The pavement of Snow Hill had been baking and frying all day in the heat, and the twain Saracens’ heads guarding the entrance to the hostelry of whose name and sign they are the duplicate presentments, looked—or seemed, in the eyes of jaded2 and footsore passers-by, to look—more vicious than usual, after blistering3 and scorching4 in the sun, when, in one of the inn’s smallest sitting-rooms, through whose open window there rose, in a palpable steam, wholesome5 exhalations from reeking6 coach-horses, the usual furniture of a tea-table was displayed in neat and inviting7 order, flanked by large joints8 of roast and boiled, a tongue, a pigeon pie, a cold fowl9, a tankard of ale, and other little matters of the like kind, which, in degenerate10 towns and cities, are generally understood to belong more particularly to solid lunches, stage-coach dinners, or unusually substantial breakfasts.
Mr. John Browdie, with his hands in his pockets, hovered11 restlessly about these delicacies12, stopping occasionally to whisk the flies out of the sugar-basin with his wife’s pocket-handkerchief, or to dip a teaspoon13 in the milk-pot and carry it to his mouth, or to cut off a little knob of crust, and a little corner of meat, and swallow them at two gulps14 like a couple of pills. After every one of these flirtations with the eatables, he pulled out his watch, and declared with an earnestness quite pathetic that he couldn’t undertake to hold out two minutes longer.
‘Tilly!’ said John to his lady, who was reclining half awake and half asleep upon a sofa.
‘Well, John!’
‘Well, John!’ retorted her husband, impatiently. ‘Dost thou feel hoongry, lass?’
‘Not very,’ said Mrs. Browdie.
‘Not vary!’ repeated John, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hear her say not vary, and us dining at three, and loonching off pasthry thot aggravates16 a mon ‘stead of pacifying17 him! Not vary!’
‘Here’s a gen’l’man for you, sir,’ said the waiter, looking in.
‘A wa’at for me?’ cried John, as though he thought it must be a letter, or a parcel.
‘A gen’l’man, sir.’
‘Stars and garthers, chap!’ said John, ‘wa’at dost thou coom and say thot for? In wi’ ‘un.’
‘Are you at home, sir?’
‘At whoam!’ cried John, ‘I wish I wur; I’d ha tea’d two hour ago. Why, I told t’oother chap to look sharp ootside door, and tell ‘un d’rectly he coom, thot we war faint wi’ hoonger. In wi’ ‘un. Aha! Thee hond, Misther Nickleby. This is nigh to be the proodest day o’ my life, sir. Hoo be all wi’ ye? Ding! But, I’m glod o’ this!’
Quite forgetting even his hunger in the heartiness18 of his salutation, John Browdie shook Nicholas by the hand again and again, slapping his palm with great violence between each shake, to add warmth to the reception.
‘Ah! there she be,’ said John, observing the look which Nicholas directed towards his wife. ‘There she be—we shan’t quarrel about her noo—eh? Ecod, when I think o’ thot—but thou want’st soom’at to eat. Fall to, mun, fall to, and for wa’at we’re aboot to receive—’
No doubt the grace was properly finished, but nothing more was heard, for John had already begun to play such a knife and fork, that his speech was, for the time, gone.
‘I shall take the usual licence, Mr. Browdie,’ said Nicholas, as he placed a chair for the bride.
‘Tak’ whatever thou like’st,’ said John, ‘and when a’s gane, ca’ for more.’
Without stopping to explain, Nicholas kissed the blushing Mrs. Browdie, and handed her to her seat.
‘You may depend upon that,’ replied Nicholas; ‘on one condition.’
‘And wa’at may thot be?’ asked John.
‘That you make me a godfather the very first time you have occasion for one.’
‘Eh! d’ye hear thot?’ cried John, laying down his knife and fork. ‘A godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha! Tilly—hear till ‘un—a godfeyther! Divn’t say a word more, ye’ll never beat thot. Occasion for ‘un—a godfeyther! Ha! ha! ha!’
Never was man so tickled20 with a respectable old joke, as John Browdie was with this. He chuckled21, roared, half suffocated22 himself by laughing large pieces of beef into his windpipe, roared again, persisted in eating at the same time, got red in the face and black in the forehead, coughed, cried, got better, went off again laughing inwardly, got worse, choked, had his back thumped23, stamped about, frightened his wife, and at last recovered in a state of the last exhaustion24 and with the water streaming from his eyes, but still faintly ejaculating, ‘A godfeyther—a godfeyther, Tilly!’ in a tone bespeaking25 an exquisite26 relish27 of the sally, which no suffering could diminish.
‘You remember the night of our first tea-drinking?’ said Nicholas.
‘Shall I e’er forget it, mun?’ replied John Browdie.
‘He was a desperate fellow that night though, was he not, Mrs. Browdie?’ said Nicholas. ‘Quite a monster!’
‘If you had only heard him as we were going home, Mr. Nickleby, you’d have said so indeed,’ returned the bride. ‘I never was so frightened in all my life.’
‘Coom, coom,’ said John, with a broad grin; ‘thou know’st betther than thot, Tilly.’
‘So I was,’ replied Mrs. Browdie. ‘I almost made up my mind never to speak to you again.’
‘A’most!’ said John, with a broader grin than the last. ‘A’most made up her mind! And she wur coaxin’, and coaxin’, and wheedlin’, and wheedlin’ a’ the blessed wa’. “Wa’at didst thou let yon chap mak’ oop tiv’ee for?” says I. “I deedn’t, John,” says she, a squeedgin my arm. “You deedn’t?” says I. “Noa,” says she, a squeedgin of me agean.’
‘Lor, John!’ interposed his pretty wife, colouring very much. ‘How can you talk such nonsense? As if I should have dreamt of such a thing!’
‘I dinnot know whether thou’d ever dreamt of it, though I think that’s loike eneaf, mind,’ retorted John; ‘but thou didst it. “Ye’re a feeckle, changeable weathercock, lass,” says I. “Not feeckle, John,” says she. “Yes,” says I, “feeckle, dom’d feeckle. Dinnot tell me thou bean’t, efther yon chap at schoolmeasther’s,” says I. “Him!” says she, quite screeching28. “Ah! him!” says I. “Why, John,” says she—and she coom a deal closer and squeedged a deal harder than she’d deane afore—“dost thou think it’s nat’ral noo, that having such a proper mun as thou to keep company wi’, I’d ever tak’ opp wi’ such a leetle scanty29 whipper-snapper as yon?” she says. Ha! ha! ha! She said whipper-snapper! “Ecod!” I says, “efther thot, neame the day, and let’s have it ower!” Ha! ha! ha!’
Nicholas laughed very heartily30 at this story, both on account of its telling against himself, and his being desirous to spare the blushes of Mrs. Browdie, whose protestations were drowned in peals31 of laughter from her husband. His good-nature soon put her at her ease; and although she still denied the charge, she laughed so heartily at it, that Nicholas had the satisfaction of feeling assured that in all essential respects it was strictly32 true.
‘This is the second time,’ said Nicholas, ‘that we have ever taken a meal together, and only third I have ever seen you; and yet it really seems to me as if I were among old friends.’
‘Weel!’ observed the Yorkshireman, ‘so I say.’
‘And I am sure I do,’ added his young wife.
‘I have the best reason to be impressed with the feeling, mind,’ said Nicholas; ‘for if it had not been for your kindness of heart, my good friend, when I had no right or reason to expect it, I know not what might have become of me or what plight33 I should have been in by this time.’
‘Talk aboot soom’at else,’ replied John, gruffly, ‘and dinnot bother.’
‘It must be a new song to the same tune34 then,’ said Nicholas, smiling. ‘I told you in my letter that I deeply felt and admired your sympathy with that poor lad, whom you released at the risk of involving yourself in trouble and difficulty; but I can never tell you how grateful he and I, and others whom you don’t know, are to you for taking pity on him.’
‘Ecod!’ rejoined John Browdie, drawing up his chair; ‘and I can never tell you hoo gratful soom folks that we do know would be loikewise, if they know’d I had takken pity on him.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs. Browdie, ‘what a state I was in that night!’
‘Were they at all disposed to give you credit for assisting in the escape?’ inquired Nicholas of John Browdie.
‘Not a bit,’ replied the Yorkshireman, extending his mouth from ear to ear. ‘There I lay, snoog in schoolmeasther’s bed long efther it was dark, and nobody coom nigh the pleace. “Weel!” thinks I, “he’s got a pretty good start, and if he bean’t whoam by noo, he never will be; so you may coom as quick as you loike, and foind us reddy”—that is, you know, schoolmeasther might coom.’
‘I understand,’ said Nicholas.
‘Presently,’ resumed John, ‘he did coom. I heerd door shut doonstairs, and him a warking, oop in the daark. “Slow and steddy,” I says to myself, “tak’ your time, sir—no hurry.” He cooms to the door, turns the key—turns the key when there warn’t nothing to hoold the lock—and ca’s oot “Hallo, there!”—“Yes,” thinks I, “you may do thot agean, and not wakken anybody, sir.” “Hallo, there,” he says, and then he stops. “Thou’d betther not aggravate15 me,” says schoolmeasther, efther a little time. “I’ll brak’ every boan in your boddy, Smike,” he says, efther another little time. Then all of a soodden, he sings oot for a loight, and when it cooms—ecod, such a hoorly-boorly! “Wa’at’s the matter?” says I. “He’s gane,” says he,—stark mad wi’ vengeance35. “Have you heerd nought36?” “Ees,” says I, “I heerd street-door shut, no time at a’ ago. I heerd a person run doon there” (pointing t’other wa’—eh?) “Help!” he cries. “I’ll help you,” says I; and off we set—the wrong wa’! Ho! ho! ho!’
‘Did you go far?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Far!’ replied John; ‘I run him clean off his legs in quarther of an hoor. To see old schoolmeasther wi’out his hat, skimming along oop to his knees in mud and wather, tumbling over fences, and rowling into ditches, and bawling37 oot like mad, wi’ his one eye looking sharp out for the lad, and his coat-tails flying out behind, and him spattered wi’ mud all ower, face and all! I tho’t I should ha’ dropped doon, and killed myself wi’ laughing.’
John laughed so heartily at the mere38 recollection, that he communicated the contagion39 to both his hearers, and all three burst into peals of laughter, which were renewed again and again, until they could laugh no longer.
‘He’s a bad ‘un,’ said John, wiping his eyes; ‘a very bad ‘un, is schoolmeasther.’
‘I can’t bear the sight of him, John,’ said his wife.
‘Coom,’ retorted John, ‘thot’s tidy in you, thot is. If it wa’nt along o’ you, we shouldn’t know nought aboot ‘un. Thou know’d ‘un first, Tilly, didn’t thou?’
‘I couldn’t help knowing Fanny Squeers, John,’ returned his wife; ‘she was an old playmate of mine, you know.’
‘Weel,’ replied John, ‘dean’t I say so, lass? It’s best to be neighbourly, and keep up old acquaintance loike; and what I say is, dean’t quarrel if ‘ee can help it. Dinnot think so, Mr. Nickleby?’
‘Certainly,’ returned Nicholas; ‘and you acted upon that principle when I meet you on horseback on the road, after our memorable40 evening.’
‘Sure-ly,’ said John. ‘Wa’at I say, I stick by.’
‘And that’s a fine thing to do, and manly41 too,’ said Nicholas, ‘though it’s not exactly what we understand by “coming Yorkshire over us” in London. Miss Squeers is stopping with you, you said in your note.’
‘Yes,’ replied John, ‘Tilly’s bridesmaid; and a queer bridesmaid she be, too. She wean’t be a bride in a hurry, I reckon.’
‘For shame, John,’ said Mrs. Browdie; with an acute perception of the joke though, being a bride herself.
‘The groom42 will be a blessed mun,’ said John, his eyes twinkling at the idea. ‘He’ll be in luck, he will.’
‘You see, Mr. Nickleby,’ said his wife, ‘that it was in consequence of her being here, that John wrote to you and fixed43 tonight, because we thought that it wouldn’t be pleasant for you to meet, after what has passed.’
‘Unquestionably. You were quite right in that,’ said Nicholas, interrupting.
‘Especially,’ observed Mrs. Browdie, looking very sly, ‘after what we know about past and gone love matters.’
‘We know, indeed!’ said Nicholas, shaking his head. ‘You behaved rather wickedly there, I suspect.’
‘O’ course she did,’ said John Browdie, passing his huge forefinger44 through one of his wife’s pretty ringlets, and looking very proud of her. ‘She wur always as skittish45 and full o’ tricks as a—’
‘Well, as a what?’ said his wife.
‘As a woman,’ returned John. ‘Ding! But I dinnot know ought else that cooms near it.’
‘You were speaking about Miss Squeers,’ said Nicholas, with the view of stopping some slight connubialities which had begun to pass between Mr. and Mrs. Browdie, and which rendered the position of a third party in some degree embarrassing, as occasioning him to feel rather in the way than otherwise.
‘Oh yes,’ rejoined Mrs. Browdie. ‘John ha’ done. John fixed tonight, because she had settled that she would go and drink tea with her father. And to make quite sure of there being nothing amiss, and of your being quite alone with us, he settled to go out there and fetch her home.’
‘That was a very good arrangement,’ said Nicholas, ‘though I am sorry to be the occasion of so much trouble.’
‘Not the least in the world,’ returned Mrs. Browdie; ‘for we have looked forward to see you—John and I have—with the greatest possible pleasure. Do you know, Mr. Nickleby,’ said Mrs. Browdie, with her archest smile, ‘that I really think Fanny Squeers was very fond of you?’
‘I am very much obliged to her,’ said Nicholas; ‘but upon my word, I never aspired46 to making any impression upon her virgin47 heart.’
‘How you talk!’ tittered Mrs. Browdie. ‘No, but do you know that really—seriously now and without any joking—I was given to understand by Fanny herself, that you had made an offer to her, and that you two were going to be engaged quite solemn and regular.’
‘Was you, ma’am—was you?’ cried a shrill48 female voice, ‘was you given to understand that I—I—was going to be engaged to an assassinating49 thief that shed the gore50 of my pa? Do you—do you think, ma’am—that I was very fond of such dirt beneath my feet, as I couldn’t condescend51 to touch with kitchen tongs52, without blacking and crocking myself by the contract? Do you, ma’am—do you? Oh! base and degrading ‘Tilda!’
With these reproaches Miss Squeers flung the door wide open, and disclosed to the eyes of the astonished Browdies and Nicholas, not only her own symmetrical form, arrayed in the chaste53 white garments before described (a little dirtier), but the form of her brother and father, the pair of Wackfords.
‘This is the hend, is it?’ continued Miss Squeers, who, being excited, aspirated her h’s strongly; ‘this is the hend, is it, of all my forbearance and friendship for that double-faced thing—that viper54, that—that—mermaid?’ (Miss Squeers hesitated a long time for this last epithet55, and brought it out triumphantly56 at last, as if it quite clinched57 the business.) ‘This is the hend, is it, of all my bearing with her deceitfulness, her lowness, her falseness, her laying herself out to catch the admiration58 of vulgar minds, in a way which made me blush for my—for my—’
‘Gender,’ suggested Mr. Squeers, regarding the spectators with a malevolent59 eye—literally A malevolent eye.
‘Yes,’ said Miss Squeers; ‘but I thank my stars that my ma is of the same—’
‘Hear, hear!’ remarked Mr. Squeers; ‘and I wish she was here to have a scratch at this company.’
‘This is the hend, is it,’ said Miss Squeers, tossing her head, and looking contemptuously at the floor, ‘of my taking notice of that rubbishing creature, and demeaning myself to patronise her?’
‘Oh, come,’ rejoined Mrs. Browdie, disregarding all the endeavours of her spouse60 to restrain her, and forcing herself into a front row, ‘don’t talk such nonsense as that.’
‘Have I not patronised you, ma’am?’ demanded Miss Squeers.
‘No,’ returned Mrs. Browdie.
‘I will not look for blushes in such a quarter,’ said Miss Squeers, haughtily61, ‘for that countenance62 is a stranger to everything but hignominiousness and red-faced boldness.’
‘I say,’ interposed John Browdie, nettled63 by these accumulated attacks on his wife, ‘dra’ it mild, dra’ it mild.’
‘You, Mr. Browdie,’ said Miss Squeers, taking him up very quickly, ‘I pity. I have no feeling for you, sir, but one of unliquidated pity.’
‘Oh!’ said John.
‘No,’ said Miss Squeers, looking sideways at her parent, ‘although I am a queer bridesmaid, and SHAN’T be a bride in a hurry, and although my husband will be in luck, I entertain no sentiments towards you, sir, but sentiments of pity.’
Here Miss Squeers looked sideways at her father again, who looked sideways at her, as much as to say, ‘There you had him.’
‘I know what you’ve got to go through,’ said Miss Squeers, shaking her curls violently. ‘I know what life is before you, and if you was my bitterest and deadliest enemy, I could wish you nothing worse.’
‘Couldn’t you wish to be married to him yourself, if that was the case?’ inquired Mrs. Browdie, with great suavity64 of manner.
‘Oh, ma’am, how witty65 you are,’ retorted Miss Squeers with a low curtsy, ‘almost as witty, ma’am, as you are clever. How very clever it was in you, ma’am, to choose a time when I had gone to tea with my pa, and was sure not to come back without being fetched! What a pity you never thought that other people might be as clever as yourself and spoil your plans!’
‘You won’t vex66 me, child, with such airs as these,’ said the late Miss Price, assuming the matron.
‘Don’t Missis me, ma’am, if you please,’ returned Miss Squeers, sharply. ‘I’ll not bear it. Is this the hend—’
‘Dang it a’,’ cried John Browdie, impatiently. ‘Say thee say out, Fanny, and mak’ sure it’s the end, and dinnot ask nobody whether it is or not.’
‘Thanking you for your advice which was not required, Mr. Browdie,’ returned Miss Squeers, with laborious67 politeness, ‘have the goodness not to presume to meddle68 with my Christian69 name. Even my pity shall never make me forget what’s due to myself, Mr. Browdie. ‘Tilda,’ said Miss Squeers, with such a sudden accession of violence that John started in his boots, ‘I throw you off for ever, miss. I abandon you. I renounce70 you. I wouldn’t,’ cried Miss Squeers in a solemn voice, ‘have a child named ‘Tilda, not to save it from its grave.’
‘As for the matther o’ that,’ observed John, ‘it’ll be time eneaf to think aboot neaming of it when it cooms.’
‘John!’ interposed his wife, ‘don’t tease her.’
‘Oh! Tease, indeed!’ cried Miss Squeers, bridling71 up. ‘Tease, indeed! He, he! Tease, too! No, don’t tease her. Consider her feelings, pray!’
‘If it’s fated that listeners are never to hear any good of themselves,’ said Mrs. Browdie, ‘I can’t help it, and I am very sorry for it. But I will say, Fanny, that times out of number I have spoken so kindly72 of you behind your back, that even you could have found no fault with what I said.’
‘Oh, I dare say not, ma’am!’ cried Miss Squeers, with another curtsy. ‘Best thanks to you for your goodness, and begging and praying you not to be hard upon me another time!’
‘I don’t know,’ resumed Mrs. Browdie, ‘that I have said anything very bad of you, even now. At all events, what I did say was quite true; but if I have, I am very sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. You have said much worse of me, scores of times, Fanny; but I have never borne any malice73 to you, and I hope you’ll not bear any to me.’
Miss Squeers made no more direct reply than surveying her former friend from top to toe, and elevating her nose in the air with ineffable74 disdain75. But some indistinct allusions76 to a ‘puss,’ and a ‘minx,’ and a ‘contemptible creature,’ escaped her; and this, together with a severe biting of the lips, great difficulty in swallowing, and very frequent comings and goings of breath, seemed to imply that feelings were swelling77 in Miss Squeers’s bosom78 too great for utterance79.
While the foregoing conversation was proceeding80, Master Wackford, finding himself unnoticed, and feeling his preponderating81 inclinations82 strong upon him, had by little and little sidled up to the table and attacked the food with such slight skirmishing as drawing his fingers round and round the inside of the plates, and afterwards sucking them with infinite relish; picking the bread, and dragging the pieces over the surface of the butter; pocketing lumps of sugar, pretending all the time to be absorbed in thought; and so forth83. Finding that no interference was attempted with these small liberties, he gradually mounted to greater, and, after helping84 himself to a moderately good cold collation85, was, by this time, deep in the pie.
Nothing of this had been unobserved by Mr. Squeers, who, so long as the attention of the company was fixed upon other objects, hugged himself to think that his son and heir should be fattening86 at the enemy’s expense. But there being now an appearance of a temporary calm, in which the proceedings87 of little Wackford could scarcely fail to be observed, he feigned88 to be aware of the circumstance for the first time, and inflicted89 upon the face of that young gentleman a slap that made the very tea-cups ring.
‘Eating!’ cried Mr. Squeers, ‘of what his father’s enemies has left! It’s fit to go and poison you, you unnat’ral boy.’
‘It wean’t hurt him,’ said John, apparently90 very much relieved by the prospect91 of having a man in the quarrel; ‘let’ un eat. I wish the whole school was here. I’d give’em soom’at to stay their unfort’nate stomachs wi’, if I spent the last penny I had!’
Squeers scowled92 at him with the worst and most malicious93 expression of which his face was capable—it was a face of remarkable94 capability95, too, in that way—and shook his fist stealthily.
‘Coom, coom, schoolmeasther,’ said John, ‘dinnot make a fool o’ thyself; for if I was to sheake mine—only once—thou’d fa’ doon wi’ the wind o’ it.’
‘Me!’ returned John, in a loud tone. ‘Yes, it wa’ me, coom; wa’at o’ that? It wa’ me. Noo then!’
‘You hear him say he did it, my child!’ said Squeers, appealing to his daughter. ‘You hear him say he did it!’
‘Did it!’ cried John. ‘I’ll tell ‘ee more; hear this, too. If thou’d got another roonaway boy, I’d do it agean. If thou’d got twonty roonaway boys, I’d do it twonty times ower, and twonty more to thot; and I tell thee more,’ said John, ‘noo my blood is oop, that thou’rt an old ra’ascal; and that it’s weel for thou, thou be’est an old ‘un, or I’d ha’ poonded thee to flour when thou told an honest mun hoo thou’d licked that poor chap in t’ coorch.’
‘Ah! an honest man,’ replied John; ‘honest in ought but ever putting legs under seame table wi’ such as thou.’
‘Scandal!’ said Squeers, exultingly98. ‘Two witnesses to it; Wackford knows the nature of an oath, he does; we shall have you there, sir. Rascal99, eh?’ Mr. Squeers took out his pocketbook and made a note of it. ‘Very good. I should say that was worth full twenty pound at the next assizes, without the honesty, sir.’
‘’Soizes,’ cried John, ‘thou’d betther not talk to me o’ ‘Soizes. Yorkshire schools have been shown up at ‘Soizes afore noo, mun, and it’s a ticklish100 soobjact to revive, I can tell ye.’
Mr. Squeers shook his head in a threatening manner, looking very white with passion; and taking his daughter’s arm, and dragging little Wackford by the hand, retreated towards the door.
‘As for you,’ said Squeers, turning round and addressing Nicholas, who, as he had caused him to smart pretty soundly on a former occasion, purposely abstained101 from taking any part in the discussion, ‘see if I ain’t down upon you before long. You’ll go a kidnapping of boys, will you? Take care their fathers don’t turn up—mark that—take care their fathers don’t turn up, and send ‘em back to me to do as I like with, in spite of you.’
‘I am not afraid of that,’ replied Nicholas, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, and turning away.
‘Ain’t you!’ retorted Squeers, with a diabolical102 look. ‘Now then, come along.’
‘I leave such society, with my pa, for Hever,’ said Miss Squeers, looking contemptuously and loftily round. ‘I am defiled103 by breathing the air with such creatures. Poor Mr. Browdie! He! he! he! I do pity him, that I do; he’s so deluded104. He! he! he!—Artful and designing ‘Tilda!’
With this sudden relapse into the sternest and most majestic105 wrath106, Miss Squeers swept from the room; and having sustained her dignity until the last possible moment, was heard to sob107 and scream and struggle in the passage.
John Browdie remained standing108 behind the table, looking from his wife to Nicholas, and back again, with his mouth wide open, until his hand accidentally fell upon the tankard of ale, when he took it up, and having obscured his features therewith for some time, drew a long breath, handed it over to Nicholas, and rang the bell.
‘Here, waither,’ said John, briskly. ‘Look alive here. Tak’ these things awa’, and let’s have soomat broiled109 for sooper—vary comfortable and plenty o’ it—at ten o’clock. Bring soom brandy and soom wather, and a pair o’ slippers—the largest pair in the house—and be quick aboot it. Dash ma wig110!’ said John, rubbing his hands, ‘there’s no ganging oot to neeght, noo, to fetch anybody whoam, and ecod, we’ll begin to spend the evening in airnest.’
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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scorching
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wholesome
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reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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inviting
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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fowl
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degenerate
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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teaspoon
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| n.茶匙 | |
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14
gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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15
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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16
aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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17
pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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18
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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19
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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20
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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21
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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23
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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25
bespeaking
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| v.预定( bespeak的现在分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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26
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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27
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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28
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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29
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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30
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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31
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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32
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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33
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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34
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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35
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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36
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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37
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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38
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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39
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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40
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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41
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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42
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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43
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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44
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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45
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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46
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
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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48
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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49
assassinating
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的现在分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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50
gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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51
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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52
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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53
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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54
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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55
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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56
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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57
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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58
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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59
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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60
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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61
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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62
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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63
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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64
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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65
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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66
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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67
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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68
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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69
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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70
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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71
bridling
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的现在分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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72
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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73
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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74
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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75
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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76
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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77
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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78
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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79
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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80
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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81
preponderating
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| v.超过，胜过( preponderate的现在分词 ) | |
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82
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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83
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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84
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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85
collation
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| n.便餐；整理 | |
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86
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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87
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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88
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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89
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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91
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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92
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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94
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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95
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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96
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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97
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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98
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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99
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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100
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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101
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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102
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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103
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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104
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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106
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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107
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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108
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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109
broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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110
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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