” how particularly superior he felt himself to be, yet this conviction was built upon shifting sands. He had shown off one day in French class (he was in senior French class) to the utter confusion of Mr. Reardon, whose accent Amory damned contemptuously, and to the delight of the class. Mr. Reardon, who had spent several weeks in Paris ten years before, took his revenge on the verbs, whenever he had his book open. But another time Amory showed off in history class, with quite disastrous80 results, for the boys there were his own age, and they shrilled82 innuendoes83 at each other all the following week:
“Aw—I b'lieve, doncherknow, the Umuricun revolution was lawgely an affair of the middul clawses,” or
“Washington came of very good blood—aw, quite good—I b'lieve.”
Amory ingeniously tried to retrieve84 himself by blundering on purpose. Two years before he had commenced a history of the United States which, though it only got as far as the Colonial Wars, had been pronounced by his mother completely enchanting59.
His chief disadvantage lay in athletics86, but as soon as he discovered that it was the touchstone of power and popularity at school, he began to make furious, persistent87 efforts to excel in the winter sports, and with his ankles aching and bending in spite of his efforts, he skated valiantly88 around the Lorelie rink every afternoon, wondering how soon he would be able to carry a hockey-stick without getting it inexplicably89 tangled in his skates.
The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle90. During the afternoon he brought it to light with a sigh, and after some consideration and a preliminary draft in the back of Collar and Daniel's “First-Year Latin,” composed an answer:
My dear Miss St. Claire:
Your truly charming envitation for the evening of next Thursday
evening was truly delightful to receive this morning. I will be
charm and inchanted indeed to present my compliments on next
Thursday evening.
Faithfully,
Amory Blaine.
On Thursday, therefore, he walked pensively91 along the slippery, shovel-scraped sidewalks, and came in sight of Myra's house, on the half-hour after five, a lateness which he fancied his mother would have favored. He waited on the door-step with his eyes nonchalantly half-closed, and planned his entrance with precision. He would cross the floor, not too hastily, to Mrs. St. Claire, and say with exactly the correct modulation92:
“My dear Mrs. St. Claire, I'm frightfully sorry to be late, but my maid”—he paused there and realized he would be quoting—“but my uncle and I had to see a fella—Yes, I've met your enchanting daughter at dancing-school.”
Then he would shake hands, using that slight, half-foreign bow, with all the starchy little females, and nod to the fellas who would be standing 'round, paralyzed into rigid93 groups for mutual94 protection.
A butler (one of the three in Minneapolis) swung open the door. Amory stepped inside and divested95 himself of cap and coat. He was mildly surprised not to hear the shrill81 squawk of conversation from the next room, and he decided it must be quite formal. He approved of that—as he approved of the butler.
“Miss Myra,” he said.
To his surprise the butler grinned horribly.
“Oh, yeah,” he declared, “she's here.” He was unaware96 that his failure to be cockney was ruining his standing. Amory considered him coldly.
“But,” continued the butler, his voice rising unnecessarily, “she's the only one what is here. The party's gone.”
“What?”
“She's been waitin' for Amory Blaine. That's you, ain't it? Her mother says that if you showed up by five-thirty you two was to go after 'em in the Packard.”
Amory's despair was crystallized by the appearance of Myra herself, bundled to the ears in a polo coat, her face plainly sulky, her voice pleasant only with difficulty.
“'Lo, Amory.”
“Well—you got here, anyways.”
Myra's eyes opened wide.
“Who was it to?”
“Well,” he continued desperately102, “uncle 'n aunt 'n I.”
“Was any one killed?”
Amory paused and then nodded.
“Your uncle?”—alarm.
“Oh, no just a horse—a sorta gray horse.”
At this point the Erse butler snickered.
“Probably killed the engine,” he suggested. Amory would have put him on the rack without a scruple103.
“We'll go now,” said Myra coolly. “You see, Amory, the bobs were ordered for five and everybody was here, so we couldn't wait—”
“Well, I couldn't help it, could I?”
“So mama said for me to wait till ha'past five. We'll catch the bobs before it gets to the Minnehaha Club, Amory.”
Amory's shredded104 poise105 dropped from him. He pictured the happy party jingling106 along snowy streets, the appearance of the limousine107, the horrible public descent of him and Myra before sixty reproachful eyes, his apology—a real one this time. He sighed aloud.
“What?” inquired Myra.
“Nothing. I was just yawning. Are we going to surely catch up with 'em before they get there?” He was encouraging a faint hope that they might slip into the Minnehaha Club and meet the others there, be found in blasé seclusion108 before the fire and quite regain57 his lost attitude.
“Oh, sure Mike, we'll catch 'em all right—let's hurry.”
He became conscious of his stomach. As they stepped into the machine he hurriedly slapped the paint of diplomacy109 over a rather box-like plan he had conceived. It was based upon some “trade-lasts” gleaned110 at dancing-school, to the effect that he was “awful good-looking and English, sort of.”
“Myra,” he said, lowering his voice and choosing his words carefully, “I beg a thousand pardons. Can you ever forgive me?” She regarded him gravely, his intent green eyes, his mouth, that to her thirteen-year-old, arrow-collar taste was the quintessence of romance. Yes, Myra could forgive him very easily.
“Why—yes—sure.”
“I'm awful,” he said sadly. “I'm diff'runt. I don't know why I make faux pas. 'Cause I don't care, I s'pose.” Then, recklessly: “I been smoking too much. I've got t'bacca heart.”
Myra pictured an all-night tobacco debauch112, with Amory pale and reeling from the effect of nicotined lungs. She gave a little gasp99.
“I don't care,” he persisted gloomily. “I gotta. I got the habit. I've done a lot of things that if my fambly knew”—he hesitated, giving her imagination time to picture dark horrors—“I went to the burlesque114 show last week.”
Myra was quite overcome. He turned the green eyes on her again. “You're the only girl in town I like much,” he exclaimed in a rush of sentiment. “You're simpatico.”
Thick dusk had descended118 outside, and as the limousine made a sudden turn she was jolted119 against him; their hands touched.
“You shouldn't smoke, Amory,” she whispered. “Don't you know that?”
He shook his head.
“Nobody cares.”
Myra hesitated.
“I care.”
Something stirred within Amory.
“Oh, yes, you do! You got a crush on Froggy Parker. I guess everybody knows that.”
“No, I haven't,” very slowly.
A silence, while Amory thrilled. There was something fascinating about Myra, shut away here cosily120 from the dim, chill air. Myra, a little bundle of clothes, with strands121 of yellow hair curling out from under her skating cap.
“Because I've got a crush, too—” He paused, for he heard in the distance the sound of young laughter, and, peering through the frosted glass along the lamp-lit street, he made out the dark outline of the bobbing party. He must act quickly. He reached over with a violent, jerky effort, and clutched Myra's hand—her thumb, to be exact.
“Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight,” he whispered. “I wanta talk to you—I got to talk to you.”
Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother, and then—alas for convention—glanced into the eyes beside. “Turn down this side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!” she cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions with a sigh of relief.
“I can kiss her,” he thought. “I'll bet I can. I'll bet I can!”
Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty122, and the night around was chill and vibrant123 with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the roads stretched away, dark creases124 on the white blanket; huge heaps of snow lining125 the sides like the tracks of giant moles126. They lingered for a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.
“Pale moons like that one”—Amory made a vague gesture—“make people mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair sorta mussed”—her hands clutched at her hair—“Oh, leave it, it looks good.”
They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den7 of his dreams, where a cosy127 fire was burning before a big sink-down couch. A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing parties.
“There's always a bunch of shy fellas,” he commented, “sitting at the tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other off. Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl”—he gave a terrifying imitation—“she's always talkin' hard, sorta, to the chaperon.”
“You're such a funny boy,” puzzled Myra.
“Oh—always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with Marylyn and I to-morrow?”
“I don't like girls in the daytime,” he said shortly, and then, thinking this a bit abrupt129, he added: “But I like you.” He cleared his throat. “I like you first and second and third.”
Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn! Here on the couch with this wonderful-looking boy—the little fire—the sense that they were alone in the great building—
Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate.
“I like you the first twenty-five,” she confessed, her voice trembling, “and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth.”
Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even noticed it.
But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed Myra's cheek. He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted his lips curiously130, as if he had munched131 some new fruit. Then their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.
“We're awful,” rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into his, her head drooped132 against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion seized Amory, disgust, loathing133 for the whole incident. He desired frantically134 to be away, never to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he became conscious of his face and hers, of their clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body and hide somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his mind.
“Kiss me again.” Her voice came out of a great void.
“I don't want to,” he heard himself saying. There was another pause.
“I don't want to!” he repeated passionately135.
Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised136 vanity, the great bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically.
“I hate you!” she cried. “Don't you ever dare to speak to me again!”
“I'll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I'll tell mama, and she won't let me play with you!”
Amory rose and stared at her helplessly, as though she were a new animal of whose presence on the earth he had not heretofore been aware.
The door opened suddenly, and Myra's mother appeared on the threshold, fumbling138 with her lorgnette.
“Well,” she began, adjusting it benignantly, “the man at the desk told me you two children were up here—How do you do, Amory.”
Amory watched Myra and waited for the crash—but none came. The pout139 faded, the high pink subsided140, and Myra's voice was placid141 as a summer lake when she answered her mother.
“Oh, we started so late, mama, that I thought we might as well—”
He heard from below the shrieks142 of laughter, and smelled the vapid143 odor of hot chocolate and tea-cakes as he silently followed mother and daughter down-stairs. The sound of the graphophone mingled144 with the voices of many girls humming the air, and a faint glow was born and spread over him:
“Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un
Casey-Jones—'th his orders in his hand.
Casey-Jones—mounted to the cab-un
Took his farewell journey to the prom-ised land.”
SNAPSHOTS OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST
Amory spent nearly two years in Minneapolis. The first winter he wore moccasins that were born yellow, but after many applications of oil and dirt assumed their mature color, a dirty, greenish brown; he wore a gray plaid mackinaw coat, and a red toboggan cap. His dog, Count Del Monte, ate the red cap, so his uncle gave him a gray one that pulled down over his face. The trouble with this one was that you breathed into it and your breath froze; one day the darn thing froze his cheek. He rubbed snow on his cheek, but it turned bluish-black just the same.
The Count Del Monte ate a box of bluing once, but it didn't hurt him. Later, however, he lost his mind and ran madly up the street, bumping into fences, rolling in gutters145, and pursuing his eccentric course out of Amory's life. Amory cried on his bed.
“Poor little Count,” he cried. “Oh, poor little Count!”
Amory and Frog Parker considered that the greatest line in literature occurred in Act III of “Arsene Lupin.”
They sat in the first row at the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. The line was:
“If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing is to be a great criminal.”
Amory fell in love again, and wrote a poem. This was it:
“Marylyn and Sallee,
Those are the girls for me.
Marylyn stands above
Sallee in that sweet, deep love.”
He was interested in whether McGovern of Minnesota would make the first or second All-American, how to do the card-pass, how to do the coin-pass, chameleon147 ties, how babies were born, and whether Three-fingered Brown was really a better pitcher148 than Christie Mathewson.
Among other things he read: “For the Honor of the School,” “Little Women” (twice), “The Common Law,” “Sapho,” “Dangerous Dan McGrew,” “The Broad Highway” (three times), “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “Three Weeks,” “Mary Ware97, the Little Colonel's Chum,” “Gunga Din,” The Police Gazette, and Jim-Jam Jems.
He had all the Henty biasses149 in history, and was particularly fond of the cheerful murder stories of Mary Roberts Rinehart.
School ruined his French and gave him a distaste for standard authors. His masters considered him idle, unreliable and superficially clever.
He collected locks of hair from many girls. He wore the rings of several. Finally he could borrow no more rings, owing to his nervous habit of chewing them out of shape. This, it seemed, usually aroused the jealous suspicions of the next borrower.
All through the summer months Amory and Frog Parker went each week to the Stock Company. Afterward150 they would stroll home in the balmy air of August night, dreaming along Hennepin and Nicollet Avenues, through the gay crowd. Amory wondered how people could fail to notice that he was a boy marked for glory, and when faces of the throng151 turned toward him and ambiguous eyes stared into his, he assumed the most romantic of expressions and walked on the air cushions that lie on the asphalts of fourteen.
Always, after he was in bed, there were voices—indefinite, fading, enchanting—just outside his window, and before he fell asleep he would dream one of his favorite waking dreams, the one about becoming a great half-back, or the one about the Japanese invasion, when he was rewarded by being made the youngest general in the world. It was always the becoming he dreamed of, never the being. This, too, was quite characteristic of Amory.
CODE OF THE YOUNG EGOTIST
Before he was summoned back to Lake Geneva, he had appeared, shy but inwardly glowing, in his first long trousers, set off by a purple accordion152 tie and a “Belmont” collar with the edges unassailably meeting, purple socks, and handkerchief with a purple border peeping from his breast pocket. But more than that, he had formulated153 his first philosophy, a code to live by, which, as near as it can be named, was a sort of aristocratic egotism.
He had realized that his best interests were bound up with those of a certain variant155, changing person, whose label, in order that his past might always be identified with him, was Amory Blaine. Amory marked himself a fortunate youth, capable of infinite expansion for good or evil. He did not consider himself a “strong char'c'ter,” but relied on his facility (learn things sorta quick) and his superior mentality156 (read a lotta deep books). He was proud of the fact that he could never become a mechanical or scientific genius. From no other heights was he debarred.
Physically157.—Amory thought that he was exceedingly handsome. He was. He fancied himself an athlete of possibilities and a supple158 dancer.
Socially.—Here his condition was, perhaps, most dangerous. He granted himself personality, charm, magnetism159, poise, the power of dominating all contemporary males, the gift of fascinating all women.
Mentally.—Complete, unquestioned superiority.
Now a confession160 will have to be made. Amory had rather a Puritan conscience. Not that he yielded to it—later in life he almost completely slew161 it—but at fifteen it made him consider himself a great deal worse than other boys... unscrupulousness... the desire to influence people in almost every way, even for evil... a certain coldness and lack of affection, amounting sometimes to cruelty... a shifting sense of honor... an unholy selfishness... a puzzled, furtive162 interest in everything concerning sex.
There was, also, a curious strain of weakness running crosswise through his make-up... a harsh phrase from the lips of an older boy (older boys usually detested163 him) was liable to sweep him off his poise into surly sensitiveness, or timid stupidity... he was a slave to his own moods and he felt that though he was capable of recklessness and audacity164, he possessed165 neither courage, perseverance166, nor self-respect.
Vanity, tempered with self-suspicion if not self-knowledge, a sense of people as automatons167 to his will, a desire to “pass” as many boys as possible and get to a vague top of the world... with this background did Amory drift into adolescence168.
PREPARATORY TO THE GREAT ADVENTURE
The train slowed up with midsummer languor169 at Lake Geneva, and Amory caught sight of his mother waiting in her electric on the gravelled station drive. It was an ancient electric, one of the early types, and painted gray. The sight of her sitting there, slenderly erect170, and of her face, where beauty and dignity combined, melting to a dreamy recollected171 smile, filled him with a sudden great pride of her. As they kissed coolly and he stepped into the electric, he felt a quick fear lest he had lost the requisite172 charm to measure up to her.
“Dear boy—you're so tall... look behind and see if there's anything coming...”
She looked left and right, she slipped cautiously into a speed of two miles an hour, beseeching Amory to act as sentinel; and at one busy crossing she made him get out and run ahead to signal her forward like a traffic policeman. Beatrice was what might be termed a careful driver.
“You are tall—but you're still very handsome—you've skipped the awkward age, or is that sixteen; perhaps it's fourteen or fifteen; I can never remember; but you've skipped it.”
“Don't embarrass me,” murmured Amory.
“But, my dear boy, what odd clothes! They look as if they were a set—don't they? Is your underwear purple, too?”
“You must go to Brooks174' and get some really nice suits. Oh, we'll have a talk to-night or perhaps to-morrow night. I want to tell you about your heart—you've probably been neglecting your heart—and you don't know.”
Amory thought how superficial was the recent overlay of his own generation. Aside from a minute shyness, he felt that the old cynical175 kinship with his mother had not been one bit broken. Yet for the first few days he wandered about the gardens and along the shore in a state of superloneliness, finding a lethargic176 content in smoking “Bull” at the garage with one of the chauffeurs177.
The sixty acres of the estate were dotted with old and new summer houses and many fountains and white benches that came suddenly into sight from foliage-hung hiding-places; there was a great and constantly increasing family of white cats that prowled the many flower-beds and were silhouetted179 suddenly at night against the darkening trees. It was on one of the shadowy paths that Beatrice at last captured Amory, after Mr. Blaine had, as usual, retired180 for the evening to his private library. After reproving him for avoiding her, she took him for a long tete-a-tete in the moonlight. He could not reconcile himself to her beauty, that was mother to his own, the exquisite neck and shoulders, the grace of a fortunate woman of thirty.
“Did you, Beatrice?”
“The doctors told me”—her voice sang on a confidential184 note—“that if any man alive had done the consistent drinking that I have, he would have been physically shattered, my dear, and in his grave—long in his grave.”
“Yes,” continued Beatrice tragically186, “I had dreams—wonderful visions.” She pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes. “I saw bronze rivers lapping marble shores, and great birds that soared through the air, parti-colored birds with iridescent187 plumage. I heard strange music and the flare188 of barbaric trumpets189—what?”
Amory had snickered.
“What, Amory?”
“I said go on, Beatrice.”
“That was all—it merely recurred190 and recurred—gardens that flaunted191 coloring against which this would be quite dull, moons that whirled and swayed, paler than winter moons, more golden than harvest moons—”
“Are you quite well now, Beatrice?”
“Quite well—as well as I will ever be. I am not understood, Amory. I know that can't express it to you, Amory, but—I am not understood.”
Amory was quite moved. He put his arm around his mother, rubbing his head gently against her shoulder.
“Poor Beatrice—poor Beatrice.”
“Tell me about you, Amory. Did you have two horrible years?”
Amory considered lying, and then decided against it.
“No, Beatrice. I enjoyed them. I adapted myself to the bourgeoisie. I became conventional.” He surprised himself by saying that, and he pictured how Froggy would have gaped192.
“Beatrice,” he said suddenly, “I want to go away to school. Everybody in Minneapolis is going to go away to school.”
Beatrice showed some alarm.
“But you're only fifteen.”
“Yes, but everybody goes away to school at fifteen, and I want to, Beatrice.”
On Beatrice's suggestion the subject was dropped for the rest of the walk, but a week later she delighted him by saying:
“Amory, I have decided to let you have your way. If you still want to, you can go to school.”
“Yes?”
“To St. Regis's in Connecticut.”
Amory felt a quick excitement.
“It's being arranged,” continued Beatrice. “It's better that you should go away. I'd have preferred you to have gone to Eton, and then to Christ Church, Oxford193, but it seems impracticable now—and for the present we'll let the university question take care of itself.”
“What are you going to do, Beatrice?”
“Heaven knows. It seems my fate to fret194 away my years in this country. Not for a second do I regret being American—indeed, I think that a regret typical of very vulgar people, and I feel sure we are the great coming nation—yet”—and she sighed—“I feel my life should have drowsed away close to an older, mellower196 civilization, a land of greens and autumnal browns—”
Amory did not answer, so his mother continued:
“My regret is that you haven't been abroad, but still, as you are a man, it's better that you should grow up here under the snarling197 eagle—is that the right term?”
Amory agreed that it was. She would not have appreciated the Japanese invasion.
“When do I go to school?”
“Next month. You'll have to start East a little early to take your examinations. After that you'll have a free week, so I want you to go up the Hudson and pay a visit.”
“To who?”
“To Monsignor Darcy, Amory. He wants to see you. He went to Harrow and then to Yale—became a Catholic. I want him to talk to you—I feel he can be such a help—” She stroked his auburn hair gently. “Dear Amory, dear Amory—”
“Dear Beatrice—”
So early in September Amory, provided with “six suits summer underwear, six suits winter underwear, one sweater or T shirt, one jersey198, one overcoat, winter, etc.,” set out for New England, the land of schools.
There were Andover and Exeter with their memories of New England dead—large, college-like democracies; St. Mark's, Groton, St. Regis'—recruited from Boston and the Knickerbocker families of New York; St. Paul's, with its great rinks; Pomfret and St. George's, prosperous and well-dressed; Taft and Hotchkiss, which prepared the wealth of the Middle West for social success at Yale; Pawling, Westminster, Choate, Kent, and a hundred others; all milling out their well-set-up, conventional, impressive type, year after year; their mental stimulus199 the college entrance exams; their vague purpose set forth200 in a hundred circulars as “To impart a Thorough Mental, Moral, and Physical Training as a Christian201 Gentleman, to fit the boy for meeting the problems of his day and generation, and to give a solid foundation in the Arts and Sciences.”
At St. Regis' Amory stayed three days and took his exams with a scoffing202 confidence, then doubling back to New York to pay his tutelary203 visit. The metropolis204, barely glimpsed, made little impression on him, except for the sense of cleanliness he drew from the tall white buildings seen from a Hudson River steamboat in the early morning. Indeed, his mind was so crowded with dreams of athletic85 prowess at school that he considered this visit only as a rather tiresome prelude205 to the great adventure. This, however, it did not prove to be.
Monsignor Darcy's house was an ancient, rambling206 structure set on a hill overlooking the river, and there lived its owner, between his trips to all parts of the Roman-Catholic world, rather like an exiled Stuart king waiting to be called to the rule of his land. Monsignor was forty-four then, and bustling—a trifle too stout207 for symmetry, with hair the color of spun208 gold, and a brilliant, enveloping209 personality. When he came into a room clad in his full purple regalia from thatch210 to toe, he resembled a Turner sunset, and attracted both admiration211 and attention. He had written two novels: one of them violently anti-Catholic, just before his conversion212, and five years later another, in which he had attempted to turn all his clever jibes213 against Catholics into even cleverer innuendoes against Episcopalians. He was intensely ritualistic, startlingly dramatic, loved the idea of God enough to be a celibate214, and rather liked his neighbor.
Children adored him because he was like a child; youth revelled215 in his company because he was still a youth, and couldn't be shocked. In the proper land and century he might have been a Richelieu—at present he was a very moral, very religious (if not particularly pious) clergyman, making a great mystery about pulling rusty217 wires, and appreciating life to the fullest, if not entirely enjoying it.
He and Amory took to each other at first sight—the jovial218, impressive prelate who could dazzle an embassy ball, and the green-eyed, intent youth, in his first long trousers, accepted in their own minds a relation of father and son within a half-hour's conversation.
“My dear boy, I've been waiting to see you for years. Take a big chair and we'll have a chat.”
“I've just come from school—St. Regis's, you know.”
“So your mother says—a remarkable219 woman; have a cigarette—I'm sure you smoke. Well, if you're like me, you loathe220 all science and mathematics—”
Amory nodded vehemently221.
“Hate 'em all. Like English and history.”
“Of course. You'll hate school for a while, too, but I'm glad you're going to St. Regis's.”
“Why?”
“Because it's a gentleman's school, and democracy won't hit you so early. You'll find plenty of that in college.”
“I want to go to Princeton,” said Amory. “I don't know why, but I think of all Harvard men as sissies, like I used to be, and all Yale men as wearing big blue sweaters and smoking pipes.”
“I'm one, you know.”
“Oh, you're different—I think of Princeton as being lazy and good-looking and aristocratic—you know, like a spring day. Harvard seems sort of indoors—”
“And Yale is November, crisp and energetic,” finished Monsignor.
“That's it.”
“I was for Bonnie Prince Charlie,” announced Amory.
“Of course you were—and for Hannibal—”
“Yes, and for the Southern Confederacy.” He was rather sceptical about being an Irish patriot—he suspected that being Irish was being somewhat common—but Monsignor assured him that Ireland was a romantic lost cause and Irish people quite charming, and that it should, by all means, be one of his principal biasses.
After a crowded hour which included several more cigarettes, and during which Monsignor learned, to his surprise but not to his horror, that Amory had not been brought up a Catholic, he announced that he had another guest. This turned out to be the Honorable Thornton Hancock, of Boston, ex-minister to The Hague, author of an erudite history of the Middle Ages and the last of a distinguished224, patriotic225, and brilliant family.
“He comes here for a rest,” said Monsignor confidentially226, treating Amory as a contemporary. “I act as an escape from the weariness of agnosticism, and I think I'm the only man who knows how his staid old mind is really at sea and longs for a sturdy spar like the Church to cling to.”
Their first luncheon227 was one of the memorable228 events of Amory's early life. He was quite radiant and gave off a peculiar229 brightness and charm. Monsignor called out the best that he had thought by question and suggestion, and Amory talked with an ingenious brilliance230 of a thousand impulses and desires and repulsions and faiths and fears. He and Monsignor held the floor, and the older man, with his less receptive, less accepting, yet certainly not colder mentality, seemed content to listen and bask231 in the mellow195 sunshine that played between these two. Monsignor gave the effect of sunlight to many people; Amory gave it in his youth and, to some extent, when he was very much older, but never again was it quite so mutually spontaneous.
“He's a radiant boy,” thought Thornton Hancock, who had seen the splendor232 of two continents and talked with Parnell and Gladstone and Bismarck—and afterward he added to Monsignor: “But his education ought not to be intrusted to a school or college.”
But for the next four years the best of Amory's intellect was concentrated on matters of popularity, the intricacies of a university social system and American Society as represented by Biltmore Teas and Hot Springs golf-links.
... In all, a wonderful week, that saw Amory's mind turned inside out, a hundred of his theories confirmed, and his joy of life crystallized to a thousand ambitions. Not that the conversation was scholastic—heaven forbid! Amory had only the vaguest idea as to what Bernard Shaw was—but Monsignor made quite as much out of “The Beloved Vagabond” and “Sir Nigel,” taking good care that Amory never once felt out of his depth.
But the trumpets were sounding for Amory's preliminary skirmish with his own generation.
“You're not sorry to go, of course. With people like us our home is where we are not,” said Monsignor.
“I am sorry—”
“No, you're not. No one person in the world is necessary to you or to me.”
“Well—”
“Good-by.”
THE EGOTIST DOWN
Amory's two years at St. Regis', though in turn painful and triumphant233, had as little real significance in his own life as the American “prep” school, crushed as it is under the heel of the universities, has to American life in general. We have no Eton to create the self-consciousness of a governing class; we have, instead, clean, flaccid and innocuous preparatory schools.
He went all wrong at the start, was generally considered both conceited234 and arrogant235, and universally detested. He played football intensely, alternating a reckless brilliancy with a tendency to keep himself as safe from hazard as decency236 would permit. In a wild panic he backed out of a fight with a boy his own size, to a chorus of scorn, and a week later, in desperation, picked a battle with another boy very much bigger, from which he emerged badly beaten, but rather proud of himself.
He was resentful against all those in authority over him, and this, combined with a lazy indifference237 toward his work, exasperated238 every master in school. He grew discouraged and imagined himself a pariah239; took to sulking in corners and reading after lights. With a dread240 of being alone he attached a few friends, but since they were not among the elite241 of the school, he used them simply as mirrors of himself, audiences before which he might do that posing absolutely essential to him. He was unbearably242 lonely, desperately unhappy.
There were some few grains of comfort. Whenever Amory was submerged, his vanity was the last part to go below the surface, so he could still enjoy a comfortable glow when “Wookey-wookey,” the deaf old housekeeper243, told him that he was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. It had pleased him to be the lightest and youngest man on the first football squad244; it pleased him when Doctor Dougall told him at the end of a heated conference that he could, if he wished, get the best marks in school. But Doctor Dougall was wrong. It was temperamentally impossible for Amory to get the best marks in school.
Miserable245, confined to bounds, unpopular with both faculty246 and students—that was Amory's first term. But at Christmas he had returned to Minneapolis, tight-lipped and strangely jubilant.
“Oh, I was sort of fresh at first,” he told Frog Parker patronizingly, “but I got along fine—lightest man on the squad. You ought to go away to school, Froggy. It's great stuff.”
INCIDENT OF THE WELL-MEANING PROFESSOR
On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior master, sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his room at nine. Amory suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he determined247 to be courteous248, because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly249 disposed toward him.
His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair. He hemmed250 several times and looked consciously kind, as a man will when he knows he's on delicate ground.
“Amory,” he began. “I've sent for you on a personal matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I've noticed you this year and I—I like you. I think you have in you the makings of a—a very good man.”
“Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as if he were an admitted failure.
“But I've noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you're not very popular with the boys.”
“No, sir.” Amory licked his lips.
“Ah—I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they—ah—objected to. I'm going to tell you, because I believe—ah—that when a boy knows his difficulties he's better able to cope with them—to conform to what others expect of him.” He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence251, and continued: “They seem to think that you're—ah—rather too fresh—”
Amory could stand no more. He rose from his chair, scarcely controlling his voice when he spoke.
“I know—oh, don't you s'pose I know.” His voice rose. “I know what they think; do you s'pose you have to tell me!” He paused. “I'm—I've got to go back now—hope I'm not rude—”
He left the room hurriedly. In the cool air outside, as he walked to his house, he exulted252 in his refusal to be helped.
“That damn old fool!” he cried wildly. “As if I didn't know!”
He decided, however, that this was a good excuse not to go back to study hall that night, so, comfortably couched up in his room, he munched Nabiscos and finished “The White Company.”
INCIDENT OF THE WONDERFUL GIRL
There was a bright star in February. New York burst upon him on Washington's Birthday with the brilliance of a long-anticipated event. His glimpse of it as a vivid whiteness against a deep-blue sky had left a picture of splendor that rivalled the dream cities in the Arabian Nights; but this time he saw it by electric light, and romance gleamed from the chariot-race sign on Broadway and from the women's eyes at the Astor, where he and young Paskert from St. Regis' had dinner. When they walked down the aisle253 of the theatre, greeted by the nervous twanging and discord254 of untuned violins and the sensuous256, heavy fragrance257 of paint and powder, he moved in a sphere of epicurean delight. Everything enchanted258 him. The play was “The Little Millionaire,” with George M. Cohan, and there was one stunning259 young brunette who made him sit with brimming eyes in the ecstasy260 of watching her dance.
“Oh—you—wonderful girl,
What a wonderful girl you are—”
“All—your—wonderful words
Thrill me through—”
The violins swelled262 and quavered on the last notes, the girl sank to a crumpled263 butterfly on the stage, a great burst of clapping filled the house. Oh, to fall in love like that, to the languorous264 magic melody of such a tune255!
The last scene was laid on a roof-garden, and the 'cellos265 sighed to the musical moon, while light adventure and facile froth-like comedy flitted back and forth in the calcium266. Amory was on fire to be an habitui of roof-gardens, to meet a girl who should look like that—better, that very girl; whose hair would be drenched267 with golden moonlight, while at his elbow sparkling wine was poured by an unintelligible268 waiter. When the curtain fell for the last time he gave such a long sigh that the people in front of him twisted around and stared and said loud enough for him to hear:
“What a remarkable-looking boy!”
This took his mind off the play, and he wondered if he really did seem handsome to the population of New York.
Paskert and he walked in silence toward their hotel. The former was the first to speak. His uncertain fifteen-year-old voice broke in in a melancholy269 strain on Amory's musings:
“I'd marry that girl to-night.”
There was no need to ask what girl he referred to.
“I'd be proud to take her home and introduce her to my people,” continued Paskert.
Amory was distinctly impressed. He wished he had said it instead of Paskert. It sounded so mature.
“I wonder about actresses; are they all pretty bad?”
“No, sir, not by a darn sight,” said the worldly youth with emphasis, “and I know that girl's as good as gold. I can tell.”
They wandered on, mixing in the Broadway crowd, dreaming on the music that eddied270 out of the cafes. New faces flashed on and off like myriad271 lights, pale or rouged272 faces, tired, yet sustained by a weary excitement. Amory watched them in fascination273. He was planning his life. He was going to live in New York, and be known at every restaurant and cafe, wearing a dress-suit from early evening to early morning, sleeping away the dull hours of the forenoon.
“Yes, sir, I'd marry that girl to-night!”
HEROIC IN GENERAL TONE
October of his second and last year at St. Regis' was a high point in Amory's memory. The game with Groton was played from three of a snappy, exhilarating afternoon far into the crisp autumnal twilight274, and Amory at quarter-back, exhorting275 in wild despair, making impossible tackles, calling signals in a voice that had diminished to a hoarse276, furious whisper, yet found time to revel216 in the blood-stained bandage around his head, and the straining, glorious heroism277 of plunging278, crashing bodies and aching limbs. For those minutes courage flowed like wine out of the November dusk, and he was the eternal hero, one with the sea-rover on the prow178 of a Norse galley279, one with Roland and Horatius, Sir Nigel and Ted1 Coy, scraped and stripped into trim and then flung by his own will into the breach280, beating back the tide, hearing from afar the thunder of cheers... finally bruised and weary, but still elusive281, circling an end, twisting, changing pace, straight-arming... falling behind the Groton goal with two men on his legs, in the only touchdown of the game.
THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE SLICKER
From the scoffing superiority of sixth-form year and success Amory looked back with cynical wonder on his status of the year before. He was changed as completely as Amory Blaine could ever be changed. Amory plus Beatrice plus two years in Minneapolis—these had been his ingredients when he entered St. Regis'. But the Minneapolis years were not a thick enough overlay to conceal78 the “Amory plus Beatrice” from the ferreting eyes of a boarding-school, so St. Regis' had very painfully drilled Beatrice out of him, and begun to lay down new and more conventional planking on the fundamental Amory. But both St. Regis' and Amory were unconscious of the fact that this fundamental Amory had not in himself changed. Those qualities for which he had suffered, his moodiness282, his tendency to pose, his laziness, and his love of playing the fool, were now taken as a matter of course, recognized eccentricities283 in a star quarter-back, a clever actor, and the editor of the St. Regis Tattler: it puzzled him to see impressionable small boys imitating the very vanities that had not long ago been contemptible284 weaknesses.
After the football season he slumped285 into dreamy content. The night of the pre-holiday dance he slipped away and went early to bed for the pleasure of hearing the violin music cross the grass and come surging in at his window. Many nights he lay there dreaming awake of secret cafes in Mont Martre, where ivory women delved286 in romantic mysteries with diplomats287 and soldiers of fortune, while orchestras played Hungarian waltzes and the air was thick and exotic with intrigue288 and moonlight and adventure. In the spring he read “L'Allegro,” by request, and was inspired to lyrical outpourings on the subject of Arcady and the pipes of Pan. He moved his bed so that the sun would wake him at dawn that he might dress and go out to the archaic289 swing that hung from an apple-tree near the sixth-form house. Seating himself in this he would pump higher and higher until he got the effect of swinging into the wide air, into a fairyland of piping satyrs and nymphs with the faces of fair-haired girls he passed in the streets of Eastchester. As the swing reached its highest point, Arcady really lay just over the brow of a certain hill, where the brown road dwindled290 out of sight in a golden dot.
He read voluminously all spring, the beginning of his eighteenth year: “The Gentleman from Indiana,” “The New Arabian Nights,” “The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne,” “The Man Who Was Thursday,” which he liked without understanding; “Stover at Yale,” that became somewhat of a text-book; “Dombey and Son,” because he thought he really should read better stuff; Robert Chambers291, David Graham Phillips, and E. Phillips Oppenheim complete, and a scattering292 of Tennyson and Kipling. Of all his class work only “L'Allegro” and some quality of rigid clarity in solid geometry stirred his languid interest.
As June drew near, he felt the need of conversation to formulate154 his own ideas, and, to his surprise, found a co-philosopher in Rahill, the president of the sixth form. In many a talk, on the highroad or lying belly-down along the edge of the baseball diamond, or late at night with their cigarettes glowing in the dark, they threshed out the questions of school, and there was developed the term “slicker.”
“Got tobacco?” whispered Rahill one night, putting his head inside the door five minutes after lights.
“Sure.”
“I'm coming in.”
“Take a couple of pillows and lie in the window-seat, why don't you.”
Amory sat up in bed and lit a cigarette while Rahill settled for a conversation. Rahill's favorite subject was the respective futures293 of the sixth form, and Amory never tired of outlining them for his benefit.
“Ted Converse294? 'At's easy. He'll fail his exams, tutor all summer at Harstrum's, get into Sheff with about four conditions, and flunk295 out in the middle of the freshman296 year. Then he'll go back West and raise hell for a year or so; finally his father will make him go into the paint business. He'll marry and have four sons, all bone heads. He'll always think St. Regis's spoiled him, so he'll send his sons to day school in Portland. He'll die of locomotor ataxia when he's forty-one, and his wife will give a baptizing stand or whatever you call it to the Presbyterian Church, with his name on it—”
“Hold up, Amory. That's too darned gloomy. How about yourself?”
“I'm in a superior class. You are, too. We're philosophers.”
“I'm not.”
“Sure you are. You've got a darn good head on you.” But Amory knew that nothing in the abstract, no theory or generality, ever moved Rahill until he stubbed his toe upon the concrete minutiae297 of it.
“Haven't,” insisted Rahill. “I let people impose on me here and don't get anything out of it. I'm the prey298 of my friends, damn it—do their lessons, get 'em out of trouble, pay 'em stupid summer visits, and always entertain their kid sisters; keep my temper when they get selfish and then they think they pay me back by voting for me and telling me I'm the 'big man' of St. Regis's. I want to get where everybody does their own work and I can tell people where to go. I'm tired of being nice to every poor fish in school.”
“You're not a slicker,” said Amory suddenly.
“A what?”
“A slicker.”
“What the devil's that?”
“Well, it's something that—that—there's a lot of them. You're not one, and neither am I, though I am more than you are.”
“Who is one? What makes you one?”
Amory considered.
“Why—why, I suppose that the sign of it is when a fellow slicks his hair back with water.”
“Like Carstairs?”
“Yes—sure. He's a slicker.”
They spent two evenings getting an exact definition. The slicker was good-looking or clean-looking; he had brains, social brains, that is, and he used all means on the broad path of honesty to get ahead, be popular, admired, and never in trouble. He dressed well, was particularly neat in appearance, and derived299 his name from the fact that his hair was inevitably300 worn short, soaked in water or tonic301, parted in the middle, and slicked back as the current of fashion dictated302. The slickers of that year had adopted tortoise-shell spectacles as badges of their slickerhood, and this made them so easy to recognize that Amory and Rahill never missed one. The slicker seemed distributed through school, always a little wiser and shrewder than his contemporaries, managing some team or other, and keeping his cleverness carefully concealed303.
Amory found the slicker a most valuable classification until his junior year in college, when the outline became so blurred304 and indeterminate that it had to be subdivided305 many times, and became only a quality. Amory's secret ideal had all the slicker qualifications, but, in addition, courage and tremendous brains and talents—also Amory conceded him a bizarre streak306 that was quite irreconcilable307 to the slicker proper.
This was a first real break from the hypocrisy308 of school tradition. The slicker was a definite element of success, differing intrinsically from the prep school “big man.”
“THE SLICKER”
1. Clever sense of social values.
2. Dresses well. Pretends that dress is superficial—but knows that it isn't.
3. Goes into such activities as he can shine in.
4. Gets to college and is, in a worldly way, successful.
5. Hair slicked.
“THE BIG MAN”
1. Inclined to stupidity and unconscious of social values.
2. Thinks dress is superficial, and is inclined to be
careless about it.
3. Goes out for everything from a sense of duty.
4. Gets to college and has a problematical future. Feels lost
without his circle, and always says that school days were
happiest, after all. Goes back to school and makes speeches
about what St. Regis's boys are doing.
5. Hair not slicked.
Amory had decided definitely on Princeton, even though he would be the only boy entering that year from St. Regis'. Yale had a romance and glamour309 from the tales of Minneapolis, and St. Regis' men who had been “tapped for Skull310 and Bones,” but Princeton drew him most, with its atmosphere of bright colors and its alluring311 reputation as the pleasantest country club in America. Dwarfed312 by the menacing college exams, Amory's school days drifted into the past. Years afterward, when he went back to St. Regis', he seemed to have forgotten the successes of sixth-form year, and to be able to picture himself only as the unadjustable boy who had hurried down corridors, jeered313 at by his rabid contemporaries mad with common sense.
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1
ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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encyclopedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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fabulously
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| 难以置信地，惊人地 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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28
spanked
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| v.用手掌打( spank的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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30
outgrowing
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的现在分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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31
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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32
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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33
deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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34
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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35
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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36
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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37
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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38
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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39
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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40
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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41
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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42
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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43
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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44
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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45
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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46
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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47
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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50
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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51
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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52
amendments
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| （法律、文件的）改动( amendment的名词复数 )； 修正案； 修改； （美国宪法的）修正案 | |
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53
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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54
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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55
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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56
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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57
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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58
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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59
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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60
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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61
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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62
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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63
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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64
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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65
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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66
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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67
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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68
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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69
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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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
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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72
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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73
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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74
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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75
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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76
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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77
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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78
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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79
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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80
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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81
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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82
shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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84
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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85
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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86
athletics
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| n.运动，体育，田径运动 | |
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87
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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88
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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89
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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90
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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91
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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92
modulation
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| n.调制 | |
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93
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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94
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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95
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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96
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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97
ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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98
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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99
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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100
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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101
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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102
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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103
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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104
shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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105
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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106
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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107
limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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108
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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109
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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110
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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111
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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112
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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113
stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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114
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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115
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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116
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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117
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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118
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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119
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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121
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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123
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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124
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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125
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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126
moles
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| 防波堤( mole的名词复数 )； 鼹鼠； 痣； 间谍 | |
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127
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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128
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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129
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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130
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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131
munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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134
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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135
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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136
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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137
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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138
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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139
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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140
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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141
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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142
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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143
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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144
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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145
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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146
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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147
chameleon
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| n.变色龙，蜥蜴；善变之人 | |
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148
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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149
biasses
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| 使倾向于（bias的第三人称单数形式） | |
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150
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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151
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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152
accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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153
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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154
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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155
variant
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| adj.不同的，变异的；n.变体，异体 | |
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156
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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157
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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158
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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159
magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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160
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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161
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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162
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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163
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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165
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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166
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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167
automatons
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| n.自动机，机器人( automaton的名词复数 ) | |
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168
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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169
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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170
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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171
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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173
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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174
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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175
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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176
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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177
chauffeurs
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| n.受雇于人的汽车司机( chauffeur的名词复数 ) | |
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178
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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179
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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180
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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181
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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182
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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183
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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184
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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185
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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186
tragically
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|
| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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187
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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188
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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189
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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190
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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191
flaunted
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|
| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的过去式和过去分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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192
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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193
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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194
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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195
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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196
mellower
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| 成熟的( mellow的比较级 )； （水果）熟透的； （颜色或声音）柔和的； 高兴的 | |
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197
snarling
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|
| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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198
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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199
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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200
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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201
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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202
scoffing
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|
| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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203
tutelary
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|
| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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204
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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205
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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206
rambling
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|
| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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208
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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209
enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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210
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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211
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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212
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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213
jibes
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| n.与…一致( jibe的名词复数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配v.与…一致( jibe的第三人称单数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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214
celibate
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|
| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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215
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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216
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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217
rusty
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|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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218
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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219
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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220
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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221
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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222
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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224
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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225
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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226
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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227
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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228
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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229
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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230
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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231
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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232
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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233
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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234
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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235
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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236
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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237
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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238
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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239
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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240
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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241
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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242
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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243
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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244
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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245
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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246
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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247
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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248
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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249
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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250
hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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251
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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252
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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253
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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254
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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255
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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256
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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257
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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258
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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259
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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260
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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261
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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262
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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263
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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264
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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265
cellos
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| n.大提琴( cello的名词复数 ) | |
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266
calcium
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| n.钙(化学符号Ca) | |
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267
drenched
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|
| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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268
unintelligible
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|
| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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269
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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270
eddied
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| 起漩涡，旋转( eddy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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271
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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272
rouged
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|
| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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274
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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275
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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276
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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277
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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278
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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279
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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280
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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282
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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283
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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284
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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285
slumped
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| 大幅度下降，暴跌( slump的过去式和过去分词 )； 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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286
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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287
diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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288
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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289
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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290
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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291
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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292
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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293
futures
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| n.期货，期货交易 | |
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294
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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295
flunk
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| v.(考试)不及格(=fail) | |
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296
freshman
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| n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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297
minutiae
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| n.微小的细节，细枝末节；（常复数）细节，小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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298
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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299
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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300
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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301
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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302
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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303
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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304
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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305
subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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306
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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307
irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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308
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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309
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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310
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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311
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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312
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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313
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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