IN consequence of the family dinner at Mrs. Baxter’s, and the impression there made upon the master of the house by the discovery of Mrs. Baldwin’s antecedents, that young lade received the honour of morning calls from some half dozen, more or less distinguished2, Millington matrons. For a short time indeed, Marion ran some chance of becoming the fashion, but as the prospect3 was not a tempting4 one and the horrors of being patronised did not diminish on nearer view, she managed, quietly, though without giving offence, to let her new acquaintances understand that she and her husband were of one mind as to the expediency6 of living in a perfectly7 retired8 manner.
“Quite out of the world,” Mrs. Baxter called it, and though Marion smiled inwardly at the Millington lady’s notion of society, she had the good sense to say nothing which could have uselessly irritated the wife of Geoffrey’s superior.
“Nor indeed would it be right not to seem to appreciate what they think so attractive,” said she to her husband, “for after all, though our ways of looking at things may be utterly9 different, they are in their own way worthy10 people, and I suppose they mean to be kind to us.”
“I suppose they do,” said Geoffrey, “but I couldn’t stand many of those dreadfully heavy dinners. Even if we could afford the cabs, which we can’t.”
“In the bottom of her heart I think Mrs. Baxter is by no means sorry that we have decided11 against ‘visiting,’ ” said Marion. “I can’t make her out. She has been so wonderfully civil to me since we dined there, notwithstanding the dreadful revelation of my teaching Mrs. Allen’s boys. But yet I am certain she is not sincere in so urging us to accept her friend’s invitations.”
“She is a nasty little cat,” said Geoffrey; “she’s ready to scratch your eyes out because old Baxter has gone about praising you. He’s an old goose, (not for admiring you, I don’t mean that) but he talks in such an absurd pompous12 way. All the same, he’s a long way better than his wife, for he’s honest and she’s not. What a nice girl that little niece was we met there! The tall thin girl I mean.”
“Very,” assented13 Marion, and then her thoughts recurred14 to what had been little absent from them for some days—the tidings which had so strangely reached her of gentle Sybil’s death. She had not told Geoffrey about it. He had never heard any particulars of her life at Altes, and had she told him any she must have told him all, which on the whole she felt convinced was better not.
There was nothing really to be concealed15, nothing of which she was ashamed. Years hence, some day when they had left all the past further behind, she would perhaps tell him the whole story. But not just yet. She had wounded him once so deeply, that even now, there were times at which she doubted if all was thoroughly16 healed; though for the last six months each day had but served to draw them closer together, in a way that, but for their loss of wealth, it might have taken years to achieve.
They were very happy together. Still, Geoffrey was at times dull and depressed17 almost to morbidness18, and though Marion, correctly enough, attributed these moody19 fits greatly to outside circumstances, she yet could not but fear that to some extent they arose from misgivings20 as to her happiness, exaggerated self-reproach for what he had brought upon her.
At such times she found it best to ignore, in great measure, his depression. Protestations of affection did not come naturally to her, nor would they have convinced him of what, if he did doubt it, time alone would prove genuine. Her devotion to him in practical matters at such times even seemed to deepen his gloom.
“You are too good to me, far too good,” he would say, but with a tone as of disclaiming21 his right to such goodness, inexpressibly painful to her.
At other times again he would brighten up wonderfully, and Marion’s anxiety about him, physically22 and mentally, would temporarily slumber23.
So the days wore on, till it grew to be within about three weeks of Christmas. The engagement with Mrs. Allen, which had been punctually fulfilled, was drawing to a close, much to Marion’s regret; for the five guineas a month had proved a very acceptable addition to Geoffrey’s modest salary, and the task till latterly, had seemed a light and pleasant one. Mrs. Allen had shown herself most consistently kind and considerate; many a day she had suddenly discovered a pressing errand at the other side of Millington obliging her to drive in the direction of Brewer24 Street, where Mrs. Appleby’s mansion25 was situated26, curiously27 enough at the very hour of Mrs. Baldwin’s return thither28.
“So as it happens, my dear,” the worthy lad would say, “I can give you a lift home without taking me five yards about.”
The little boys were very nice children, gentle and teachable. The youngest one indeed rather unusually and precociously29 intelligent; but as is generally the case with such children, physically speaking, fragile to a degree. They were the youngest and only remaining of a large family, all of whom had dropped off, one by one, as the mother expressed it, like buds with no life in them.
“Though how it should be the young ones come to be so delicate considering how strong Papa and I are, I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Allen to Marion, as she wiped away a few tears one day when she had been relating the history of her successive bereavements.
As the weather grew colder Geoffrey seemed to feel stronger. The long walk to and from Mr. Baxter’s warehouse30 was not half so trying to him in winter as in the close oppressive days of their first coming to Millington. But it was not so with Marion. Day after day she felt her strength mysteriously diminishing, and as the last week of her daily lessons’ giving approached, she felt thankful that the engagement was so near its termination; for easy as the task had been, she felt that it was growing too much for her.
One morning the boys had been a little more troublesome than usual, and she herself by the close of the lesson felt utterly exhausted31. The children had run out to their play, she was alone in the school-room putting on her bonnet32 and cloak preparatory to her long walk home to Brewer Street, when the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Allen appeared. She had come, good soul, with her usual transparent33 little fib about having to drive in Mrs. Baldwin’s direction; but before she had time to explain her errand, to her surprise and alarm, Marion burst into a violent fit of weeping.
“What is the matter, dear Mrs. Baldwin? tell me, I pray you,” said the kind-hearted woman. “Have the boys been teasing you, or are you not feeling well this morning?”
Marion tried to answer her enquiries, but for some minutes could not control her voice sufficiently34 to do so. Mrs. Allen fetched a glass of wine which she made her drink part of, and in a short time the poor girl was well enough to speak as quietly as usual, and smile at her own “silly fit of crying.”
“Truly,” she assured Mrs. Allen, “I had no reason for crying. Alfred was rather slower than usual at his sums, but he was perfectly good, poor little fellow. I may have been a little tired by that, however; it is the only thing I can think of. Only”—and she hesitated.
“Only what, my dear?” urged Mrs. Allen.
Marion looked up at the kind, motherly face. Its expression invited confidence.
“Don’t tell anyone what I am going to say, dear Mrs. Allen,” said she, laying her hand appealingly on her friend’s arm. I cannot help feeling it would be a relief to tell some-body. Do you know I am afraid I am getting ill. Sometimes I feel as if I must really be going to die. I am so dreadfully weak, and every day I feel more so. It is making the very miserable35, for I don’t know how Geoffrey could live without me. And my falling ill would be such a fearful aggravation36 of all his troubles.”
She looked as if she were ready to burst out crying again. Mrs. Allen made her finish her wine, and then said very kindly37,
“I don’t think you are going to die, dear Mrs. Baldwin, but I certainly think you must take more care of yourself, for I am sure you need it. You are very young and inexperienced, my dear. I should like you to see a doctor.”
“I don’t think it would be any use,” said Marion, sadly. “Besides,” she added, her face flushing, “doctors are so expensive, and my seeing one would alarm Geoffrey so. Of all things I wish to avoid doing so till I am obliged. I may get round again gradually, when the weather is better.”
“No, my dear,” persisted Mrs. Allen. “It does not do to trust to ‘may get wells.’ You must see a doctor. And if you don’t want to alarm your husband, I’ll tell you how we’ll manage it. If you will stay just now to early dinner with me and the boys, whenever it’s over I’ll take you to our own doctor. As nice a man as ever lived. You’ll go with me you know in an easy sort of way. Nothing to pay this time any way. I’ll tell him I brought you, a little against your will, feelin’ anxious about you. If he goes to see you at your own house again that’ll be another affair. To-day you’ll be like as might be my daughter.”
Marion gratefully agreed to the arrangement so thoughtfully proposed, which was accordingly carried out. Nothing could exceed Mrs. Allen’s motherly kindness, and Marion felt not a little thankful for her presence and sympathy, for wholly unexpected and somewhat overwhelming was Dr. Hamley’s solution of her mysterious loss of strength.
Was she sorry or glad? she asked herself, when, set down at her own door by her friend, she had an hour or two’s quiet to think over this little looked-for intelligence, before the usual time for Geoffrey’s return from business.
She could not tell. If they had still been rich, she thought to herself, this new prospect before her would have been one of unalloyed rejoicing. But now? They were so poor, and she feared much, the thought of another help-less being dependent on his unaided exertions39 would sadly deepen the lines already creeping round Geoffrey’s fair, boyish face, would quickly mingle40 grey hairs with the golden ones she had learnt to love so fondly. And then there came back to her recollection the words of Lady Anne, that day at Copley Wood when she had been so frightened about Geoffrey, and had yet been cruel enough to chill him by her affected41 indifference42 to his safe return.
“Geoffrey is so fond of children,” had said Lady Anne.
“Would he still feel so?” Marion asked herself. She could not make up her mind.
So she kept her news to herself for a while.
But when at last one day she confided43 it to her husband, she almost repented44 not having done so before. The relief to him was so immense of having a satisfactory explanation of Marion’s failing health and wearied looks, that all other considerations faded into insignificance45. He had been watching her, though silently, with the most intense anxiety, and though fearful of distressing46 her by objecting to the fulfilment of her engagement with Mrs. Allen, had been counting the days till it should be at an end.
“Oh, my darling!” he said; “I am so thankful, so very thankful it is this and not worse. For the last week or two I have been in such misery47 about you. I saw how ill you were—saw you growing weaker and weaker before my eyes without knowing what to do. I seemed paralyzed when I first realized that it was not only my fancy, and yet I dreaded48 startling you by noticing it. Only to-day I had made up my mind to write to Veronica and ask her to arrange for your going to her for the rest of the winter. I thought this place was killing49 you, and yet I could not endure the thought of parting with you.”
“And do you think I would have left you, Geoffrey?” she whispered.
“I feared you would object to it, in your unselfishness, my darling—your generous pity for the man that has ruined your life.”
“Don’t, don’t,” she interrupted, laying her hand on his mouth. “It pains me so terribly when you speak so. It isn’t pity, Geoffrey. It is far, far more.”
He did not contradict her in her words; he looked at her fondly, with mingled50 reverence51 and tenderness. But she did not feel satisfied that he quite believed her.
“You are the whole world to me,” he murmured. “Surely I am not selfish in wishing to keep you all to myself for a time. It may not, will not, I think, be for very long. And then—heaven grant I may have strength to work for her while she has no one else to look to.”
He spoke52 too low, for Marion, who had moved across the room, to catch his words. When she had got her work she came back and sat down beside him.
“It is frightfully hard upon you,” he said anxiously. No comforts, no anything. If only we had a little house of our own, however small. But we must not think of that just yet. In a few months I hope we shall get the two thousand pounds, which is all we shall ever see of the old Bank. Then, perhaps, we might think of furnishing a little house here.”
“We should be dreadfully rich then,” said Marion cheerfully. “Another hundred a year! Oh, yes, we might quite furnish a house then, and keep, perhaps, two servants.”
“But furnishing would make a hole in the capital, and then we shouldn’t have as much as a hundred additional,” said Geoffrey, dolefully.
“Not at all,” exclaimed his wife. “You are forgetting the three hundred pounds ready money we have already. It is with that, or part of it, I intend to furnish.”
“Well, we must see,” he said, unwilling53 to damp her pleasure in these plans, but mentally resolving that in the meantime at least the precious three hundred must not be trenched upon. “We must see,” he repeated. “One thing I am thankful for, and that is, there can be no more question of your doing anything but take care of yourself. No more trampings to Mrs. Allen’s, or still more horrible omnibus drives.”
“It wasn’t horrible at all,” said Marion, brightly. “I am really very sorry it is over. They are dear little boys, and Mrs. Allen herself is the best and kindest creature possible. And as for sitting at home and taking care of myself, I can assure you I have no idea of doing anything of the sort. I have lots of things to do,” she went on, her face flushing a little. “Just think of all the sewing I must get through. I shall spend five pounds of the money I have earned in materials, and I shall make everything myself.”
Geoffrey smiled. A smile more piteous than tears.
“My poor darling,” he said, “to think that you should have to work your pretty fingers sore! I am afraid I don’t feel very amiably54 inclined to the little——”
“You are very wicked,” said Marion, laughing in spite of herself.
“I am not, indeed,” he pleaded. “How can I feel amiably disposed to anything that will cause you so much trouble. But I won’t say it if it vexes55 you. I dare say you think me horribly unnatural56, but how can I care for anything as I do for you?”
“Never mind,” she replied. “You’ll care quite enough when the time comes. And I never said I was going to work my fingers sore, you exaggerating creature.”
Then she brought out the five pound note she had that day received from Mrs. Allen, and set to work to calculate how far was the farthest to which the hundred shillings could be persuaded to extend themselves in her contemplated57 purchases.
Geoffrey’s Millington experience was applied58 to as a competent authority on the probable prices of various materials; but, to tell the truth, though he gave his most solemn attention to the subject under consideration, he failed to distinguish himself as might have been expected, and ended by getting himself called “a great stupid, who didn’t know the difference between linen59 and cotton, valenciennes and crochet60.”
It was laughable enough in its way, this little domestic scene, I dare say. But pathetic too. Marion, through all her cheerfulness, was yet conscious of the peculiar61 loneliness of her position. Motherless, sisterless, her only confidante in these essentially62 womanly matters a man, whom, at first sight, one would hardly have selected as likely to excel in delicate adaptation of his strength to her weakness, his thorough manliness63 to her shrinking refinement64. Yet, great rough ploughman as he called himself, few men were better fitted than Geoffrey Baldwin to be mother, sister, and friend, as well as husband, to the solitary65 girl who had no one but him to look to.
Christmas brought a letter from Harry66, enclosing a cheque for ten pounds, “to buy Marion a winter bonnet,” he said. Since the news of their misfortune had reached him, Harry’s conduct had been beyond all praise. Not only had he at once cut down his already moderate personal expenses, but, by the strictest economy, he had succeeded in saving the little surplus he now sent to his sister as a Christmas-box. How welcome a one he little guessed! For it was, of course, at once appropriated to be spent in the same direction as the obstinate67 five pounds, which so resolutely-refused to behave themselves as ten.
“Don’t be unhappy about me,” wrote Marion’s brother. “I only wish I could see that you and Baldwin are as jolly as I. My pay is, as you see, more than enough for my expenses, and if all goes well, by the time we come home again, I have a very good chance of being made adjutant, which will enable me to manage without difficulty in England. By another Christmas I shall hope to be with you at home; Millington or anywhere, it doesn’t matter—wherever you two are is home to me.”
Some tears were shed over this letter. It was not in woman-nature—sister-nature—that it should be otherwise. Nevertheless, it added not a little to the cheerfulness of Mrs. Appleby’s two lodgers68 as they ate their modest Christmas dinner in the sitting-room69 looking into Brewer Street. A ponderous70 invitation to perform that same important ceremony in the presence and at the board of Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, had been received but civilly declined.
“Let us have a nice quiet Christmas-day together, in our own little room,” pleaded Marion; and Geoffrey was by no means loth to comply with the request.
Christmas past, the new year soon began. January, February, and March, three ugly, dirty, slushy months, in Millington at least, followed each other in gloomy succession. With April things began to mend a little. Fresh sprouts71 made their appearance, with infinite labour and patience, even on the few smoke-dried shrubs72 and trees in Brewer Street. And in-doors at No. 32, there was comfort and content; for Mrs. Baldwin had been far from idle these last few months, and surveyed with no small satisfaction the piles of neatly-fingered little garments which bore witness to her industry.
Then came May, sweet, fickle73, provoking May! Mois de Marie, which still we dream of as loveliest of all the twelve; though seldom, if ever, are our fond visions realised. But this year May was, for once, true to her legendary74 character, and the end of the month was fresh and sweet and genial75, as we all fancy May used to be, long ago, when we were children: in the times when Christmas was always clear and frosty, seen through a brilliant vista76 of holly38 and mistletoe, plum-pudding and mince-pie; and Midsummer’s-day a suitable fairy carnival77 of sunshine and flowers, dances on the green, or picnics in the wood.
What has come over the world in these later days? Why is Christmas, as often as not, muddy and foggy and raw, ending in uneatable plum-pudding or deplorably indigestible mince-pies? Is it in us, or in it, this extraordinary change? Where have they all gone to—the beautiful winters and summers of long ago? The lovely, hot, sunny days, when the nights seemed years apart, and the deep green woods the proper place to live in—when we made daisy-chains and cowslip-balls, and all manner of sweet, silly, summer things, whose very names now sound as the dreams of a former existence. The spring with its blossoms, the autumn with its fruit. The bright sparkling winter, with its snow-balls and skates, roast chestnuts78 and fire-side games, surely the most delightful79 of all! What has come over them all?
Now-a-days, all the year round, with few if any exceptions, the days have a uniform shade of grey. With the exception of certain physical sensations, certain practical and not unwelcome suggestions from the housemaid, to the effect that “it is getting time to begin fires again,” many a week would go by without my thinking of, or realising the change of the seasons. Then again some trifle will bring it all back to me—the first snow-drop head peeping through the soil, a cluster of red berries on the hedge some early autumn day, the children’s voices passing my door, intent on a summer day’s ramble80, as beautiful to them, I suppose, as it once was to me; or, more tender still, the sweet, quaint5 words of the Christmas carols in the village street—with any of these, the old wonderful feeling surges over me to overwhelming; and I ask myself if indeed my youth is gone for ever, or but veiled for a time, to be found again with all the beauty and truth, the essentially everlasting81, in the far-off land we must all believe in, or cease to exist?
But I have wandered from Brewer Street, and what happened there one Sunday morning a bright, lovely May morning, the last day but one of the capricious month.
A daughter was born to the young couple, with whom fortune had played such malicious82 tricks. A sweet, tiny, soft, blue-eyed doll of a thing. Truly the very nicest of babies! Healthy as heart could wish, comfortable and content.
“A real Sunday child, is she not?” said Marion to Geoffrey, as with tremendous precaution and solemnity he bent83 down to kiss the funny pink nose emerging from the nest of flannel84 by her side. “A nice, good, happy Sunday child. I am very glad she is not a boy. A girl will be far more of a comfort to us, won’t she, Geoffrey? And may I call her ‘Mary?’ ”
“Of course you may, my darling,” he replied, “or any name you choose.”
He would not have objected to “Kerenhappuch,” or “Aurora Borealis,” as a small friend of mine once suggested at a family consultation85 of the kind. He was perfectly satisfied with the baby, whatever its sex or name, seeing that its mother, the light of his eyes, the being for whose happiness he was willing, nay86, ready at any moment to die, was well and strong, and pronounced by the authorities to be in a fair way towards a speedy and prosperous recovery.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
blithe
|
|
| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
tempting
|
|
| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
quaint
|
|
| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
expediency
|
|
| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
retired
|
|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
pompous
|
|
| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
assented
|
|
| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
recurred
|
|
| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
concealed
|
|
| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
morbidness
|
|
| （精神的）病态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
moody
|
|
| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
misgivings
|
|
| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
disclaiming
|
|
| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
physically
|
|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
brewer
|
|
| n. 啤酒制造者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
precociously
|
|
| Precociously | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
warehouse
|
|
| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
bonnet
|
|
| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
aggravation
|
|
| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
holly
|
|
| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
exertions
|
|
| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
mingle
|
|
| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
affected
|
|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
confided
|
|
| 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） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
repented
|
|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
insignificance
|
|
| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
dreaded
|
|
| 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) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
killing
|
|
| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
unwilling
|
|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
amiably
|
|
| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
vexes
|
|
| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
unnatural
|
|
| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
contemplated
|
|
| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
crochet
|
|
| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
manliness
|
|
| 刚毅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
harry
|
|
| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
lodgers
|
|
| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
ponderous
|
|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
sprouts
|
|
| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
shrubs
|
|
| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
fickle
|
|
| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
legendary
|
|
| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
genial
|
|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
vista
|
|
| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
carnival
|
|
| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
chestnuts
|
|
| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
ramble
|
|
| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
everlasting
|
|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
malicious
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
flannel
|
|
| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
consultation
|
|
| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |