The night, fraught2 with so much bitterness to one poor soul, had given place to a bright and cloudless summer morning, when a north-country mail-coach traversed, with cheerful noise, the yet silent streets of Islington, and, giving brisk note of its approach with the lively winding4 of the guard’s horn, clattered5 onward6 to its halting-place hard by the Post Office.
The only outside passenger was a burly, honest-looking countryman on the box, who, with his eyes fixed7 upon the dome8 of St Paul’s Cathedral, appeared so wrapt in admiring wonder, as to be quite insensible to all the bustle9 of getting out the bags and parcels, until one of the coach windows being let sharply down, he looked round, and encountered a pretty female face which was just then thrust out.
‘See there, lass!’ bawled10 the countryman, pointing towards the object of his admiration11. ‘There be Paul’s Church. ‘Ecod, he be a soizable ‘un, he be.’
‘Goodness, John! I shouldn’t have thought it could have been half the size. What a monster!’
‘Monsther!—Ye’re aboot right theer, I reckon, Mrs. Browdie,’ said the countryman good-humouredly, as he came slowly down in his huge top-coat; ‘and wa’at dost thee tak yon place to be noo—thot’un owor the wa’? Ye’d never coom near it ‘gin you thried for twolve moonths. It’s na’ but a Poast Office! Ho! ho! They need to charge for dooble-latthers. A Poast Office! Wa’at dost thee think o’ thot? ‘Ecod, if thot’s on’y a Poast Office, I’d loike to see where the Lord Mayor o’ Lunnun lives.’
So saying, John Browdie—for he it was—opened the coach-door, and tapping Mrs. Browdie, late Miss Price, on the cheek as he looked in, burst into a boisterous12 fit of laughter.
‘Weel!’ said John. ‘Dang my bootuns if she bean’t asleep agean!’
‘She’s been asleep all night, and was, all yesterday, except for a minute or two now and then,’ replied John Browdie’s choice, ‘and I was very sorry when she woke, for she has been so cross!’
The subject of these remarks was a slumbering13 figure, so muffled14 in shawl and cloak, that it would have been matter of impossibility to guess at its sex but for a brown beaver15 bonnet16 and green veil which ornamented17 the head, and which, having been crushed and flattened18, for two hundred and fifty miles, in that particular angle of the vehicle from which the lady’s snores now proceeded, presented an appearance sufficiently19 ludicrous to have moved less risible20 muscles than those of John Browdie’s ruddy face.
After several burrowings into the old corner, and many exclamations22 of impatience23 and fatigue24, the figure struggled into a sitting posture25; and there, under a mass of crumpled26 beaver, and surrounded by a semicircle of blue curl-papers, were the delicate features of Miss Fanny Squeers.
‘Oh, ‘Tilda!’ cried Miss Squeers, ‘how you have been kicking of me through this blessed night!’
‘Well, I do like that,’ replied her friend, laughing, ‘when you have had nearly the whole coach to yourself.’
‘Don’t deny it, ‘Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, impressively, ‘because you have, and it’s no use to go attempting to say you haven’t. You mightn’t have known it in your sleep, ‘Tilda, but I haven’t closed my eyes for a single wink27, and so I think I am to be believed.’
With which reply, Miss Squeers adjusted the bonnet and veil, which nothing but supernatural interference and an utter suspension of nature’s laws could have reduced to any shape or form; and evidently flattering herself that it looked uncommonly28 neat, brushed off the sandwich-crumbs and bits of biscuit which had accumulated in her lap, and availing herself of John Browdie’s proffered29 arm, descended30 from the coach.
‘Noo,’ said John, when a hackney coach had been called, and the ladies and the luggage hurried in, ‘gang to the Sarah’s Head, mun.’
‘To the vere?’ cried the coachman.
‘Lawk, Mr. Browdie!’ interrupted Miss Squeers. ‘The idea! Saracen’s Head.’
‘Sure-ly,’ said John, ‘I know’d it was something aboot Sarah’s Son’s Head. Dost thou know thot?’
‘Oh, ah! I know that,’ replied the coachman gruffly, as he banged the door.
‘’Tilda, dear, really,’ remonstrated31 Miss Squeers, ‘we shall be taken for I don’t know what.’
‘Let them tak’ us as they foind us,’ said John Browdie; ‘we dean’t come to Lunnun to do nought32 but ‘joy oursel, do we?’
‘Well, then,’ said John, ‘it’s no matther. I’ve only been a married man fower days, ‘account of poor old feyther deein, and puttin’ it off. Here be a weddin’ party—broide and broide’s-maid, and the groom—if a mun dean’t ‘joy himsel noo, when ought he, hey? Drat it all, thot’s what I want to know.’
So, in order that he might begin to enjoy himself at once, and lose no time, Mr. Browdie gave his wife a hearty34 kiss, and succeeded in wresting35 another from Miss Squeers, after a maidenly36 resistance of scratching and struggling on the part of that young lady, which was not quite over when they reached the Saracen’s Head.
Here, the party straightway retired37 to rest; the refreshment38 of sleep being necessary after so long a journey; and here they met again about noon, to a substantial breakfast, spread by direction of Mr. John Browdie, in a small private room upstairs commanding an uninterrupted view of the stables.
To have seen Miss Squeers now, divested39 of the brown beaver, the green veil, and the blue curl-papers, and arrayed in all the virgin40 splendour of a white frock and spencer, with a white muslin bonnet, and an imitative damask rose in full bloom on the inside thereof—her luxuriant crop of hair arranged in curls so tight that it was impossible they could come out by any accident, and her bonnet-cap trimmed with little damask roses, which might be supposed to be so many promising41 scions42 of the big rose—to have seen all this, and to have seen the broad damask belt, matching both the family rose and the little roses, which encircled her slender waist, and by a happy ingenuity43 took off from the shortness of the spencer behind,—to have beheld44 all this, and to have taken further into account the coral bracelets45 (rather short of beads46, and with a very visible black string) which clasped her wrists, and the coral necklace which rested on her neck, supporting, outside her frock, a lonely cornelian heart, typical of her own disengaged affections—to have contemplated47 all these mute but expressive48 appeals to the purest feelings of our nature, might have thawed49 the frost of age, and added new and inextinguishable fuel to the fire of youth.
The waiter was touched. Waiter as he was, he had human passions and feelings, and he looked very hard at Miss Squeers as he handed the muffins.
‘Is my pa in, do you know?’ asked Miss Squeers with dignity.
‘Beg your pardon, miss?’
‘My pa,’ repeated Miss Squeers; ‘is he in?’
‘In where, miss?’
‘In here—in the house!’ replied Miss Squeers. ‘My pa—Mr Wackford Squeers—he’s stopping here. Is he at home?’
‘I didn’t know there was any gen’l’man of that name in the house, miss’ replied the waiter. ‘There may be, in the coffee-room.’
May Be. Very pretty this, indeed! Here was Miss Squeers, who had been depending, all the way to London, upon showing her friends how much at home she would be, and how much respectful notice her name and connections would excite, told that her father might be there! ‘As if he was a feller!’ observed Miss Squeers, with emphatic50 indignation.
‘Ye’d betther inquire, mun,’ said John Browdie. ‘An’ hond up another pigeon-pie, will ‘ee? Dang the chap,’ muttered John, looking into the empty dish as the waiter retired; ‘does he ca’ this a pie—three yoong pigeons and a troifling matther o’ steak, and a crust so loight that you doant know when it’s in your mooth and when it’s gane? I wonder hoo many pies goes to a breakfast!’
After a short interval51, which John Browdie employed upon the ham and a cold round of beef, the waiter returned with another pie, and the information that Mr. Squeers was not stopping in the house, but that he came there every day and that directly he arrived, he should be shown upstairs. With this, he retired; and he had not retired two minutes, when he returned with Mr. Squeers and his hopeful son.
‘Why, who’d have thought of this?’ said Mr. Squeers, when he had saluted52 the party and received some private family intelligence from his daughter.
‘Who, indeed, pa!’ replied that young lady, spitefully. ‘But you see ‘Tilda is married at last.’
‘And I stond threat for a soight o’ Lunnun, schoolmeasther,’ said John, vigorously attacking the pie.
‘One of them things that young men do when they get married,’ returned Squeers; ‘and as runs through with their money like nothing at all! How much better wouldn’t it be now, to save it up for the eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come on you,’ said Mr. Squeers in a moralising way, ‘before you’re aware of it; mine did upon me.’
‘Will ‘ee pick a bit?’ said John.
‘I won’t myself,’ returned Squeers; ‘but if you’ll just let little Wackford tuck into something fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give it him in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there’s lot of profit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waiter coming, sir, shove it in your pocket and look out of the window, d’ye hear?’
‘I’m awake, father,’ replied the dutiful Wackford.
‘Well,’ said Squeers, turning to his daughter, ‘it’s your turn to be married next. You must make haste.’
‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ said Miss Squeers, very sharply.
‘No, Fanny?’ cried her old friend with some archness.
‘No, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently53. ‘I can wait.’
‘So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,’ observed Mrs. Browdie.
‘They an’t draw’d into it by me, ‘Tilda,’ retorted Miss Squeers.
‘No,’ returned her friend; ‘that’s exceedingly true.’
The sarcastic54 tone of this reply might have provoked a rather acrimonious55 retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by travel and recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the failure of her own designs upon Mr. Browdie; and the acrimonious retort might have led to a great many other retorts, which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject of conversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr. Squeers himself
‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you suppose we have laid hands on, Wackford and me?’
‘Pa! not Mr—?’ Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs. Browdie did it for her, and added, ‘Nickleby?’
‘No,’ said Squeers. ‘But next door to him though.’
‘You can’t mean Smike?’ cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.
‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard and fast.’
‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Got that poor—dom’d scoondrel? Where?’
‘Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,’ replied Squeers, ‘with him on one side, and the key on the other.’
‘At thy loodgin’! Thee’st gotten him at thy loodgin’? Ho! ho! The schoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I’m darned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot.—Gotten him at thy loodgin’?’
‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under the congratulatory blow on the chest which the stout56 Yorkshireman dealt him; ‘thankee. Don’t do it again. You mean it kindly57, I know, but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘Ba’ad!’ repeated John Browdie. ‘It’s eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell on.’
‘I thought it would surprise you a bit,’ said Squeers, rubbing his hands. ‘It was pretty neatly58 done, and pretty quick too.’
‘Hoo wor it?’ inquired John, sitting down close to him. ‘Tell us all aboot it, mun; coom, quick!’
Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie’s impatience, Mr. Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his hands, as quickly as he could, and, except when he was interrupted by the admiring remarks of his auditors59, paused not in the recital60 until he had brought it to an end.
‘For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,’ observed Squeers, when he had finished, looking very cunning, ‘I’ve taken three outsides for tomorrow morning—for Wackford and him and me—and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys to the agent, don’t you see? So it’s very lucky you come today, or you’d have missed us; and as it is, unless you could come and tea with me tonight, we shan’t see anything more of you before we go away.’
‘Dean’t say anoother wurd,’ returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him by the hand. ‘We’d coom, if it was twonty mile.’
‘No, would you though?’ returned Mr. Squeers, who had not expected quite such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or he would have considered twice before he gave it.
John Browdie’s only reply was another squeeze of the hand, and an assurance that they would not begin to see London till tomorrow, so that they might be at Mr. Snawley’s at six o’clock without fail; and after some further conversation, Mr. Squeers and his son departed.
During the remainder of the day, Mr. Browdie was in a very odd and excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion of laughter, and then taking up his hat and running into the coach-yard to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantly walking in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps62 of uncouth63 country dances, and, in short, conducting himself in such a very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined he was going mad, and, begging her dear ‘Tilda not to distress64 herself, communicated her suspicions in so many words. Mrs Browdie, however, without discovering any great alarm, observed that she had seen him so once before, and that although he was almost sure to be ill after it, it would not be anything very serious, and therefore he was better left alone.
The result proved her to be perfectly65 correct for, while they were all sitting in Mr. Snawley’s parlour that night, and just as it was beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, and seized with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the whole company were thrown into the utmost consternation66. His good lady, indeed, was the only person present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he were allowed to lie down on Mr. Squeers’s bed for an hour or so, and left entirely67 to himself, he would be sure to recover again almost as quickly as he had been taken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the effect of so reasonable a proposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John was supported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrous68 weight, and regularly tumbling down two steps every time they hoisted69 him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in charge of his wife, who, after a short interval, reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.
Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, John Browdie was sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen, cramming70 the corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent his roaring out loud with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded in suppressing this emotion, than he slipped off his shoes, and creeping to the adjoining room where the prisoner was confined, turned the key, which was on the outside, and darting71 in, covered Smike’s mouth with his huge hand before he could utter a sound.
‘Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?’ whispered the Yorkshireman to the bewildered lad. ‘Browdie. Chap as met thee efther schoolmeasther was banged?’
‘Yes, yes,’ cried Smike. ‘Oh! help me.’
‘Help thee!’ replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instant he had said this much. ‘Thee didn’t need help, if thee warn’t as silly yoongster as ever draw’d breath. Wa’at did ‘ee come here for, then?’
‘He brought me; oh! he brought me,’ cried Smike.
‘Brout thee!’ replied John. ‘Why didn’t ‘ee punch his head, or lay theeself doon and kick, and squeal72 out for the pollis? I’d ha’ licked a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee. But thee be’est a poor broken-doon chap,’ said John, sadly, ‘and God forgi’ me for bragging73 ower yan o’ his weakest creeturs!’
Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.
With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly, and drawing a screwdriver75 from his pocket, took off the box of the lock in a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and laid it, together with the implement76, on the floor.
‘See thot?’ said John ‘Thot be thy doin’. Noo, coot awa’!’
Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning.
‘I say, coot awa’,’ repeated John, hastily. ‘Dost thee know where thee livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or schoolmeasther’s?’
‘Mine,’ replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to the adjoining room, and pointed77 out a pair of shoes and a coat which were lying on a chair.
‘On wi’ ‘em,’ said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrong sleeve, and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive’s neck. ‘Noo, foller me, and when thee get’st ootside door, turn to the right, and they wean’t see thee pass.’
‘But—but—he’ll hear me shut the door,’ replied Smike, trembling from head to foot.
‘Then dean’t shut it at all,’ retorted John Browdie. ‘Dang it, thee bean’t afeard o’ schoolmeasther’s takkin cold, I hope?’
‘N-no,’ said Smike, his teeth chattering78 in his head. ‘But he brought me back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.’
‘He wull, he wull!’ replied John impatiently. ‘He wean’t, he wean’t. Look’ee! I wont61 to do this neighbourly loike, and let them think thee’s gotten awa’ o’ theeself, but if he cooms oot o’ thot parlour awhiles theer’t clearing off, he mun’ have mercy on his oun boans, for I wean’t. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I’ll put ‘un on a wrong scent79, I warrant ‘ee. But if thee keep’st a good hart, thee’lt be at whoam afore they know thee’st gotten off. Coom!’
Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it was intended as encouragement, prepared to follow with tottering80 steps, when John whispered in his ear.
‘Thee’lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m sploiced to ‘Tilly Price, and to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that I bean’t jealous of ‘un—dang it, I’m loike to boost when I think o’ that neight! ‘Cod, I think I see ‘un now, a powderin’ awa’ at the thin bread an’ butther!’
It was rather a ticklish81 recollection for John just then, for he was within an ace3 of breaking out into a loud guffaw82. Restraining himself, however, just in time, by a great effort, he glided83 downstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself close to the parlour door, to confront the first person that might come out, signed to him to make off.
Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Opening the house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled84 gratitude85 and terror at his deliverer, he took the direction which had been indicated to him, and sped away like the wind.
The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but, finding that there was no pause in the conversation inside, crept back again unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into Mr. Squeers’s bed, once more, and drawing the clothes over his head, laughed till he was nearly smothered86.
If there could only have been somebody by, to see how the bedclothes shook, and to see the Yorkshireman’s great red face and round head appear above the sheets, every now and then, like some jovial87 monster coming to the surface to breathe, and once more dive down convulsed with the laughter which came bursting forth88 afresh—that somebody would have been scarcely less amused than John Browdie himself.
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1
opportunely
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| adv.恰好地，适时地 | |
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fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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sufficiently
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risible
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twitching
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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impatience
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fatigue
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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uncommonly
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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nought
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dismal
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hearty
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wresting
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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scions
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| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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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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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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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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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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bragging
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的现在分词 )；大话 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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screwdriver
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| n.螺丝起子；伏特加橙汁鸡尾酒 | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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ticklish
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| adj.怕痒的；问题棘手的；adv.怕痒地；n.怕痒，小心处理 | |
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guffaw
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| n.哄笑；突然的大笑 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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