It was two stations from Moscow, and there was a drive of three miles from the station. A carriage with three horses had been sent to the station to meet Korolyov; the coachman wore a hat with a peacock's feather on it, and answered every question in a loud voice like a soldier: "No, sir!" "Certainly, sir!"
It was Saturday evening; the sun was setting, the workpeople were coming in crowds from the factory to the station, and they bowed to the carriage in which Korolyov was driving. And he was charmed with the evening, the farmhouses2 and villas3 on the road, and the birch-trees, and the quiet atmosphere all around, when the fields and woods and the sun seemed preparing, like the workpeople now on the eve of the holiday, to rest, and perhaps to pray....
He was born and had grown up in Moscow; he did not know the country, and he had never taken any interest in factories, or been inside one, but he had happened to read about factories, and had been in the houses of manufacturers and had talked to them; and whenever he saw a factory far or near, he always thought how quiet and peaceable it was outside, but within there was always sure to be impenetrable ignorance and dull egoism on the side of the owners, wearisome, unhealthy toil4 on the side of the workpeople, squabbling, vermin, vodka. And now when the workpeople timidly and respectfully made way for the carriage, in their faces, their caps, their walk, he read physical impurity6, drunkenness, nervous exhaustion7, bewilderment.
They drove in at the factory gates. On each side he caught glimpses of the little houses of workpeople, of the faces of women, of quilts and linen8 on the railings. "Look out!" shouted the coachman, not pulling up the horses. It was a wide courtyard without grass, with five immense blocks of buildings with tall chimneys a little distance one from another, warehouses10 and barracks, and over everything a sort of grey powder as though from dust. Here and there, like oases11 in the desert, there were pitiful gardens, and the green and red roofs of the houses in which the managers and clerks lived. The coachman suddenly pulled up the horses, and the carriage stopped at the house, which had been newly painted grey; here was a flower garden, with a lilac bush covered with dust, and on the yellow steps at the front door there was a strong smell of paint.
"Please come in, doctor," said women's voices in the passage and the entry, and at the same time he heard sighs and whisperings. "Pray walk in.... We've been expecting you so long ... we're in real trouble. Here, this way."
Madame Lyalikov—a stout12 elderly lady wearing a black silk dress with fashionable sleeves, but, judging from her face, a simple uneducated woman—looked at the doctor in a flutter, and could not bring herself to hold out her hand to him; she did not dare. Beside her stood a personage with short hair and a pince-nez; she was wearing a blouse of many colours, and was very thin and no longer young. The servants called her Christina Dmitryevna, and Korolyov guessed that this was the governess. Probably, as the person of most education in the house, she had been charged to meet and receive the doctor, for she began immediately, in great haste, stating the causes of the illness, giving trivial and tiresome13 details, but without saying who was ill or what was the matter.
The doctor and the governess were sitting talking while the lady of the house stood motionless at the door, waiting. From the conversation Korolyov learned that the patient was Madame Lyalikov's only daughter and heiress, a girl of twenty, called Liza; she had been ill for a long time, and had consulted various doctors, and the previous night she had suffered till morning from such violent palpitations of the heart, that no one in the house had slept, and they had been afraid she might die.
"She has been, one may say, ailing9 from a child," said Christina Dmitryevna in a sing-song voice, continually wiping her lips with her hand. "The doctors say it is nerves; when she was a little girl she was scrofulous, and the doctors drove it inwards, so I think it may be due to that."
They went to see the invalid14. Fully5 grown up, big and tall, but ugly like her mother, with the same little eyes and disproportionate breadth of the lower part of the face, lying with her hair in disorder15, muffled16 up to the chin, she made upon Korolyov at the first minute the impression of a poor, destitute17 creature, sheltered and cared for here out of charity, and he could hardly believe that this was the heiress of the five huge buildings.
"I am the doctor come to see you," said Korolyov. "Good evening."
He mentioned his name and pressed her hand, a large, cold, ugly hand; she sat up, and, evidently accustomed to doctors, let herself be sounded, without showing the least concern that her shoulders and chest were uncovered.
"I have palpitations of the heart," she said, "It was so awful all night.... I almost died of fright! Do give me something."
"I will, I will; don't worry yourself."
"The heart is all right," he said; "it's all going on satisfactorily; everything is in good order. Your nerves must have been playing pranks19 a little, but that's so common. The attack is over by now, one must suppose; lie down and go to sleep."
At that moment a lamp was brought into the bed-room. The patient screwed up her eyes at the light, then suddenly put her hands to her head and broke into sobs20. And the impression of a destitute, ugly creature vanished, and Korolyov no longer noticed the little eyes or the heavy development of the lower part of the face. He saw a soft, suffering expression which was intelligent and touching21: she seemed to him altogether graceful22, feminine, and simple; and he longed to soothe23 her, not with drugs, not with advice, but with simple, kindly24 words. Her mother put her arms round her head and hugged her. What despair, what grief was in the old woman's face! She, her mother, had reared her and brought her up, spared nothing, and devoted25 her whole life to having her daughter taught French, dancing, music: had engaged a dozen teachers for her; had consulted the best doctors, kept a governess. And now she could not make out the reason of these tears, why there was all this misery26, she could not understand, and was bewildered; and she had a guilty, agitated27, despairing expression, as though she had omitted something very important, had left something undone28, had neglected to call in somebody—and whom, she did not know.
"Lizanka, you are crying again ... again," she said, hugging her daughter to her. "My own, my darling, my child, tell me what it is! Have pity on me! Tell me."
Both wept bitterly. Korolyov sat down on the side of the bed and took Liza's hand.
"Come, give over; it's no use crying," he said kindly. "Why, there is nothing in the world that is worth those tears. Come, we won't cry; that's no good...."
And inwardly he thought:
"It's high time she was married...."
"Our doctor at the factory gave her kalibromati," said the governess, "but I notice it only makes her worse. I should have thought that if she is given anything for the heart it ought to be drops.... I forget the name.... Convallaria, isn't it?"
And there followed all sorts of details. She interrupted the doctor, preventing his speaking, and there was a look of effort on her face, as though she supposed that, as the woman of most education in the house, she was duty bound to keep up a conversation with the doctor, and on no other subject but medicine.
Korolyov felt bored.
"I find nothing special the matter," he said, addressing the mother as he went out of the bedroom. "If your daughter is being attended by the factory doctor, let him go on attending her. The treatment so far has been perfectly29 correct, and I see no reason for changing your doctor. Why change? It's such an ordinary trouble; there's nothing seriously wrong."
He spoke30 deliberately31 as he put on his gloves, while Madame Lyalikov stood without moving, and looked at him with her tearful eyes.
"I have half an hour to catch the ten o'clock train," he said. "I hope I am not too late."
"And can't you stay?" she asked, and tears trickled32 down her cheeks again. "I am ashamed to trouble you, but if you would be so good.... For God's sake," she went on in an undertone, glancing towards the door, "do stay to-night with us! She is all I have ... my only daughter.... She frightened me last night; I can't get over it.... Don't go away, for goodness' sake!..."
He wanted to tell her that he had a great deal of work in Moscow, that his family were expecting him home; it was disagreeable to him to spend the evening and the whole night in a strange house quite needlessly; but he looked at her face, heaved a sigh, and began taking off his gloves without a word.
All the lamps and candles were lighted in his honour in the drawing-room and the dining-room. He sat down at the piano and began turning over the music. Then he looked at the pictures on the walls, at the portraits. The pictures, oil-paintings in gold frames, were views of the Crimea—a stormy sea with a ship, a Catholic monk33 with a wineglass; they were all dull, smooth daubs, with no trace of talent in them. There was not a single good-looking face among the portraits, nothing but broad cheekbones and astonished-looking eyes. Lyalikov, Liza's father, had a low forehead and a self-satisfied expression; his uniform sat like a sack on his bulky plebeian34 figure; on his breast was a medal and a Red Cross Badge. There was little sign of culture, and the luxury was senseless and haphazard35, and was as ill fitting as that uniform. The floors irritated him with their brilliant polish, the lustres on the chandelier irritated him, and he was reminded for some reason of the story of the merchant who used to go to the baths with a medal on his neck....
He heard a whispering in the entry; some one was softly snoring. And suddenly from outside came harsh, abrupt36, metallic37 sounds, such as Korolyov had never heard before, and which he did not understand now; they roused strange, unpleasant echoes in his soul.
"I believe nothing would induce me to remain here to live ..." he thought, and went back to the music-books again.
"Doctor, please come to supper!" the governess called him in a low voice.
He went into supper. The table was large and laid with a vast number of dishes and wines, but there were only two to supper: himself and Christina Dmitryevna. She drank Madeira, ate rapidly, and talked, looking at him through her pince-nez:
"Our workpeople are very contented38. We have performances at the factory every winter; the workpeople act themselves. They have lectures with a magic lantern, a splendid tea-room, and everything they want. They are very much attached to us, and when they heard that Lizanka was worse they had a service sung for her. Though they have no education, they have their feelings, too."
"It looks as though you have no man in the house at all," said Korolyov.
"Not one. Pyotr Nikanoritch died a year and a half ago, and left us alone. And so there are the three of us. In the summer we live here, and in winter we live in Moscow, in Polianka. I have been living with them for eleven years—as one of the family."
At supper they served sterlet, chicken rissoles, and stewed39 fruit; the wines were expensive French wines.
"Please don't stand on ceremony, doctor," said Christina Dmitryevna, eating and wiping her mouth with her fist, and it was evident she found her life here exceedingly pleasant. "Please have some more."
After supper the doctor was shown to his room, where a bed had been made up for him, but he did not feel sleepy. The room was stuffy40 and it smelt41 of paint; he put on his coat and went out.
It was cool in the open air; there was already a glimmer42 of dawn, and all the five blocks of buildings, with their tall chimneys, barracks, and warehouses, were distinctly outlined against the damp air. As it was a holiday, they were not working, and the windows were dark, and in only one of the buildings was there a furnace burning; two windows were crimson43, and fire mixed with smoke came from time to time from the chimney. Far away beyond the yard the frogs were croaking44 and the nightingales singing.
Looking at the factory buildings and the barracks, where the workpeople were asleep, he thought again what he always thought when he saw a factory. They may have performances for the workpeople, magic lanterns, factory doctors, and improvements of all sorts, but, all the same, the workpeople he had met that day on his way from the station did not look in any way different from those he had known long ago in his childhood, before there were factory performances and improvements. As a doctor accustomed to judging correctly of chronic45 complaints, the radical46 cause of which was incomprehensible and incurable47, he looked upon factories as something baffling, the cause of which also was obscure and not removable, and all the improvements in the life of the factory hands he looked upon not as superfluous48, but as comparable with the treatment of incurable illnesses.
"There is something baffling in it, of course ..." he thought, looking at the crimson windows. "Fifteen hundred or two thousand workpeople are working without rest in unhealthy surroundings, making bad cotton goods, living on the verge49 of starvation, and only waking from this nightmare at rare intervals50 in the tavern51; a hundred people act as overseers, and the whole life of that hundred is spent in imposing52 fines, in abuse, in injustice53, and only two or three so-called owners enjoy the profits, though they don't work at all, and despise the wretched cotton. But what are the profits, and how do they enjoy them? Madame Lyalikov and her daughter are unhappy—it makes one wretched to look at them; the only one who enjoys her life is Christina Dmitryevna, a stupid, middle-aged54 maiden55 lady in pince-nez. And so it appears that all these five blocks of buildings are at work, and inferior cotton is sold in the Eastern markets, simply that Christina Dmitryevna may eat sterlet and drink Madeira."
Suddenly there came a strange noise, the same sound Korolyov had heard before supper. Some one was striking on a sheet of metal near one of the buildings; he struck a note, and then at once checked the vibrations56, so that short, abrupt, discordant57 sounds were produced, rather like "Dair ... dair ... dair...." Then there was half a minute of stillness, and from another building there came sounds equally abrupt and unpleasant, lower bass58 notes: "Drin ... drin ... drin ..." Eleven times. Evidently it was the watchman striking the hour. Near the third building he heard: "Zhuk ... zhuk ... zhuk...." And so near all the buildings, and then behind the barracks and beyond the gates. And in the stillness of the night it seemed as though these sounds were uttered by a monster with crimson eyes—the devil himself, who controlled the owners and the work-people alike, and was deceiving both.
Korolyov went out of the yard into the open country.
"Who goes there?" some one called to him at the gates in an abrupt voice.
"It's just like being in prison," he thought, and made no answer.
Here the nightingales and the frogs could be heard more distinctly, and one could feel it was a night in May. From the station came the noise of a train; somewhere in the distance drowsy59 cocks were crowing; but, all the same, the night was still, the world was sleeping tranquilly60. In a field not far from the factory there could be seen the framework of a house and heaps of building material.
"The only person who feels happy here is the governess, and the factory hands are working for her gratification. But that's only apparent: she is only the figurehead. The real person, for whom everything is being done, is the devil."
And he thought about the devil, in whom he did not believe, and he looked round at the two windows where the fires were gleaming. It seemed to him that out of those crimson eyes the devil himself was looking at him—that unknown force that had created the mutual62 relation of the strong and the weak, that coarse blunder which one could never correct. The strong must hinder the weak from living—such was the law of Nature; but only in a newspaper article or in a school book was that intelligible63 and easily accepted. In the hotchpotch which was everyday life, in the tangle64 of trivialities out of which human relations were woven, it was no longer a law, but a logical absurdity65, when the strong and the weak were both equally victims of their mutual relations, unwillingly66 submitting to some directing force, unknown, standing67 outside life, apart from man.
So thought Korolyov, sitting on the planks, and little by little he was possessed68 by a feeling that this unknown and mysterious force was really close by and looking at him. Meanwhile the east was growing paler, time passed rapidly; when there was not a soul anywhere near, as though everything were dead, the five buildings and their chimneys against the grey background of the dawn had a peculiar69 look—not the same as by day; one forgot altogether that inside there were steam motors, electricity, telephones, and kept thinking of lake-dwellings70, of the Stone Age, feeling the presence of a crude, unconscious force....
And again there came the sound: "Dair ... dair ... dair ... dair ..." twelve times. Then there was stillness, stillness for half a minute, and at the other end of the yard there rang out.
"Drin ... drin ... drin...."
"Horribly disagreeable," thought Korolyov.
"Zhuk ... zhuk ..." there resounded71 from a third place, abruptly72, sharply, as though with annoyance—"Zhuk ... zhuk...."
And it took four minutes to strike twelve. Then there was a hush73; and again it seemed as though everything were dead.
Korolyov sat a little longer, then went to the house, but sat up for a good while longer. In the adjoining rooms there was whispering, there was a sound of shuffling74 slippers75 and bare feet.
"Is she having another attack?" thought Korolyov.
He went out to have a look at the patient. By now it was quite light in the rooms, and a faint glimmer of sunlight, piercing through the morning mist, quivered on the floor and on the wall of the drawing-room. The door of Liza's room was open, and she was sitting in a low chair beside her bed, with her hair down, wearing a dressing-gown and wrapped in a shawl. The blinds were down on the windows.
"How do you feel?" asked Korolyov.
"Well, thank you."
He touched her pulse, then straightened her hair, that had fallen over her forehead.
"You are not asleep," he said. "It's beautiful weather outside. It's spring. The nightingales are singing, and you sit in the dark and think of something."
She listened and looked into his face; her eyes were sorrowful and intelligent, and it was evident she wanted to say something to him.
"Does this happen to you often?" he said.
She moved her lips, and answered:
"Often, I feel wretched almost every night."
At that moment the watchman in the yard began striking two o'clock. They heard: "Dair ... dair ..." and she shuddered76.
"Do those knockings worry you?" he asked.
"I don't know. Everything here worries me," she answered, and pondered. "Everything worries me. I hear sympathy in your voice; it seemed to me as soon as I saw you that I could tell you all about it."
"Tell me, I beg you."
"I want to tell you of my opinion. It seems to me that I have no illness, but that I am weary and frightened, because it is bound to be so and cannot be otherwise. Even the healthiest person can't help being uneasy if, for instance, a robber is moving about under his window. I am constantly being doctored," she went on, looking at her knees, and she gave a shy smile. "I am very grateful, of course, and I do not deny that the treatment is a benefit; but I should like to talk, not with a doctor, but with some intimate friend who would understand me and would convince me that I was right or wrong."
"Have you no friends?" asked Korolyov.
"I am lonely. I have a mother; I love her, but, all the same, I am lonely. That's how it happens to be.... Lonely people read a great deal, but say little and hear little. Life for them is mysterious; they are mystics and often see the devil where he is not. Lermontov's Tamara was lonely and she saw the devil."
"Do you read a great deal?"
"Yes. You see, my whole time is free from morning till night. I read by day, and by night my head is empty; instead of thoughts there are shadows in it."
"Do you see anything at night?" asked Korolyov.
"No, but I feel...."
She smiled again, raised her eyes to the doctor, and looked at him so sorrowfully, so intelligently; and it seemed to him that she trusted him, and that she wanted to speak frankly77 to him, and that she thought the same as he did. But she was silent, perhaps waiting for him to speak.
And he knew what to say to her. It was clear to him that she needed as quickly as possible to give up the five buildings and the million if she had it—to leave that devil that looked out at night; it was clear to him, too, that she thought so herself, and was only waiting for some one she trusted to confirm her.
But he did not know how to say it. How? One is shy of asking men under sentence what they have been sentenced for; and in the same way it is awkward to ask very rich people what they want so much money for, why they make such a poor use of their wealth, why they don't give it up, even when they see in it their unhappiness; and if they begin a conversation about it themselves, it is usually embarrassing, awkward, and long.
"How is one to say it?" Korolyov wondered. "And is it necessary to speak?"
And he said what he meant in a roundabout way:
"You in the position of a factory owner and a wealthy heiress are dissatisfied; you don't believe in your right to it; and here now you can't sleep. That, of course, is better than if you were satisfied, slept soundly, and thought everything was satisfactory. Your sleeplessness78 does you credit; in any case, it is a good sign. In reality, such a conversation as this between us now would have been unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not. For our children or grandchildren that question—whether they are right or not—will have been settled. Things will be clearer for them than for us. Life will be good in fifty years' time; it's only a pity we shall not last out till then. It would be interesting to have a peep at it."
"What will our children and grandchildren do?" asked Liza.
"I don't know.... I suppose they will throw it all up and go away."
"Go where?"
"Where?... Why, where they like," said Korolyov; and he laughed. "There are lots of places a good, intelligent person can go to."
He glanced at his watch.
"The sun has risen, though," he said. "It is time you were asleep. Undress and sleep soundly. Very glad to have made your acquaintance," he went on, pressing her hand. "You are a good, interesting woman. Good-night!"
He went to his room and went to bed.
In the morning when the carriage was brought round they all came out on to the steps to see him off. Liza, pale and exhausted79, was in a white dress as though for a holiday, with a flower in her hair; she looked at him, as yesterday, sorrowfully and intelligently, smiled and talked, and all with an expression as though she wanted to tell him something special, important—him alone. They could hear the larks80 trilling and the church bells pealing81. The windows in the factory buildings were sparkling gaily82, and, driving across the yard and afterwards along the road to the station, Korolyov thought neither of the workpeople nor of lake dwellings, nor of the devil, but thought of the time, perhaps close at hand, when life would be as bright and joyous83 as that still Sunday morning; and he thought how pleasant it was on such a morning in the spring to drive with three horses in a good carriage, and to bask84 in the sunshine.
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1
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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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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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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ailing
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warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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oases
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲( oasis的名词复数 )；（困苦中）令人快慰的地方（或时刻）；乐土；乐事 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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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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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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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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touching
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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kindly
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devoted
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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agitated
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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perfectly
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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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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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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81
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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82
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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83
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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84
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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