—Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar.
About four days out from Victoria we plunged1 into hot weather, and all the male passengers put on white linen2 clothes. One or two days later we crossed the 25th parallel of north latitude3, and then, by order, the officers of the ship laid away their blue uniforms and came out in white linen ones. All the ladies were in white by this time. This prevalence of snowy costumes gave the promenade4 deck an invitingly5 cool, and cheerful and picnicky aspect.
From my diary:
There are several sorts of ills in the world from which a person can never escape altogether, let him journey as far as he will. One escapes from one breed of an ill only to encounter another breed of it. We have come far from the snake liar6 and the fish liar, and there was rest and peace in the thought; but now we have reached the realm of the boomerang liar, and sorrow is with us once more. The first officer has seen a man try to escape from his enemy by getting behind a tree; but the enemy sent his boomerang sailing into the sky far above and beyond the tree; then it turned, descended7, and killed the man. The Australian passenger has seen this thing done to two men, behind two trees—and by the one arrow. This being received with a large silence that suggested doubt, he buttressed8 it with the statement that his brother once saw the boomerang kill a bird away off a hundred yards and bring it to the thrower. But these are ills which must be borne. There is no other way.
The talk passed from the boomerang to dreams—usually a fruitful subject, afloat or ashore—but this time the output was poor. Then it passed to instances of extraordinary memory—with better results. Blind Tom, the negro pianist, was spoken of, and it was said that he could accurately10 play any piece of music, howsoever long and difficult, after hearing it once; and that six months later he could accurately play it again, without having touched it in the interval11. One of the most striking of the stories told was furnished by a gentleman who had served on the staff of the Viceroy of India. He read the details from his note-book, and explained that he had written them down, right after the consummation of the incident which they described, because he thought that if he did not put them down in black and white he might presently come to think he had dreamed them or invented them.
The Viceroy was making a progress, and among the shows offered by the Maharajah of Mysore for his entertainment was a memory-exhibition. The Viceroy and thirty gentlemen of his suite13 sat in a row, and the memory-expert, a high-caste Brahmin, was brought in and seated on the floor in front of them. He said he knew but two languages, the English and his own, but would not exclude any foreign tongue from the tests to be applied14 to his memory. Then he laid before the assemblage his program—a sufficiently15 extraordinary one. He proposed that one gentleman should give him one word of a foreign sentence, and tell him its place in the sentence. He was furnished with the French word ‘est’, and was told it was second in a sentence of three words. The next gentleman gave him the German word ‘verloren’ and said it was the third in a sentence of four words. He asked the next gentleman for one detail in a sum in addition; another for one detail in a sum of subtraction16; others for single details in mathematical problems of various kinds; he got them. Intermediates gave him single words from sentences in Greek, Latin, Spanish, Portuguese17, Italian, and other languages, and told him their places in the sentences. When at last everybody had furnished him a single rag from a foreign sentence or a figure from a problem, he went over the ground again, and got a second word and a second figure and was told their places in the sentences and the sums; and so on and so on. He went over the ground again and again until he had collected all the parts of the sums and all the parts of the sentences—and all in disorder18, of course, not in their proper rotation19. This had occupied two hours.
The Brahmin now sat silent and thinking, a while, then began and repeated all the sentences, placing the words in their proper order, and untangled the disordered arithmetical problems and gave accurate answers to them all.
In the beginning he had asked the company to throw almonds at him during the two hours, he to remember how many each gentleman had thrown; but none were thrown, for the Viceroy said that the test would be a sufficiently severe strain without adding that burden to it.
General Grant had a fine memory for all kinds of things, including even names and faces, and I could have furnished an instance of it if I had thought of it. The first time I ever saw him was early in his first term as President. I had just arrived in Washington from the Pacific coast, a stranger and wholly unknown to the public, and was passing the White House one morning when I met a friend, a Senator from Nevada. He asked me if I would like to see the President. I said I should be very glad; so we entered. I supposed that the President would be in the midst of a crowd, and that I could look at him in peace and security from a distance, as another stray cat might look at another king. But it was in the morning, and the Senator was using a privilege of his office which I had not heard of—the privilege of intruding20 upon the Chief Magistrate’s working hours. Before I knew it, the Senator and I were in the presence, and there was none there but we three. General Grant got slowly up from his table, put his pen down, and stood before me with the iron expression of a man who had not smiled for seven years, and was not intending to smile for another seven. He looked me steadily21 in the eyes—mine lost confidence and fell. I had never confronted a great man before, and was in a miserable22 state of funk and inefficiency23. The Senator said:—
“Mr. President, may I have the privilege of introducing Mr. Clemens?”
The President gave my hand an unsympathetic wag and dropped it. He did not say a word but just stood. In my trouble I could not think of anything to say, I merely wanted to resign. There was an awkward pause, a dreary24 pause, a horrible pause. Then I thought of something, and looked up into that unyielding face, and said timidly:—
“Mr. President, I—I am embarrassed. Are you?"
His face broke—just a little—a wee glimmer25, the momentary26 flicker27 of a summer-lightning smile, seven years ahead of time—and I was out and gone as soon as it was.
Ten years passed away before I saw him the second time. Meantime I was become better known; and was one of the people appointed to respond to toasts at the banquet given to General Grant in Chicago—by the Army of the Tennessee when he came back from his tour around the world. I arrived late at night and got up late in the morning. All the corridors of the hotel were crowded with people waiting to get a glimpse of General Grant when he should pass to the place whence he was to review the great procession. I worked my way by the suite of packed drawing-rooms, and at the corner of the house I found a window open where there was a roomy platform decorated with flags, and carpeted. I stepped out on it, and saw below me millions of people blocking all the streets, and other millions caked together in all the windows and on all the house-tops around. These masses took me for General Grant, and broke into volcanic28 explosions and cheers; but it was a good place to see the procession, and I stayed. Presently I heard the distant blare of military music, and far up the street I saw the procession come in sight, cleaving29 its way through the huzzaing multitudes, with Sheridan, the most martial30 figure of the War, riding at its head in the dress uniform of a Lieutenant-General.
And now General Grant, arm-in-arm with Major Carter Harrison, stepped out on the platform, followed two and two by the badged and uniformed reception committee. General Grant was looking exactly as he had looked upon that trying occasion of ten years before—all iron and bronze self-possession. Mr. Harrison came over and led me to the General and formally introduced me. Before I could put together the proper remark, General Grant said—
“Mr. Clemens, I am not embarrassed. Are you?”—and that little seven-year smile twinkled across his face again.
Seventeen years have gone by since then, and to-day, in New York, the streets are a crush of people who are there to honor the remains31 of the great soldier as they pass to their final resting-place under the monument; and the air is heavy with dirges32 and the boom of artillery33, and all the millions of America are thinking of the man who restored the union and the flag, and gave to democratic government a new lease of life, and, as we may hope and do believe, a permanent place among the beneficent institutions of men.
We had one game in the ship which was a good time-passer—at least it was at night in the smoking-room when the men were getting freshened up from the day’s monotonies and dullnesses. It was the completing of non-complete stories. That is to say, a man would tell all of a story except the finish, then the others would try to supply the ending out of their own invention. When every one who wanted a chance had had it, the man who had introduced the story would give it its original ending—then you could take your choice. Sometimes the new endings turned out to be better than the old one. But the story which called out the most persistent34 and determined35 and ambitious effort was one which had no ending, and so there was nothing to compare the new-made endings with. The man who told it said he could furnish the particulars up to a certain point only, because that was as much of the tale as he knew. He had read it in a volume of sketches36 twenty-five years ago, and was interrupted before the end was reached. He would give any one fifty dollars who would finish the story to the satisfaction of a jury to be appointed by ourselves. We appointed a jury and wrestled37 with the tale. We invented plenty of endings, but the jury voted them all down. The jury was right. It was a tale which the author of it may possibly have completed satisfactorily, and if he really had that good fortune I would like to know what the ending was. Any ordinary man will find that the story’s strength is in its middle, and that there is apparently38 no way to transfer it to the close, where of course it ought to be. In substance the storiette was as follows:
John Brown, aged39 thirty-one, good, gentle, bashful, timid, lived in a quiet village in Missouri. He was superintendent40 of the Presbyterian Sunday-school. It was but a humble41 distinction; still, it was his only official one, and he was modestly proud of it and was devoted42 to its work and its interests. The extreme kindliness43 of his nature was recognized by all; in fact, people said that he was made entirely44 out of good impulses and bashfulness; that he could always be counted upon for help when it was needed, and for bashfulness both when it was needed and when it wasn’t.
Mary Taylor, twenty-three, modest, sweet, winning, and in character and person beautiful, was all in all to him. And he was very nearly all in all to her. She was wavering, his hopes were high. Her mother had been in opposition45 from the first. But she was wavering, too; he could see it. She was being touched by his warm interest in her two charity-proteges and by his contributions toward their support. These were two forlorn and aged sisters who lived in a log hut in a lonely place up a cross road four miles from Mrs. Taylor’s farm. One of the sisters was crazy, and sometimes a little violent, but not often.
At last the time seemed ripe for a final advance, and Brown gathered his courage together and resolved to make it. He would take along a contribution of double the usual size, and win the mother over; with her opposition annulled46, the rest of the conquest would be sure and prompt.
He took to the road in the middle of a placid47 Sunday afternoon in the soft Missourian summer, and he was equipped properly for his mission. He was clothed all in white linen, with a blue ribbon for a necktie, and he had on dressy tight boots. His horse and buggy were the finest that the livery stable could furnish. The lap robe was of white linen, it was new, and it had a hand-worked border that could not be rivaled in that region for beauty and elaboration.
When he was four miles out on the lonely road and was walking his horse over a wooden bridge, his straw hat blew off and fell in the creek48, and floated down and lodged49 against a bar. He did not quite know what to do. He must have the hat, that was manifest; but how was he to get it?
Then he had an idea. The roads were empty, nobody was stirring. Yes, he would risk it. He led the horse to the roadside and set it to cropping the grass; then he undressed and put his clothes in the buggy, petted the horse a moment to secure its compassion50 and its loyalty51, then hurried to the stream. He swam out and soon had the hat. When he got to the top of the bank the horse was gone!
His legs almost gave way under him. The horse was walking leisurely52 along the road. Brown trotted53 after it, saying, “Whoa, whoa, there’s a good fellow;” but whenever he got near enough to chance a jump for the buggy, the horse quickened its pace a little and defeated him. And so this went on, the naked man perishing with anxiety, and expecting every moment to see people come in sight. He tagged on and on, imploring54 the horse, beseeching55 the horse, till he had left a mile behind him, and was closing up on the Taylor premises56; then at last he was successful, and got into the buggy. He flung on his shirt, his necktie, and his coat; then reached for—but he was too late; he sat suddenly down and pulled up the lap-robe, for he saw some one coming out of the gate—a woman; he thought. He wheeled the horse to the left, and struck briskly up the cross-road. It was perfectly57 straight, and exposed on both sides; but there were woods and a sharp turn three miles ahead, and he was very grateful when he got there. As he passed around the turn he slowed down to a walk, and reached for his tr—— too late again.
He had come upon Mrs. Enderby, Mrs. Glossop, Mrs. Taylor, and Mary. They were on foot, and seemed tired and excited. They came at once to the buggy and shook hands, and all spoke9 at once, and said eagerly and earnestly, how glad they were that he was come, and how fortunate it was. And Mrs. Enderby said, impressively:
“It looks like an accident, his coming at such a time; but let no one profane58 it with such a name; he was sent—sent from on high.”
“Sarah Enderby, you never said a truer word in your life. This is no accident, it is a special Providence60. He was sent. He is an angel—an angel as truly as ever angel was—an angel of deliverance. I say angel, Sarah Enderby, and will have no other word. Don’t let any one ever say to me again, that there’s no such thing as special Providences; for if this isn’t one, let them account for it that can.”
“I know it’s so,” said Mrs. Taylor, fervently61. “John Brown, I could worship you; I could go down on my knees to you. Didn’t something tell you?—didn’t you feel that you were sent? I could kiss the hem12 of your laprobe.”
He was not able to speak; he was helpless with shame and fright. Mrs. Taylor went on:
“Why, just look at it all around, Julia Glossop. Any person can see the hand of Providence in it. Here at noon what do we see? We see the smoke rising. I speak up and say, ‘That’s the Old People’s cabin afire.’ Didn’t I, Julia Glossop?”
“The very words you said, Nancy Taylor. I was as close to you as I am now, and I heard them. You may have said hut instead of cabin, but in substance it’s the same. And you were looking pale, too.”
“Pale? I was that pale that if—why, you just compare it with this laprobe. Then the next thing I said was, ‘Mary Taylor, tell the hired man to rig up the team-we’ll go to the rescue.’ And she said, ‘Mother, don’t you know you told him he could drive to see his people, and stay over Sunday?’ And it was just so. I declare for it, I had forgotten it. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘we’ll go afoot.’ And go we did. And found Sarah Enderby on the road.”
“And we all went together,” said Mrs. Enderby. “And found the cabin set fire to and burnt down by the crazy one, and the poor old things so old and feeble that they couldn’t go afoot. And we got them to a shady place and made them as comfortable as we could, and began to wonder which way to turn to find some way to get them conveyed to Nancy Taylor’s house. And I spoke up and said—now what did I say? Didn’t I say, ‘Providence will provide’?”
“Why sure as you live, so you did! I had forgotten it.”
“So had I,” said Mrs. Glossop and Mrs. Taylor; “but you certainly said it. Now wasn’t that remarkable62?”
“Yes, I said it. And then we went to Mr. Moseley’s, two miles, and all of them were gone to the camp meeting over on Stony63 Fork; and then we came all the way back, two miles, and then here, another mile—and Providence has provided. You see it yourselves.”
“It’s per-fectly wonderful.”
“And then,” said Mrs. Glossop, “what do you think we had better do--let Mr. Brown drive the Old People to Nancy Taylor’s one at a time, or put both of them in the buggy, and him lead the horse?”
“Now, then, that’s a question,” said Mrs. Enderby. “You see, we are all tired out, and any way we fix it it’s going to be difficult. For if Mr. Brown takes both of them, at least one of us must, go back to help him, for he can’t load them into the buggy by himself, and they so helpless.”
“That is so,” said Mrs. Taylor. “It doesn’t look-oh, how would this do?—one of us drive there with Mr. Brown, and the rest of you go along to my house and get things ready. I’ll go with him. He and I together can lift one of the Old People into the buggy; then drive her to my house and——
“But who will take care of the other one?” said Mrs. Enderby. “We musn’t leave her there in the woods alone, you know—especially the crazy one. There and back is eight miles, you see.”
They had all been sitting on the grass beside the buggy for a while, now, trying to rest their weary bodies. They fell silent a moment or two, and struggled in thought over the baffling situation; then Mrs. Enderby brightened and said:
“I think I’ve got the idea, now. You see, we can’t walk any more. Think what we’ve done: four miles there, two to Moseley’s, is six, then back to here—nine miles since noon, and not a bite to eat; I declare I don’t see how we’ve done it; and as for me, I am just famishing. Now, somebody’s got to go back, to help Mr. Brown—there’s no getting around that; but whoever goes has got to ride, not walk. So my idea is this: one of us to ride back with Mr. Brown, then ride to Nancy Taylor’s house with one of the Old People, leaving Mr. Brown to keep the other old one company, you all to go now to Nancy’s and rest and wait; then one of you drive back and get the other one and drive her to Nancy’s, and Mr. Brown walk.”
“Splendid!” they all cried. “Oh, that will do—that will answer perfectly.” And they all said that Mrs. Enderby had the best head for planning, in the company; and they said that they wondered that they hadn’t thought of this simple plan themselves. They hadn’t meant to take back the compliment, good simple souls, and didn’t know they had done it. After a consultation66 it was decided67 that Mrs. Enderby should drive back with Brown, she being entitled to the distinction because she had invented the plan. Everything now being satisfactorily arranged and settled, the ladies rose, relieved and happy, and brushed down their gowns, and three of them started homeward; Mrs. Enderby set her foot on the buggy-step and was about to climb in, when Brown found a remnant of his voice and gasped out—
“Please Mrs. Enderby, call them back—I am very weak; I can’t walk, I can’t, indeed.”
“Why, dear Mr. Brown! You do look pale; I am ashamed of myself that I didn’t notice it sooner. Come back-all of you! Mr. Brown is not well. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Brown?—I’m real sorry. Are you in pain?”
“No, madam, only weak; I am not sick, but only just weak—lately; not long, but just lately.”
The others came back, and poured out their sympathies and commiserations, and were full of self-reproaches for not having noticed how pale he was.
And they at once struck out a new plan, and soon agreed that it was by far the best of all. They would all go to Nancy Taylor’s house and see to Brown’s needs first. He could lie on the sofa in the parlor68, and while Mrs. Taylor and Mary took care of him the other two ladies would take the buggy and go and get one of the Old People, and leave one of themselves with the other one, and——
By this time, without any solicitation69, they were at the horse’s head and were beginning to turn him around. The danger was imminent70, but Brown found his voice again and saved himself. He said—
“But ladies, you are overlooking something which makes the plan impracticable. You see, if you bring one of them home, and one remains behind with the other, there will be three persons there when one of you comes back for that other, for some one must drive the buggy back, and three can’t come home in it.”
“Dear, dear, what can we do?” said Mrs. Glossop; “it is the most mixed-up thing that ever was. The fox and the goose and the corn and things—oh, dear, they are nothing to it.”
They sat wearily down once more, to further torture their tormented72 heads for a plan that would work. Presently Mary offered a plan; it was her first effort. She said:
“I am young and strong, and am refreshed, now. Take Mr. Brown to our house, and give him help—you see how plainly he needs it. I will go back and take care of the Old People; I can be there in twenty minutes. You can go on and do what you first started to do—wait on the main road at our house until somebody comes along with a wagon73; then send and bring away the three of us. You won’t have to wait long; the farmers will soon be coming back from town, now. I will keep old Polly patient and cheered up—the crazy one doesn’t need it.”
This plan was discussed and accepted; it seemed the best that could be done, in the circumstances, and the Old People must be getting discouraged by this time.
Brown felt relieved, and was deeply thankful. Let him once get to the main road and he would find a way to escape.
Then Mrs. Taylor said:
“The evening chill will be coming on, pretty soon, and those poor old burnt-out things will need some kind of covering. Take the lap-robe with you, dear.”
“Very well, Mother, I will.”
She stepped to the buggy and put out her hand to take it——
That was the end of the tale. The passenger who told it said that when he read the story twenty-five years ago in a train he was interrupted at that point—the train jumped off a bridge.
At first we thought we could finish the story quite easily, and we set to work with confidence; but it soon began to appear that it was not a simple thing, but difficult and baffling. This was on account of Brown’s character—great generosity74 and kindliness, but complicated with unusual shyness and diffidence, particularly in the presence of ladies. There was his love for Mary, in a hopeful state but not yet secure—just in a condition, indeed, where its affair must be handled with great tact75, and no mistakes made, no offense76 given. And there was the mother wavering, half willing-by adroit77 and flawless diplomacy78 to be won over, now, or perhaps never at all. Also, there were the helpless Old People yonder in the woods waiting-their fate and Brown’s happiness to be determined by what Brown should do within the next two seconds. Mary was reaching for the lap-robe; Brown must decide-there was no time to be lost.
Of course none but a happy ending of the story would be accepted by the jury; the finish must find Brown in high credit with the ladies, his behavior without blemish79, his modesty80 unwounded, his character for self sacrifice maintained, the Old People rescued through him, their benefactor81, all the party proud of him, happy in him, his praises on all their tongues.
We tried to arrange this, but it was beset82 with persistent and irreconcilable83 difficulties. We saw that Brown’s shyness would not allow him to give up the lap-robe. This would offend Mary and her mother; and it would surprise the other ladies, partly because this stinginess toward the suffering Old People would be out of character with Brown, and partly because he was a special Providence and could not properly act so. If asked to explain his conduct, his shyness would not allow him to tell the truth, and lack of invention and practice would find him incapable84 of contriving85 a lie that would wash. We worked at the troublesome problem until three in the morning.
Meantime Mary was still reaching for the lap-robe. We gave it up, and decided to let her continue to reach. It is the reader’s privilege to determine for himself how the thing came out.
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1
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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buttressed
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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subtraction
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| n.减法，减去 | |
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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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rotation
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| n.旋转；循环，轮流 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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dirges
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| n.挽歌( dirge的名词复数 )；忧伤的歌，哀歌 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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annulled
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| v.宣告无效( annul的过去式和过去分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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lodged
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| 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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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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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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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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84
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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85
contriving
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| （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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