It is much more difficult to understand why he was going on a journey at all. He was not affectionate enough to be going simply because Mrs. Latimer had asked him to. And one can hardly take seriously the reason he gave his sister, Julie.
He drove around to her house the afternoon before his departure, and on his way caught sight of Irene Loeffler walking briskly toward him and signalling violently. He waved his hat, but dashed by her in a burst of speed.
“You know, Julie,” he said, a few minutes later, sprawling7 on the davenport in his sister’s living-room, “it’s all due to you that I’m going away.”
“To me!”
“Absolutely! You lure8 me to your house, and then you turn an unscrupulous woman loose on me, and she makes my life unbearable9, and I—”
“Who?” cried Julie, her eyes dancing.
“Who?” Stacey returned. “Who but Irene?”
He sat up straight and gazed at his sister. “Jul-ia,” he said, “you know me to be modest, you know how little I esteem11 my personal charm, caring more for simple things such as goodness and—”
“Oh, yes,” Julie interrupted, “I know all that! I want to hear about Irene.”
“Therefore,” he continued, “when, from never having seen the lady at all, I began to see her almost daily, and, when I didn’t see her, to get invitations to functions given by her or functions at which she was to be present, it was long before I suspected purpose in all this. But, Julie, though modest I am not a fool. Things have now reached such a point that I cannot take a walk in the park or motor anywhere without meeting Irene. And I tell you there is evil design in all this, and I’m going away.” Julie was giggling12 increasingly. “Only five minutes ago I evaded13 her—but not for long. My senses are growing as abnormally acute as those of Roderick Usher14 in Poe’s story.” He paused and listened apprehensively15. “And, in his words, ‘I tell you that she now stands without the door!’?”
At this moment the door bell did, indeed, ring. Stacey sprang up.
“You see? Good-bye, Julie! I’m going out the back way,” he concluded, and fled.
As for Julie, she threw herself down on the davenport and laughed helplessly, in which position Irene presently found her.
No one seeing Stacey with his sister could have reconciled him with the Stacey who set himself against society and flew into passions at his impotence to destroy. Yet there was no pose in his attitude toward her. Pose demands a marked consciousness of self, and this he was assuredly without. He behaved in that way because he felt that way when he was with Julie, which was not so very often; and he was obscurely grateful to her for making him feel so. He liked his sister better than in the old days. She had an ingenuous16 manner that concealed17 a rich sense of humor, and he was inclined to think that this was characteristic of her attitude toward all things, that, though her surface simplicity18 was unassumed, beneath it lay, not indeed a deliberate philosophy, but a mature apprehension19 of life. But he did not waste much thought on analysis of Julie; he accepted her as a pleasant fact.
Stacey, then, set off for New York the next afternoon. Julie was at the train to bid him good-bye, and so was Jimmy Prout, who tossed a book into his brother-in-law’s lap, and sat down opposite him. Stacey considered Jimmy’s agreeable face. Jimmy did no one any harm; on the contrary, he did people good by being such a companionable person. Why, thought Stacey, couldn’t he be like Jimmy? If turbulence20 of mind solved anything, got one anywhere, there would be something to say for it; since it didn’t, since it led only to impotent fuming21, what was the use of it? But, even at the moment of putting the question to himself, Stacey was disconsolately22 aware that he might as well ask what was the use of the tides, since they only moved back and forth23.
“You know, Stacey,” Julie was saying, “I’m over thirty, but every time I see any one off on the train I feel thirteen. I feel a positively24 aching desire to go too.”
“Come on along,” he returned. “Nobody I’d like better to have with me.”
“That’s nice of you, Stacey,” she said gratefully. “I would. I’d come just this way, without a thing, if it weren’t for Junior—he’s having whooping-cough. I’ve always wanted to do something impetuous like that.”
“Have you now?” asked Stacey, mildly surprised.
But Julie, who was sitting next the window of her brother’s section, suddenly gasped25 and burst into laughter. “Oh, Jimmy, Stacey, please, please, help me stop!” she cried, in a smothered26 voice, pressing her handkerchief against her mouth. “Oh, she mustn’t see me in this state!”
“Who mustn’t?” demanded her husband.
“I-Irene Loeffler. She—she’s come to see Stacey off,” Julie stammered27 weakly. “She’ll be in the car in a moment. Oh, dear!”
Jimmy laughed, too, and Julie made a tremendous effort at self-control, as Irene strode briskly down the car and paused beside them. She held a book in her hand.
“I am,” and “he is,” returned Stacey and Jimmy, who had risen politely.
“That so? Where you going? Sit down! Sit down!”
“New York first,” Stacey answered cautiously.
Irene dropped into the seat beside Jimmy and crossed her legs. “I was looking for Effie Prince,” she remarked casually29. “Supposed to be leaving on this train. Most likely couldn’t get her trunks packed in time. Never can. Here! You take the book I brought for her.”
“Thanks,” said Stacey. “Then you’re not going away? Sorry! I hoped you were when I saw you.”
The girl flushed faintly at this, but her embarrassment30 was covered by Julie, who gave a desperate choking cough.
“Here!” said her husband gravely. “Take another pastille, Julie,” and he drew a box from his pocket. “It’s that kid of ours,” he explained. “Given her whooping-cough—not a doubt of it. You’ll both have it now, probably.”
But the conductor was calling “All Aboard,” and the three departed hastily, Irene giving Stacey a mannish grip of the hand.
Stacey waved at them through the window, then stretched out in his seat and picked up Irene’s book. He laughed suddenly. It was “Les Chansons de Bilitis.”
It was, anyway, an amusing departure, and Stacey felt in quite a good humor.
But it was not a prelude31 to an amusing trip. Stacey wandered from city to city drearily32. Except for being larger, they were no worse than Vernon; if they had been, they might have seemed less unbearable. They were merely empty—one after the other; empty places inhabited by empty people. New York sickened him. It wallowed in wealth, dazzled the eyes with it; rugs, imported motor cars, china, lights, theatres, food, more food,—there was an absorbed attempt to minister to every demand of the most exacting33 body, with, so far as Stacey could see, not a thought behind it all. The “Follies” were typical—gorgeous color, selected girls, riot of noise—not a word spoken that could reach beyond the intelligence of a sub-normal child. Stacey yawned through the show, to the justifiable34 annoyance35 of his companion, an old college friend, who had paid God knew what for the tickets. A hundred magazines stared at Stacey from the subway book-stalls, with a hundred pictures of sweet American girls on their covers, and who could tell how many hundred stories of thwarted36 Bolshevik plots among the advertisements inside?
Stacey fled to Philadelphia, thence to Baltimore, then up to Boston. He went to dinners and dances and dinner-dances in one place and another. Débutantes a little nakeder and bolder than he remembered them in past years. Quite in keeping with everything else. The whole country singing one vast jazz song of praise to the body, sole preoccupation how to gratify every instinct it possessed37. It was callousness38 carried further than was credible39, since across the ocean were thousands who, too, were thinking only about their bodies—perforce, being unable to get sufficient food and clothes to keep them alive.
He gazed at it all with bitter aloofness40. What could he do about it? What could any one do about a world like this? There was a desolate41 emptiness in his heart that inhibited42 even rage. He longed for annihilation, the absolute eternal extinction43 of self. He had certainly altered in these last months. Even he, who tried not to think of himself, could not help perceiving this. His reactions were more jerky, disconnected with any former reactions, incoherent. He was not a strong scornful soul, detached and looking at everything in one manner; he was a series of sterile44 unrelated emotions, with the only continuous theme that ran through them all, disgust.
He gave it up at last and returned to Vernon—why, he could not have explained. He wrote no one that he was coming.
It was a morning in early December when he got back. Snow was thick on the city. The taxi that Stacey hired splashed through slush in the centre of town and slewed45 madly, despite its chains, on the boulevard leading to the Carroll house.
Stacey flung himself on the couch in his study and presently fell asleep. He did not wake until Parker knocked at the door to call him to luncheon46. Two hours of unconsciousness. Well, that was so much gained, anyway.
He spent as many hours of the afternoon as he could in bathing and dressing47, then at last left the house and tramped away through the snow. He had no objective in mind, but after a while, finding himself near Philip Blair’s house, went up the steps to it and rang the bell.
Catherine opened the door. At first he thought that she looked wan6 and tired; but she smiled with pleasure at sight of him, and the impression vanished.
“I’m awfully48 glad you’re back, Stacey,” she said. “Phil was saying last night that it seemed years you’d been away. Come in. Marian—Mrs. Price—is here.”
He felt the faintest touch of surprise,—no more, for he was almost done with correlating facts. His mind no longer worked that way. He was rapidly growing unable to see people in relation to one another, and so to find one relation natural, another curious. Unity49 was beginning to desert his impressions. Each of them seemed to come separately.
Thus he was scarcely at all surprised when, at sight of Marian, whom he had nearly forgotten, his old passion for her leaped up like sudden flame. He shook her hand, with a word or two of casual greeting, but his eyes met hers electrically. He made no effort to combat the sensation. If anything, he was grateful for it. And the antagonism50, as strong as the attraction, that formerly51 she had aroused in him, was absent, since he was living in the isolated52 moment.
Marian was lovely, he thought, sick with an unrecognized desire for loveliness. She wore a toque of white fur that fitted close to her small head, and there were white furs over her shoulders. She was a little thinner than before her marriage, and her delicate features were as clear and fine as those of a silver goddess on some Syracusan coin.
They all three sat down and talked, somehow.
“Well, where have you been this time, Stacey?” Marian asked gaily53. “Fighting more dragons? Doing dozens of herculean tasks—Augean stables, hydras, taking Atlas54’ place for a time?” She gave him a malicious55 smile.
Clearly Marian was as hostile as ever. No matter! On the contrary, he was instinctively56 glad of her hostility57. It revealed warmth.
Oddly enough, it was Catherine who flushed at it. Stacey noted58 the flush with surprise. Oh, well, everything was odd! There was no use in trying to clear it up. It was also incomprehensible that, feeling as he was feeling toward Marian, he should not impatiently desire to have Catherine go away and leave them together. Yet he desired nothing of the sort.
“No,” he replied peaceably to Marian, “I’ve merely been boring myself to extinction in a stupid world. Any time that Atlas wants to let the sky fall on it he may, so far as I’m concerned. But,” he added, “it’s gratifying to have you make all your metaphors59 Greek, Marian.”
She bit her lip at this, and her eyes shone dangerously for an instant. But presently she smiled again.
Stacey turned to Catherine. “How are all of you?” he inquired.
“Not very brilliant, I’m afraid,” she said, a trifle wearily. “We’ve all got colds—all except Carter, who’s still at school now. I’ve got a cold, Phil’s got a bad cold, and Jackie’s got a horrid60 cold.”
“Poor old chap! Where is he?”
“Upstairs. You can hear him cough regularly every thirty-two seconds. I timed him last night.” She made a brave attempt to pass it off lightly. But Stacey perceived that she was worn out, and felt sorry for her.
“Can’t I go up and sit with him and let you rest?” he asked. He was quite sincere in the demand, too; which was as strange as everything else, since his passion for Marian was bubbling in his veins61 like a Circean draft.
“No—thank you,” said Catherine, with a rare beautiful smile. “He’s asleep now. I’ll go up when he wakes. I’m afraid,” she went on, with involuntary formality, and turning to Marian, “that I don’t seem very cordial. Really I’m glad you came—both of you.”
“Truly?” asked Marian prettily62. “Then I’ll stay a few minutes longer. I was afraid I might be tiring you.”
Stacey considered her. He felt that she was hard beneath her beauty. She was not pitiful. She was not interested in sickness. It annoyed her. Yet this judgment63 made not the slightest difference in what he was feeling toward her. The only thing that affected64 him was his perception that she was somehow tense, and that she was staying for him. This stirred him.
A strange trio—even Stacey could feel that; yet they managed to talk with apparent ease—of Vernon, New York, the weather,—anything. What a thing training was!
But a small pathetic whine65 came from upstairs. Catherine rose hastily. “It’s Jackie,” she explained. “You’ll excuse me for a few minutes, won’t you?”
“Hadn’t we better go?” Marian asked.
“No, please! I’ll give him his medicine and get him to sleep again and be back down presently.”
“Not a thing I can do? You’re sure?” Stacey begged.
“No, truly, thank you,” Catherine replied, and hurried out.
Neither Stacey nor Marian moved, but their eyes met instantly. They gazed at each other in silence. Stacey’s heart beat heavily; he could feel the throb66 of it chokingly in his throat. Marian’s eyes were inscrutable, but her lips were shut closely in an expression of sullen67 anger.
At last he leaned forward. “Marian!” he said.
“Are you happy?” he demanded brusquely.
“No!” The monosyllable seemed to spring forth without her volition70. “You know I’m not, Stacey Carroll,” she added presently, with concentrated bitterness. “Why do you want to insult me?”
They were, in some strange, partial, imperfect manner, made for each other; for they caught each other’s emotions unerringly. The hostility went out of Marian’s face.
“I couldn’t have believed,” she said, after a moment, “that any one could be so unbearably72 stupid as Ames is, hour after hour, day after day.” Hatred73 flared74 up again in her eyes—but not hatred of Stacey this time, he knew. “And—brutal!” she added, between her teeth.
Stacey could follow her thoughts as clearly as though they had been small distorted goblins leaping up and vanishing in the air. The cult3 of her body,—Marian had always had it, refined upon it fastidiously. Not at all vain, she had been aloofly75 physically76 proud. What she had felt for her own body was precisely77 what her father felt for his Chinese vases. And now she had had to turn this one cherished possession over to a new and despised master. Stacey caught it all, not through such analysis, but in a swift intuitive glimpse. He writhed78. “It’s all your fault, yours!” her eyes seemed to say to him. He sprang up.
“Marian!” he cried, and strode across to her chair.
But she had risen, too, and her arms were about his neck almost as soon as his own encircled her. She lifted her lips to his with a long tremulous sigh. A flood of passion submerged them. When he released her she tottered79, shaking, and clung to the back of the chair. He had never seen her so moved—he could think this even while his own heart bounded. Her face was glowing, transfigured and beautiful—oh, beautiful!
“Ames—will not—be—home—to-night!” she stammered.
He nodded, dizzily, holding her hands so tight that he must have hurt them cruelly.
He was reckless. Nothing, not the faintest bond, held him back. He wanted Marian and would have her. As for Ames’s absence from home, it was negligible. He did not care a rap that Ames was away, either on his own account or because of Marian’s reputation; or for any other reason. He would follow this instinct, this desire. But the truth about Stacey is deeper. He would now have followed equally any desire—a desire to commit murder, for example.
He gazed at the girl, then slowly drew her to him again, but more gently this time, till his cheek pressed her hot cheek and his nostrils inhaled80 the fragrance81 of her curly hair.
“Oh, Stacey, if—if Catherine—were to come in!” she murmured.
And at that moment Catherine did come in. She started. Her hand went to her heart. Then she stood there in the doorway82, silent, motionless, not accusing, only like a somber83 intruder on a tragedy. It is astounding84, but the truth, that even at such a moment Stacey could receive from Catherine an impression of something fate-like, goddess-like, more than human, a sense of bigness. Again the unrelated character of his impressions.
But Marian, who had torn herself away from Stacey, gasped, then gave a little hysterical85 laugh, and fled from the house without a word, gathering86 her trailing white fur swiftly about her throat.
Stacey was unmoved, except in the way the subsiding87 sea is moved when a storm is past. He stood looking squarely at Catherine, a twisted ironical88 smile on his lips, his eyes cool and challenging.
“Well?” he said finally.
Catherine sank down in the chair where Marian had sat, and leaned forward, folding her hands above her knees. Her dark eyes did not leave his. He saw that for the first time in their relationship all shyness had slipped from her. There was something magnificent about her, he thought, now that he really saw her unveiled.
“Oh, Stacey, don’t! don’t!” she said at last.
“Why not?” he asked, with polite detachment. “Sanctity of the marriage relation?” She shook her head. “What then? Moral discipline of self-denial? Regard for Ames Price—Vernon’s third-best golf player? Or concern for Marian? You needn’t worry about Marian. She’ll never feel remorse89, and no more shall I. Come, Catherine, you’re not communicative!”
“You—you know I can’t talk readily,” she said. “But, oh, Stacey, don’t! please don’t! I’m not speaking to you with reasons—only from my heart.”
“No,” he returned grimly, “you’re speaking with all the massed tradition heaped up under the impression that through it some purpose can be followed. All a mistake, I tell you!”
“No! No!” she cried, her grave face alight with expression. “I’m not!” Suddenly her eyes grew pitiful. “Oh, Stacey,” she said, “you poor hurt child! Do you want to hurt yourself more?”
At this his calm was shaken. A dull resentment90 stirred in him,—but not because he was vain, or even proud.
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that because I—some one else that I used to be—felt in such and such a way about Marian, you would not have me trample91 on those old illusions, for fear of pain. Catherine, I do not give that for my illusions!”
“Oh, nor I, either, Stacey! ‘Don’t’ is all I can say. In your heart you know I’m right.”
“I do not!” he burst out. He was angry now.
But she nodded her head. “You do,” she repeated. “Ah, dear Stacey, think! You’re hard and bitter—or you think you are—really you’re only hurt”—(he winced)—“but the one impulse you have is to look at things squarely, and to be one who can look at them so. Will you, then, do—do—crooked things, have a secret back-stairs liaison92, hide behind—corners, meet Marian in the dark, with whispers? Oh, you mustn’t!”
The thrust went deep. He walked up and down the room restlessly, his heart full of anger and pain. Finally he turned on her.
“I’ll do what I please!” he cried. “Who are you to preach to me like this? What are you in my life? Nothing!”
But at this she started, then buried her head in her hands and wept. And when he saw that he had hurt her, as he had intended, he was shocked.
However, she lifted her head, unashamed, almost at once. “Forgive me!” she said simply. “Who am I? Who are we? We—Phil and I—love you. That’s the only power we have over you.”
He gazed at her for a moment, helplessly and remorsefully93. “I’ll do as you say,” he said dully. But, with his surrender, anger rushed upon him again furiously. “Only,” he added, trembling with rage, “I’ll tell you that you and Phil are impossible! You’re too good! Abominably94 good! It’s sickening! Leave me alone now, both of you!”
He snatched up his hat and coat and hurried out of the house.
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1
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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asceticism
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| n.禁欲主义 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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13
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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14
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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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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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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fuming
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| 愤怒( fume的现在分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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callousness
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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inhibited
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| a.拘谨的，拘束的 | |
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43
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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44
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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slewed
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| adj.喝醉的v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去式 )( slew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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volition
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| n.意志；决意 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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aloofly
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| 冷淡的； 疏远的； 远离的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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subsiding
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的现在分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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remorsefully
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| adv.极为懊悔地 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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