What a wonderful great town!
In each street, thousands meet,
All parading up and down.
Crossing—jostling—strutting—running,
Hither—thither—going—coming;
Hurry—scurry—pushing—driving,
Ever something new contriving1.
Oh! what a place, what a strange London Town,
[353] Escorting to the ever-varying promenade3 of fashion, the Hon. Tom Dashall and his Cousin Bob, whose long protracted4 investigation5 of Life in London was now drawing to a close, proceeded this morning to amuse themselves with another lounge in Bond-street: this arcadia of dignified6 equality was thronged7, the carriage-way with dashing equipages, and the pave with exquisite8 pedestrians9. Here was one rouged10 and whiskered; there another in petticoats and stays, while his sister, like an Amazon, shewed her nether11 garments half way to the knee. Then “passed smiling by” a Corinthian bear, in an upper benjamin and a Jolliffe shallow. A noted12 milliner shone in a richer pelisse than the Countess, whom the day before she had cheated out of the lace which adorned13 it. The gentleman with the day-rule, in new buckskins and boots, and mounted on a thorough-bred horse, quizzed his retaining creditor14, as he trotted15 along with dusty shoes and coat; the “lady of easy virtue” stared her keeper's wife and daughter out of countenance16. The man milliner's shop-boy, en passant, jogged the duke's elbow; and the dandy pickpocket17 lisped and minced18 his words quite as well as my lord.
Tom pointed19 out some of the more dashing exhibitants; and Bob inquiring the name of a fine woman, rather en bon point, with a French face, who was mounted on a chesnut hunter, and whom he had never before seen in the haunts [354] of fashion—“That lady,” said he, “goes by the name of Speculator; her real name is Mademoiselle Leverd, of the Theatre Fran?ais at Paris: she arrived in this country a month since, to “have an opportunity of displaying her superior talents; though it is whispered that the object of her journey was not altogether in the pursuit of her profession, but for the purpose of making an important conquest.”
“And who is that charming woman,” continued Bob, “in the curricle next to L———d F———?”
“That,” returned Tom, “is Mrs. Orbery Hunter. The beautiful man next you, is the “commercial dandy,” or as Lord G——l styles him, Apollo; and his Lordship is a veracious20 man, on which account R——— calls G——— his lyre.”
“Ah, do you see that dashing fellow in the Scotch21 cloak, attended by a lad with his arm in a sling22? That is the famous Sir W. M———,who doubles his income by gambling23 speculations24; and that's one of his decoys, to entrap25 young country squires26 of fortune to dine with him, and be fleeced. In return, he is to marry him (on condition of receiving £100. for every thousand) to an heiress, the daughter of his country banker.”
“Why, all the first whips in the female world are abroad to-day. There is the flower of green Erin, Lady Foley. See with what style she fingers the ribbans. Equally dexterous29 at the use of whip and tongue; woe30 to the wight who incurs31 the lash32 of either.
“That reverend divine in the span new dennet and the Jolliffe shallow, who squares his elbows so knowingly, as he rubs on his bit of blood, is Parson A———. He is the proprietor34 of the temple of gaming iniquity35, at No. 6, Pall36 Mall. He is a natural son of Lord B———re, by whom he was brought up, liberally educated, and presented with church preferments of considerable value. He married, in early life, the celebrated37 singer, Miss M—h—n, whom he abandoned, with his infant family. This lady found a protector for herself and children in the person of the Rev33. Mr. P———s, and having since obtained a divorce from her former husband, has been married to him. The parson boasts of his numerous amours, and, a few years since, took the benefit of the act. Before he ventured upon the splendid speculations at the Gothic Hall, with F———r T———n, Mr. Charles S———, and Lord D———, he used to frequent the most notorious g———g houses, [355] occasionally picking up a half crown as the pigeons were knocked down by the more wealthy players. But, chousing his colleagues out of their shares, and getting the Gothic Hall into his own hands, he has become the great man you see, and may truly be called by the title of autocrat38 of all the Greeks.
“And who,” inquired Bob, “is that gay careless young fellow in the Stanhope, who sits so easy while his horse plunges39?”
“That,” replied Tom, “is the Hon. and Rev. Fitz S———, with the best heart, best hand, and the best leg in Bond-street. He is really one of the most fascinating men in polished society, and withal, the best judge of a horse at Tattersalls, of a dennet at Long Acre, or a segar in Maiden40 Lane.”
“You need not tell me who that is on the roan horse, with red whiskers and florid complexion41. (The Earl of Y———, of course). Madame B. tells a curious story of him and a filly belonging to Prince Paul. His Lordship had a great desire to ride the said filly, and sent Madam B. to know the terms. 'Well!' said his Lordship, when she returned—'Fifty pounds,' she replied.—'Hem!' said his lordship, 'I will wait till next year, and can have her for five-and-twenty.'”
“By this hand, another female equestrian42 de figure.' That tall young woman on the chesnut, is Lady Jane P———, sister of Lord U———. They say, that she has manifested certain pawnbroking43 inclinations44, and has shewn a partiality in partnership45 at Almack's, to the golden balls. “That fine young woman, leaning out of the carriage window, whose glossy46 ringlets are of the true golden colour, so much admired by the dandies of old Rome, is his Lordship's wife. He's not with her. But you know he shot Honey at Cumberland Gate, when he was two hundred miles off, and therefore he may be in the carriage, though he's away.
“The person in the shabby brown coat is the Duke of Argyle. The pair of horses that draw his carriage is the only job that Argyle ever condescended47 to engage in.”
[356] “What, you're not up to the change of colour? That's our old friend the Duke again, and the grey livery augurs49, (if I mistake not), a visit to Berkeley square. His R——— H——— must take good care, or that bit of blood will be seized while standing50 at the door of the Circe, as his carriage was the other day, by the unceremonious nabman. But that's nothing to what used to occur to the Marquis of W———. They say, that if he deposited a broach51, a ring, or a watch upon his table, a hand and arm, like that of a genius in a fairy tale, was seen to introduce itself bon-gre, mal-gre, through the casement52, and instantly they became 'scarce.'”
“But I have heard,” said Bob, “of a fashionable nabman asking the Duke the time, and politely claiming the watch as soon as it was visible.”
The most prominent characters of the lounge had now disappeared, and Tom and Bob pursuing their course, found themselves in a few minutes in Covent Garden, from whence, nothing occurring of notice, they directed their steps towards Bow-street, with the view of deriving53 amusement from the proceedings54 of justice in the principal office on the establishment of the metropolitan55 police, and in this anticipation56 they were not disappointed.{1}
1 More Life in St. Giles's.—Mr. Daniel Sullivan, of
Tottenham Court Road, green-grocer, fruiterer, coal and
potatoe merchant, salt lish and Irish pork-monger, was
brought before the magistrate57 on a peace-warrant, issued at
the suit of his wife, Mrs. Mary Sullivan. Mrs. Sullivan is
an Englishwoman, who married Mr. Sullivan for love, and has
been “blessed with many children by him.” But
notwithstanding she appeared before the magistrate with her
said, were the handy-work of her husband.
The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivau
about seven years ago; at which time he was as polite a
young Irishman as ever handled a potatoe on this side the
and his purse and his person, taken together, were
“ondeniable.” She herself was a young woman genteely brought
up—abounding in friends and acquaintance, and silk gowns,
shoes to correspond. Welcome wherever she went, whether to
dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by every body. St.
Giles' bells rang merrily at their wedding—a fine fat leg
dishes of salt fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding and
all the most “considerablest” families in Dyott Street and
Church Lane, were invited, and every thing promised a world
of happiness—and for five long years they were happy. She
loved, as Lord Byron would say, “she loved and was beloved;
she adored and she was worshipped;” but Mr. Sullivau was too
much like the hero of the Lordship's tale—his affections
could not “hold the bent,” and the sixth year had scarcely
commenced, when poor Mary discovered that she had “outlived
her continually with the greatest cruelty; and, at last,
and turned her out of doors.
This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such
husband.
It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was
speaking, he had stood with his back towards her, his arms
folded across his breast to keep down his choler; biting his
lips and staring at the blank wall; but the moment she had
asked the magistrate whether Mistress Sullivau had done
spaking.
“She has,” replied his worship; “but suppose you ask her
whether she has any thing more to say.”
“I shall, Sir!” exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan. “Mistress
Sullivan, had you any more of it to say '!”
Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her
hands together, and was silent.
“Very well, then,” he continued, “will I get lave to spake,
your Honour?”
His Honour nodded permission, and Mr. Sullivan immediately
began a defence, to which it is impossible to do justice; so
exuberantly72 did he suit the action to the word, and the
word to the action. “Och! your Honour, there is something
the matter with me!” he began; at the same time putting two
of his fingers perpendicularly73 over his forehead, to
intimate that Mrs. Sullivan played him false. He then went
house, and had taken the liberty of assisting him in his
It was one night in partickler, he said, that he went to bed
the head-ache. Misther Burke was out from home, and when the
shop was shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too; but he didn't
much care for that, ounly he thought she might as well have
staid at home, and so he couldn't go to sleep for thinking
of it. “Well, at one o'clock in the morning,” he continued,
lower-ing his voice into a sort of loud whisper; “at one
o'clock in the morn-ing Misther Burke lets himself in with
the key that he had, and goes up to bed—and I thought
nothing at all; but presently I hears something come tap,
tap, tap, at the street door. The minute after comes down
Misther Burke, and opens the door, and sure it was Mary—
Mistress Sullivan that is, more's the pity—and devil a bit
she came to see after me at all in the little back parlour,
but up stairs she goes after Misther Burke. Och! says 1, but
there's some-thing the matter with me this night! and I got
up with the night-cap o' th' head of me, and went into the
shop to see for a knife, but I couldn't get one by no manes.
So I creeps up stairs, step by step, step by step,” (here
Mr. Sullivan walked on tiptoe all across the office, to show
the magistrate how quietly he went up the stairs), “and when
through the chink in the window curtains; I sees 'em, and
?Och, Mistress Sullivan!' says he: and 'Och, Misther Burke,'
says she:—and och! botheration, says I to myself, and what
shall I do now?” We cannot follow Mr. Sullivan any farther
in the detail of his melancholy78 affair; it is sufficient
that he saw enough to convince him that he was dishonoured79:
that, by some accident or other, he disturbed the guilty
pair, whereupon Mrs. Sullivan crept under Mr. Burke's bed,
to hide herself; that Mr. Sullivan rushed into the room, and
dragged her from under the bed, by her “wicked leg;” and
that he felt about the round table in the corner, where Mr.
Burke kept his bread and cheese, in the hope of finding a
knife.
“And what would you have done with it, if you had found it?”
asked his worship.
“Is it what I would have done with it, your honour asks?”
exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, almost choked with rage—“Is it what
I would have done with it?—ounly that I'd have digged it
into the heart of 'em at the same time!” As he said this, he
threw himself into an attitude of wild desperation, and made
To make short of a long story, he did not find the knife;
Mr. Burke barricadoed himself in his room, and Mr. Sullivan
turned his wife out of doors.
towards his wife and all the King's subjects, and told him,
that if his wife was indeed what he had represented her to
be, he must seek some less violent mode of separation than
the knife.
There not being any other case of interest, Tom and Bob left
the office, not, however, without a feeling of commiseration82
iniquity, now that the tables were turned against them by
the injured husband's “plain unvarnished tale,” experienced
a due share of reprobation84 from the auditory.
[558] Pursuing their course homeward through St. James'-square: “Who have we here?” exclaimed Tom; “as I live, no other than the lofty Honoria, an authoress, a wit and an eccentric; a combination of qualities which frequently contribute to convey the possessor to a garret, and thence to an hospital or poor house. It is not uncommon85 to find attic86 salt in the first floor from heaven, but rather difficult to find the occupier enabled to procure87 salt whereby to render porridge palateable. The lady Honoria, who has just passed, resides in a lodging88 in Mary-le-bone. She having mistaken stature89 for beauty, and attitude for greatness, a tune27 on her lute90 for fascination91, a few strange opinions and out of the way sayings for genius, a masculine appearance for attraction, and bulk for irresistibility92, came on a cruise to London with a view to call at C———House, where she conceived she might be treated like a Princess.
“She fondly fancied that a certain dignified personage who relieved her distress93, could not but be captivated with the very description of her; in consequence of which, she launched into expenses which she was but ill able to bear, and now complains of designs formed against her and of all sorts of fabulous94 nonsense. It must, however, be acknowledged, that an extraordinary taste for fat, has been a great som-ce of inconvenience to the illustrious character alluded95 to, for corpulent women have been in the habit of daily throwing themselves in his way under some pretence96 or other; and if he but looked at them, they have considered themselves as favourites, and in the high road to riches and fame.
“It is well known that a certain French woman, with long flowing black hair, who lived not an hundred miles from Pimlico, was one who fell into this error. Her weight is about sixteen stone—and on that account she sets herself down as this illustrious person's mistress; nay97, because he saw her once, she took expensive lodgings98, ran deeply in debt, and now abuses the great man because he has not provided for her in a princely style, “pour se beaux yeux;” for it must be admitted, that she can boast as fine a pair of black eyes as ever were seen. The circumstance of this taste for materialism99, is as unfortunate to the possessor, as a convulsive nod of the head once was to a rich gentleman, who was never without being engaged in some law suit or other, for lots knocked down to him at auctions100, owing to his incessant101 and involuntary noddings at these places. The fat ladies wish the illustrious amateur to pay for peeping, just as the crafty102 knights103 of the hammer endeavoured to make the rich gentleman pay for his nodding at them.”
“Fat, fair, and forty, then,” said Sparkle, “does not appear to be forgotten.”
[360] “No,” was the reply, “nor is it likely: the wits of London are seldom idle upon subjects of importance: take for instance the following lines:—
“When first I met thee, FAT and fair,
With forty charms about thee,
How could I live without thee.
Thy rogueish eye I quickly spied,
It made me still the fonder,
I swore though false to all beside,
From thee I'd never wander.
But old Fitzy now,
Thou'rt only fit to tease me,
Has learn't the art to please me.”
By this time they were passing Grosvenor gate, when the Hon. Tom Dashall directed the attention of his Cousin to a person on the opposite side of the street, pacing along with a stiff and formal air.
“That,” said he, “is a new species of character, if it may properly be so termed, of which I have never yet given you any account. Sir Edward Knowell stands, however, at the head of a numerous and respectable class of persons, who may be entitled Philosophic106 Coxcombs. He proceeds with geometrical exactness in all his transactions. You can perceive finery of dress is no mark of his character; on the contrary, he at all times wears a plain coat; and as if in ridicule107 of the common fop, takes care to decorate his menials in the most gorgeous liveries.
“The stiffness and formality of his appearance is partly occasioned by the braces108 which he very judiciously109 purchased of Martin Van Butchell, and partly by the pride of wealth and rank.
“There is a pensiveness110 in his aspect, which would induce any one to imagine Sir Edward to be a man of feeling; but those who have depended upon outward appearances alone, have found themselves miserably111 deceived; for as hypocrisy112 assumes a look of sanctity, so your philosophic coxcomb's apparent melancholy serves only as a mask to cover his stupidity.
“Sir Edward is amorously113 inclined; but he consults his reason, or pretends to do so, and by that means renders his pleasures subservient114 to his health. It cannot be denied he sometimes manifests contortions115 of aspect not exactly in unison116 with happiness; but his feelings are ever selfish, and his apparent pain is occasioned by the nausea117 of a debauch118, or perhaps by the pressure of a new pair of boots. If you are in distress, Sir Edward hears your tale with the most stoical indifference119, and he contemplates120 your happiness with an equal degree of apathy—a sort of Epictetus, who can witness the miseries121 of a brother without agony or sympathy, and mark the elevation122 of a friend without one sentiment of congratulation: wrapt up in self, he banishes123 all feeling for others.
[361] “This philosopher has a great number of imitators—perhaps not less than one thousand philosophic coxcombs visit London annually124; and if Sir Edward were to die, they might all with great propriety125 lay claim to a participation126 in the property he might leave behind him, as near relations to the family of the Knowells. These gentlemen violate all the moral duties of life with impunity127: they are shameless, irreligious, and so insignificant128, that they seem to consider themselves born for no useful purpose whatever. Indeed they are such perfect blanks in the creation, that were they transported to some other place, the community would never miss them, except by the diminution129 of follies130 and vices131. Like poisonous plants, they merely vegetate132, diffuse133 their contagious134 effluvia around, then sink into corruption135, and are forgotten for ever.”
On calling in at Long's Hotel, they were informed that Sparkle's servant had been in pursuit of his master, in consequence of letters having arrived from the country; and as Dashall knew that he had two excellent reasons why he should immediately acquaint himself with their contents, the party immediately returned to Piccadilly.
点击收听单词发音
1 contriving | |
(不顾困难地)促成某事( contrive的现在分词 ); 巧妙地策划,精巧地制造(如机器); 设法做到 | |
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2 renown | |
n.声誉,名望 | |
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3 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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4 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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6 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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7 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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9 pedestrians | |
n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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10 rouged | |
胭脂,口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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12 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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13 adorned | |
[计]被修饰的 | |
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14 creditor | |
n.债仅人,债主,贷方 | |
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15 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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16 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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17 pickpocket | |
n.扒手;v.扒窃 | |
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18 minced | |
v.切碎( mince的过去式和过去分词 );剁碎;绞碎;用绞肉机绞(食物,尤指肉) | |
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19 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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20 veracious | |
adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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21 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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22 sling | |
vt.扔;悬挂;n.挂带;吊索,吊兜;弹弓 | |
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23 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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24 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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25 entrap | |
v.以网或陷阱捕捉,使陷入圈套 | |
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26 squires | |
n.地主,乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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27 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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28 rib | |
n.肋骨,肋状物 | |
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29 dexterous | |
adj.灵敏的;灵巧的 | |
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30 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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31 incurs | |
遭受,招致,引起( incur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32 lash | |
v.系牢;鞭打;猛烈抨击;n.鞭打;眼睫毛 | |
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33 rev | |
v.发动机旋转,加快速度 | |
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34 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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35 iniquity | |
n.邪恶;不公正 | |
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36 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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37 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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38 autocrat | |
n.独裁者;专横的人 | |
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39 plunges | |
n.跳进,投入vt.使投入,使插入,使陷入vi.投入,跳进,陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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40 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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41 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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42 equestrian | |
adj.骑马的;n.马术 | |
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43 pawnbroking | |
n.典当业 | |
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44 inclinations | |
倾向( inclination的名词复数 ); 倾斜; 爱好; 斜坡 | |
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45 partnership | |
n.合作关系,伙伴关系 | |
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46 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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47 condescended | |
屈尊,俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 ); 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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48 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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49 augurs | |
n.(古罗马的)占兆官( augur的名词复数 );占卜师,预言者v.预示,预兆,预言( augur的第三人称单数 );成为预兆;占卜 | |
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50 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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51 broach | |
v.开瓶,提出(题目) | |
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52 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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53 deriving | |
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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54 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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55 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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56 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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57 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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58 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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59 bruises | |
n.瘀伤,伤痕,擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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60 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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61 bonnets | |
n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 );(烟囱等的)覆盖物;(苏格兰男子的)无边呢帽;(女子戴的)任何一种帽子 | |
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62 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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63 capers | |
n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 );刺山柑v.跳跃,雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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65 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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66 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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67 comely | |
adj.漂亮的,合宜的 | |
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68 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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69 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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70 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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71 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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72 exuberantly | |
adv.兴高采烈地,活跃地,愉快地 | |
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73 perpendicularly | |
adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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74 lodged | |
v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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75 conjugal | |
adj.婚姻的,婚姻性的 | |
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76 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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77 gash | |
v.深切,划开;n.(深长的)切(伤)口;裂缝 | |
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78 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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79 dishonoured | |
a.不光彩的,不名誉的 | |
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80 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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81 bail | |
v.舀(水),保释;n.保证金,保释,保释人 | |
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82 commiseration | |
n.怜悯,同情 | |
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83 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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84 reprobation | |
n.斥责 | |
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85 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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86 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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87 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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88 lodging | |
n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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89 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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90 lute | |
n.琵琶,鲁特琴 | |
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91 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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92 irresistibility | |
n.不能抵抗,难敌 | |
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93 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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94 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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95 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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97 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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98 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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99 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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100 auctions | |
n.拍卖,拍卖方式( auction的名词复数 ) | |
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101 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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102 crafty | |
adj.狡猾的,诡诈的 | |
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103 knights | |
骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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104 debonair | |
adj.殷勤的,快乐的 | |
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105 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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106 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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107 ridicule | |
v.讥讽,挖苦;n.嘲弄 | |
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108 braces | |
n.吊带,背带;托架( brace的名词复数 );箍子;括弧;(儿童)牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 );撑牢;使自己站稳;振作起来 | |
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109 judiciously | |
adv.明断地,明智而审慎地 | |
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110 pensiveness | |
n.pensive(沉思的)的变形 | |
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111 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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112 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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113 amorously | |
adv.好色地,妖艳地;脉;脉脉;眽眽 | |
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114 subservient | |
adj.卑屈的,阿谀的 | |
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115 contortions | |
n.扭歪,弯曲;扭曲,弄歪,歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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116 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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117 nausea | |
n.作呕,恶心;极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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118 debauch | |
v.使堕落,放纵 | |
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119 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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120 contemplates | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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121 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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122 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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123 banishes | |
v.放逐,驱逐( banish的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124 annually | |
adv.一年一次,每年 | |
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125 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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126 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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127 impunity | |
n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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128 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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129 diminution | |
n.减少;变小 | |
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130 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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131 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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132 vegetate | |
v.无所事事地过活 | |
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133 diffuse | |
v.扩散;传播;adj.冗长的;四散的,弥漫的 | |
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134 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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135 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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136 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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