A lady richly clad as she,
Beautiful exceedingly.”
CRISTABEL.
“Here’s metal more attractive.”
HAMLET.
AS she had promised, Marion called the next day to hear Lady Severn’s decision.
She had not much fear of its being unfavourable, and from the readiness with which the servant threw open the drawing-room door, announcing her, unprompted, as Miss Freer, she felt little doubt but that the fact of her new honours had already transpired3 to the retainers of the family.
Lady Severn was not in the room. Only Miss Vyse. She was lying on the sofa as Marion entered, but rose and came forward to meet her. For half a moment, one of those strange half-moments that seem so long, the two girls looked at each other. Florence was mentally measuring this little governess with the pretty brown hair. Measuring and weighing her; and she did it correctly enough so far as her weights and measures went.
“Not pretty, but pleasing. Not striking, but with a something that might develop into a certain kind of attractiveness. Well-bred looking, certainly, and as to character—well, not exactly a goose, but by no means a person much to be dreaded4. Far too ingenuous5 and transparent6.”
Florence felt relieved, and inclined to be amiable7 and patronising; which agreeable sensation increased when in Marion’s grey eyes she read evident admiration8 for herself. More than admiration. Marion’s first glance at Florence actually dazzled her. She had forgotten all about the existence of such a person as Miss Vyse, and had entered the room expecting to see only Lady Severn, when this radiant creature rose to greet her. In her gracious mood, Florence spoke9 courteously10 and kindly11, yet with a certain inflection of condescension12, some few words of apology for Lady Severn’s absence.
“My aunt was obliged to go out this morning,” she said; “she asked me to see you instead, and talk over a little the plans for my cousins’ lessons; the hours, and so on. So pray sit down, Miss Freer. Lady Severn may perhaps come in by the time I have given you a little idea of what she wishes.”
“Thank you,” said Marion. And as Miss Vyse seated herself gracefully13, she thought again, “How very beautiful you are.” But, somehow, she did not think it quite in the same way since hearing Florence speak. Something in her voice repelled15 her. Not the tone of condescension, that was simply rather laughable; and irritating, perhaps, for the moment. It was no incidental inflection that she disliked. It was something in the voice itself: or, rather, it seemed to her something wanting in it. An absence, not of depth nor refinement16, nor sweetness; of no one of these exactly, but of something including and yet surpassing them all. And, in a strange way, it seemed to her as if her immediate17 perception of a want in the voice revealed to her at the same moment an equally indefinable want in the whole being of the woman before her. And yet she was so beautiful! If only she had been a picture instead of a living being, Marion felt that she could have admired her with perfect satisfaction!
But she was brought back from these fancies by Miss Vyse’s proceeding18 to inform her that Lady Severn was anxious to know if she could commence her new duties as soon as the following Monday.
“Oh, yes,” said Marion; “I am sure Mrs. Archer19 will be able to spare me by then. She only asked me to be as much with her as possible this week, as I can help her in arranging things a little.”
“Certainly,” said Miss Vyse; “and then as to hours. Can you be here regularly by half-past nine?”
To which proposal also Marion agreed; and had next to listen to a dissertation20 from her companion on the subject of the studies to which Lady Severn especially desired her to direct her grand-daughters’ attention. Miss Vyse had rather got herself up for the occasion, and talked so fluently about books and methods, the system on which she herself had been educated, &c., &c., that she ended by frightening Marion far more than Lady Severn had done the previous day. She was just beginning to wonder if Miss Vyse would ever leave of talking, when, to her great relief, their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Severn and her two grand-daughters.
“Good morning, Miss Freer,” said the elder lady. “I was quite obliged to go out early this morning with my grand-daughters, but I have no doubt Miss Vyse will have said to you all I wished. I am glad you are still here, as I can now introduce these little girls to you. Charlotte, my dear, this is Miss Freer, who has kindly undertaken the charge of your studies.”
Charlotte came forward frankly21 enough, shook hands with Marion in an easy, careless sort of way, and then, turning to Miss Vyse, began eagerly to relate to her the event of the morning—a visit to the dressmaker; not seeming to think it necessary to bestow22 any more attention on her prospective23 governess.
Little Sybil put her hand in Marion’s, shyly, glanced up half wistfully in her face, and there, evidently reading encouragement, drew closer and held up her mouth to be kissed. Marion’s heart was, of course, won on the spot, and she began talking pleasantly to the child. Sybil answered timidly, but at last, gathering24 fresh courage from Marion’s gentle manner, became, in her childish way, quite communicative and confidential25.
“We are going a beautiful drive on Friday,” she said, “all the way to Berlet, and we are to have tea in a cottage at the top of the hill. Will you come too?”
“No thank you, dear,” said Marion, “but you will tell we all about it on Monday.”
“Yes, but I would like you to come. Grandmamma, will you please let Miss Freer come to Berlet?”
Marion felt rather annoyed at the child’s pertinacity26, but the suggestion appeared strike Lady Severn in a different way.
“I should really be very glad if you would come, Miss Freer,” she said, cordially, “it would be an excellent way of making acquaintance with the children. And Mrs. Archer too. Do you think she would care to be of the party? We shall have two carriages, so there will be plenty of room.”
Marion thought it very probable that Mrs. Archer would enjoy the little excursion, and promising27 to let Lady Severn know their decision by the following day, took her departure, after another kiss from Sybil, a graceful14 bow from Miss Vyse, and a rather cross shake of the hand from Lotty, when interrupted by her grandmother, in the midst of her conversation with her cousin.
“How I wish Sybil were to be my only pupil!” thought Marion, as she walked home, “though Lotty seems a frank sort of child. But I am sure she is dreadfully spoilt. I can’t make up my mind about Miss Vyse. How very handsome she is, and yet I don’t think I like her. I wonder if I should have liked her better had we met as equals, instead of my being a governess. I wonder how she and Sir Ralph get on.”
And so she wondered on till she got home, and then amused Cissy by her morning’s adventures. Mrs. Archer had never heard of Miss Vyse, and from Marion’s description of her felt curious to see her. She readily agreed to join Lady Severn’s party to Berlet, and evidently was beginning to think better of her cousin’s masquerade, as she called it; seeing that its results so far, had been by no means disastrous28. That afternoon and the next brought quite an influx29 of visitors to Mrs. Archer’s pretty little drawing-room. Mrs. Fraser, who proved on further acquaintance to be really an intelligent and agreeable woman. Mrs. and Miss Bailey, the former a good motherly creature, and the latter a pretty childish girl, incapable30 of inspiring, very vehement31 feelings of any kind. Her chronic32 insipidity33 was increased at the present time by her imagining herself to be the victim of unrequited affection, in which melancholy34 condition she fancied it suitable and becoming to sit with her head on one side, staring before her in a vacant and slightly imbecilic manner. She took it into her head to form a sudden and vehement friendship for Miss Freer, who was rather puzzled by her at first, not being behind the scenes of the silly Dora’s heart. Marion’s want of responsiveness, however, did not appear to chill her in the least. She grew more and more communicative, and by the end of the half hour’s visit had all but confided35 to her patient listener the name of her cold-hearted hero. Fortunately Mrs. Bailey rose to go before this juncture36; greatly to Marion’s relief, for her experience of the gushing37 order of young ladies had been extremely limited. Friday brought the Berwick family en masse with the exception, that is to say, of the invalid38, Blanche. Major Berwick was an old Indian, which expresses a good deal. His wife was sharp and fussy39, and evidently perfectly40 ready to gossip on the smallest provocation41. Sophy, a rough and ready sort of girl, impressed Marion rather more favourably42 than the rest of the family. Her strong affection for her brother, “Frank,” the good-looking young officer of the table d’h?te party, inclined Marion’s sisterly heart towards her. Before the end of the visit, Captain Berwick himself appeared. He was full of the adventures and amusement they had met with in their mountain expedition, which, he declared, had turned out famously.
“Our party was capitally arranged,” he said, “just the right number, and all well up to the work. Excepting Chepstow,” he added, to his sister.
“Poor man,” said she, “what did you do with him?”
“Left him half way,” he replied, “but he really is an awfully43 good-natured fellow. It is too bad the way that conceited44 Erbenfeld makes fun of him.”
Sophy coloured:
“I don’t think Mr. Erbenfeld is half as conceited or disagreeable as Sir Ralph Severn,” said she.
“Indeed,” said Cissy, “I am sorry to hear Sir Ralph is so undesirable45 a companion; for we are going to drive to Berlet with the Severns tomorrow. “
“Sophy is very foolish, Mrs. Archer,” said her brother. “Sir Ralph is much nicer when one comes to know him. I, myself, did not at first take to him at all, but now that I have seen a little more of him I really like him.”
Sophy looked rather annoyed:
“Next time you intend to change your opinion of any one in such a hurry, I wish you would give me notice, Frank,” she said; and then turning to Mrs. Archer, she began a rattling46 conversation on every subject under the sun, making fun of all the people it Altes, one after another.
Marion felt disappointed. Something in the girl had attracted her, but this sort of talk wearied and repelled her. She much preferred hearing from Captain Berwick a more detailed47 account of his mountain expedition, which he, pleased at the interest this pretty girl took in his recital48, was nothing loth to give her. He several times alluded49 to the young Russian, Nodouroff.
Marion asked who he was.
“Oh, they’re rather grand people, I believe,” said young Berwick; “the father is an official, of course, something about the court. The mother and daughter come here almost every winter. The daughter, Countess Olga, is the most beautiful girl here. At least, in my opinion. Some people admire Miss Vyse, Lady Severn’s niece, more. Have you seen her?”
“Yes,” said Marion “I think her very beautiful.”
“So she is undoubtedly50; but the Countess Olga’s expression is much more to my taste. I am sure you would think so too. There is something melancholy about her face. I don’t know if she is really so, for I have never spoken to her.”
“But beautiful people always look more or less melancholy, don’t you think?” asked Marion.
“No, not all. Miss Vyse doesn’t look melancholy, though she tries it, now and then,” said Captain Berwick; “but her face is too hard for that sort of thing, I hate a hard expression. Even a goose like Dora Bailey is more to my taste than a beauty like Miss Vyse.”
“Who is the English gentleman with Count Vladimir?”
“Oh, his tutor, Mr. Price, you mean. He used to be Severn’s tutor. Poor wretch51! I do think tutors are more to be pitied than any order of human beings, except governesses. Do you remember, Sophy, how fearfully you bullied52 yours?”
A frown from Sophy revealed to the unfortunate Frank that he had made a terrible blunder.
Marion pitied him, though not a little amused at his confusion. She said quietly:
“I don’t think all governesses are to be pitied. Not, at least, those like me who live at home and only give daily lessons. You don’t think I look very wretched, do you, though I am daily governess to Lady Severn’s little girls?”
“Pray forgive me, Miss Freer,” said the young man; “and pray believe I am the very last fellow on earth to—“
“To say anything to hurt any one else,” suggested Marion, good-humouredly. “Yes, I assure you you are quite forgiven, Captain Berwick.”
But the young soldier did not forget the little incident, nor did it tend to lessen53 the favourable2 impression left on his mind by Mrs. Archer’s pretty friend.
As Mrs. Berwick took leave she expressed a hope that they should “see a great deal of Mrs. Archer.”
“You must always come to us on Thursdays,” she said. “By-the-by, what day are you going to choose for receiving your friends?”
It had not occurred to Mrs. Archer that any such formal arrangement would be necessary. But Mrs. Berwick and Sophy hastened to explain that every one had an “at home “day at Altes. The English society being limited, people found it necessary to make the most, of it; and, as Sophy said, “It was very provoking to spend an afternoon in calling on one’s friends, and to find them all out. And then, on getting home, to find that half of them had been calling on us.”
So Cissy told her always to come to see her when she could find no one else at home.
“We shall not be such gad-abouts as other people, Miss Berwick, for we have not a great many acquaintances, and besides I am not very strong,” she said.
“Oh, within a fortnight you’re sure to know every one here,” said Sophy: “and I assure you you had better fix a day.”
“Well, then, you choose one for me.”
“Let in see,” considered Sophy; “ours is Thursday. Then on Wednesday the band plays, and I know several people have Mondays and Tuesdays. Suppose you take Fridays?”
“So be it,” replied Cissy; “then on Fridays, if you have nothing better to do, I shall hope to see you here, to join Marion and me in our afternoon tea, which, when it is fine enough, we can partake of on the terrace. I haven’t much of a garden, but what there is looks pretty enough from the end of the terrace. “
“That’s a capital idea, Mrs. Archer. Tea on the terrace. You may expect to see Sophy and me every Friday without fail,” said Captain Berwick. And then the visitors departed.
“Oh, how tired I am, May, “exclaimed Cissy, curling herself up in a corner of the sofa. “I am not in love with the Berwicks. I like the son the best. Ring for tea, Marion. I must have a cup, or I shall faint.”
So they consoled themselves for the fatigues54 of the afternoon. Before-dinner tea was as yet hardly a domestic institution; but Cissy, be it observed, had a mind in advance of the age.
“How I hate old Indians!” she exclaimed. “Marion, if ever you catch me talking Indian ‘shop,’ I give you leave to cut my acquaintance.”
Friday came, but in clouds and rain. So the Berlet excursion was given up, and Marion’s becoming better acquainted with her pupils had to be deferred55 till Monday, when her new duties began.
The first morning’s lessons passed off better than the inexperienced governess had ventured to hope. Charlotte was marvellously docile56 and attentive57, though evidently totally unaccustomed to anything like regular study. The secret of her good behaviour transpired in the course of the morning, when the children informed Miss Freer that if they were very obedient and industrious58 at lessons up to Thursday week—which happened to be Sibyl’s birthday—on that day the Berlet expedition was to take place, on a much grander scale than had been originally contemplate59.
“And you are to come, Miss Freer, and that lady where you live,” said little Sybil, launching out into such enthusiastic descriptions of all they should do and see, that Marion was obliged to remind her that by too much talking in school-hours they might be in danger of breaking their grandmother’s condition.
“Little girls can’t he industrious at lessons if they’re thinking of birthday treats all the time, you know, Sybil.”
So the child dutifully set to work again, labouring hard at words of two syllables60, which was the stage she had reached in her spelling-book. She was very ignorant for ten years old; and, indeed, the little she did know, had been imperfectly and irregularly acquired. She was naturally slow, though by no means stupid. There were strange, fitful gleams of decided61 originality62 about her; a delicacy63 of perception, and an almost morbid64 sensitiveness, which would have suffered terribly in the hands of many teachers. But Marion, though herself so young and inexperienced, understood the child instinctively65. Still, the spelling-book was hard work, and but for the extreme docility66 of the pupil, and the patient gentleness of the teacher, would have been the cause of no little irritation67 to both.
Lotty was decidedly clever when she chose to exert, or rather, I should say, to concentrate her powers. Strong and healthy, quick-witted and warm-hearted, under good management, she promised to turn out a sensible and intelligent woman. But, hot-tempered and self-willed, fond of admiration and amusement, the risk to such a nature from injudicious training was far greater than to that of her little sister. That Lotty would develop rapidly for good or evil was evident. Sybil, on the contrary, might be stunted68 or withered69, but would never run wild.
But they were both interesting children; and Marion was very happy this morning in the receipt of a grateful letter from Harry70. A letter which cheered her about him in every way. He had “had a good lesson,” he said, but, thanks to her, had incurred71 no disgrace; and he begged her to believe that never again would he cause her such sorrow and anxiety. “I won’t make grand promises,” he wrote, “but I think the future will show that I mean what I say. I shall always feel that but for you, dear May, my whole life might have been spoilt. As you ask me not to tease about where you got the money I won’t do so, but I do trust it has not greatly inconvenienced or harassed72 you.”
So the morning’s studies passed off prosperously, and Marion wrote on two slips of paper her report of her pupils for Lady Severn’s edification.
“Charlotte: obedient and attentive.”
“Sybil; very painstaking73.”
For which she was rewarded by a hug from Lotty, and an affectionate kiss from Sybil.
That afternoon, as Cissy was resting on the sofa, after walking with Marion to return some of the visits paid them the previous week, they were surprised by the entrance of Sir Ralph Severn.
He seemed pleased to renew his acquaintance with Mrs. Archer, and apologised for not having recognized her at the table d’h?te.
“Your not knowing me was very excusable, I think,” said Mrs. Archer; “remember, it is seven years since we met at Cairo.”
“Seven years only,” said he; I could fancy it was fifteen.”
“Do I look such an old woman already?” asked Cissy, maliciously74.
Sir Ralph looked confused.
“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Archer,” he exclaimed. “I am sure I have said so. Indeed, I doubt if I was ever anything else. My remembrance of you at Cairo is that you then looked very, very young. A mere75 child, I was going to say, but I am not at all sure that such an expression would not be as bad as the other was.”
“Supposing we take the middle course, then,” said Cissy; “being neither an old woman nor a mere child, I may consider myself as somewhere between the two. But seriously, Sir Ralph, though you needn’t call me an old woman, I hope, for my husband’s sake, you will consider me as an old friend. George will be really pleased to hear of your coming to see me; and if you don’t find the company of two ladies unendurably stupid, I hope now and then you will look in when you have nothing better to do.”
Sir Ralph seemed pleased.
“You are very good, Mrs. Archer. I shall like to come and see you now and then. I should like to hear about George—Colonel Archer, I should say. You don’t know how kind he was to me long ago. Indeed, I have more to thank him for than any one knows. I may as well tell you what I mean, for I should like you to tell him about it some day. It was long ago, before you were married. An unlucky, stupid misunderstanding had arisen between my brother, his friend, and me. John was, naturally enough, provoked at me, and I, utterly76 mistaking him, was in a wretched state of wounded pride and mortification77. My mother tried to set it right, but failed. I was on the eve of going abroad, with all this miserable78 cloud between us, when, luckily, George Archer came to Medhurst. It is a thankless task meddling79 between relations, but he braved it, and succeeded, as he deserved. John and I parted the best of friends; and you will understand how doubly grateful I felt to Archer, when I tell you that I never saw my brother again in life.”
Cissy’s warm little heart was won.
“Thank you, Sir Ralph,” she said, “for telling me. But have you never seen George since then?”
“Oh, yes, at Cairo, you remember? But that was very soon after all this happened. And at that time I little thought that my farewell to John (thanks to Archer, a friendly one) was indeed a farewell for ever in this world. Yes, I should much like to see Archer,” he added, dreamily. “I think he would enter into some of my feeling’s, for he was very fond of John. Those poor little girls! Have you seen them, Mrs. Archer?”
“No, not yet; but I have, of course, heard a great deal about them from Marion. Marion, dear,” she went on, but looking round no Marion was to be seen.
“Ah—Miss Freer,” said Sir Ralph. “How stupid I am! I have frightened her away by engrossing80 you in my selfish conversation. Pray, Mrs. Archer, ask her to return. I really want to thank her for her kindness in undertaking81 to teach those dreadfully ignorant children.”
“May!” he shouted, “that gentleman wants you, this minute.” Which intimation or her presence being desired, did not by any means hasten the young lady’s movements.
When she re-appeared she was greeted with reproaches from Cissy and apologies from Sir Ralph.
“I thought you had a good deal to talk about,” she said.
“Nothing, I am sure, that Sir Ralph would have minded your hearing, May,” said Cissy; “he has only been making me more conceited than ever about my husband.”
“The surest way to winning Mrs. Archer’s favour, I can assure you,” observed Marion.
It had been on his lips to say something to her of his satisfaction that she had undertaken the charge of his nieces; to give her even, should he have an opportunity, a little advice about these children. But something in her manner made it impossible for him to carry out his intention. A certain unconscious taking-for-granted of perfect equality in their positions. An utter absence of anything like the feeling of dependence84 in her whole air and bearing. Nothing presuming, nothing affected85. She was evidently quite at her ease, and accustomed to feel so. Anything more unlike the shrinking, modest young governess he had, from his mother’s description, expected to meet, it was utterly impossible to imagine. He could not make her out.
“Whoever she is she cannot have been brought up with the idea of occupying a dependent position,” he said to himself, and then thought no more about it; but gave himself up to the, to him, rare pleasure of spending an hour with two agreeable women, one of whom was lively and amusing, and the other something more than either. What he could, not exactly say. Not beautiful, not brilliant, not fascinating. What then? Something that suited and interested him, something original, unlike what he had seen in other women; and so unconscious, so artless, so thoroughly86 womanly. Over and over again he found himself asking, “Where lay the charm?” Grey eyes, brown hair, sweet voice, sweeter smile, which of you all has to answer for it? None, yet all. A something including and surpassing all these, a something so subtle and indefinable, that not in all the long roll of years since this old world began, has poet breathed or minstrel sung, words, which, to those who have never felt it for themselves, can in the least picture or describe this strange, sweet, sad mystery.
Poor Ralph! It was only the beginning of the old, old story, after all, little though he thought it, that pleasant afternoon, when he sat in Mrs. Archer’s pretty drawing room, talking lightly and merrily even, with these two. Of books and flowers and music; of all manner of things under the sun, it little mattered what. Marion somehow had a knack87 of understanding one’s words almost before they were uttered. She said the right things in the right way. At least, when she felt she was with those who, on their side, liked and understood her. How they all three talked and laughed, agreed and argued!
Ralph, walking home, thought what a pleasant, refreshing88 afternoon be had spent. After all he was glad to find he was not yet so old and stiff but that he could now and then unbend a little. Of course, when in company with younger and more brilliant men, he could not expect to be so made of and entertained as he had been today. But for once in a way it was a pleasant change. And then he fell to thinking how strange it was that he should be so different from other men.
“Why have I always lived so lonely and apart? Why have I never cared, when I was younger and in the way of such things, for any sweet, gentle woman, who might in time have learnt to care for me?”
Surely it was very strange! It never occurred to him that after all it was not yet too late for the tree of his life to bear the fruit of love; all the richer and fuller, perhaps, for having been somewhat late of maturing.
He imagined himself altogether beyond the pale of such things. Too hard and dry, too naturally unimpressionable. Might he not think so? He had escaped heart-whole from much fascination89, for his life had not been altogether spent in a study or a cell. He had seen beauty in all its forms. He had even, most unanswerable of all, been unimpressed—nay, rather revolted than, attracted—by charms displayed expressly for his benefit. Those of the beautiful Florence Vyse.
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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repelled
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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immediate
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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bestow
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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gathering
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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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pertinacity
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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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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influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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insipidity
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| n.枯燥无味，清淡，无精神；无生气状 | |
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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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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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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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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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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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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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83
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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84
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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85
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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