As soon as John Lorraine saw the tide of fortune strongly setting in, he took to himself a wife, the daughter of one of his City friends, a man of tolerable wealth and great experience, who in his early days had befriended the struggling boy, and who thought his daughter could not have achieved higher honour or greater happiness. Whatever honour or happiness may have accrued16 to the young lady on her marriage did not last long, for, shortly after giving birth to her first child, a daughter, she died; and thenceforward John Lorraine devoted17 his life to the little girl, and to the increased fortune which she was to inherit. When little Jane had arrived at a more than marriageable age, and from a pretty fubsy baby had grown into a thin, acidulated, opiniated woman (a result attributable to the manner in which she had been spoiled by her indulgent father), John Lorraine's mind was mainly exercised as to what manner of man would propose for her with a likelihood of success. Hitherto, love-affairs had been things almost unknown to his Jane, not from any unwillingness18 on her part to make their acquaintance, but principally because, notwithstanding the fortune which it was known she would bring to her husband, none of the few young men who from time to time dined solemnly in the old-fashioned house in Brunswick-square, or acted as cavalier to its mistress to the Antient Concerts, or the King's Theatre, could make up their minds to address her in anything but the most common phrases. That Miss Jane had a will of her own, and a tart19 manner of expressing her intention of having that will fulfilled, was also matter of common gossip. Stories were current among the clerks at Mincing-lane of the "wigging20" which they had heard her administering to her father, when she drove down to fetch him away in her chariot, and when he kept her unduly21 waiting; the household servants in Brunswick-square had their opinion of Miss Jane's temper; and the tradesmen in the neighbourhood looked forward to the entrance of her thin, dark figure into their shops every Tuesday morning, for the performance of settling the books, with fear and trembling.
Old John Lorraine, fully22 appreciating his daughter's infirmities, though, partly from affection, partly from fear, he never took upon himself to rebuke23 them, began to think that the fairy prince who was to wake this morally slumbering24 virgin25 to a sense of something better, to larger views and higher aims, to domestic happiness and married bliss26, would never arrive. He came at last, however, in the person of George Gurwood; a big, broad-shouldered, jovial27 fellow, who, as a son of another of Lorraine's early friends, had some time previously28 been admitted as a partner into the house. Everybody liked good-looking, jolly George Gurwood. Lambton Lorraine and Lowther Lorraine, who, though now growing elderly men, had retained their bachelor tastes and habits, and managed to get through a great portion of the income accruing29 to them from the business, were delighted with his jovial manners, his sporting tendencies, his convivial30 predilections31. When the fact of George's paying his addresses to their niece was first promulgated32, Lambton had a serious talk with his genial33 partner, warning him against tying himself for life to a woman with whom he had no single feeling in common. But George laughed at the caution, and declined to be guided by it. "Miss Lorraine was not much in his line," he said; "perhaps a little given to tea and psalm-smiting; but it would come all right: he should get her into a different way; and as the dear old guv'nor" (by which title George always affectionately spoke34 of his senior partner) "seemed to wish it he was not going to stand in the way. He wanted a home, and Jane should make him a jolly one, he'd take care of that."
Jane Lorraine married George Gurwood, but she did not make him a home. Her rigid35 bearing and unyielding temper were too strong for his plastic, pliable36 nature; for many months the struggle for mastery was carried on between them, but in the end George--jolly George no longer--gave way. He had made a tolerably good fight of it, and had used every means in his power to induce her to be less bitter, less furtive37, less inexorable in the matter of his dinings-out, his sporting transactions, his constant desire to see his table surrounded by congenial company. "I have tried to gentle her," he said to Lowther Lorraine one day, "as I would a horse, and there has never been one of them yet that I could not coax38 and pet into good temper; I'd spend any amount of money on her, and let her have her own way in most things if she would only just let me have mine in a few. I have tried her with a sharp bit and a pair of 'persuaders,' but that was no more use than the gentling. She's as hard as nails, Lowther, my boy, and I don't see my way out of it, that's the truth. So come along and have a B and S."
If having a B and S--George's abbreviation for soda-water and brandy--would have helped him to see his way out of his difficulties, he would speedily have been able to perceive it, for thenceforward his consumption of that and many other kinds of liquids was enormous. Wretched in his home, George Gurwood took to drinking to drown care, but, as in most similar cases, the demon39 proved himself far too buoyant to be overwhelmed even by the amount which George poured upon him. He was drinking morning, noon, and night, and was generally in a more or less muddled40 state. When he went to business, which was now very seldom, some of the clerks in the office laughed at him, which was bad enough, while others pitied him, which was worse. The story of George's dissipation was carefully kept from John Lorraine, who had virtually retired41 from the business, and devoted himself to nursing his rheumatism42, and to superintending the education of his grandson, a fine boy of five or six years of age; but Lambton and Lowther held many colloquies43 together, the end of them all being that they agreed they could not tell what was to be done with George Gurwood. What was to be done with him was soon settled by George Gurwood himself. Even his powerful constitution had been unable to withstand the ravages44 which constant drinking had inflicted45 upon it. He was seized with an attack of delirium46 tremens while attending a race-meeting at Warwick, and during the temporary absence of the night-nurse jolly George Gurwood terminated his earthly career by jumping from the bedroom window of the hotel into the yard below.
Then it was that the investigation47 of the affairs of the firm, consequent upon the death of one of the partners, revealed the serious state in which matters stood. All the name and fame, the large fortune, the enormous colonial business, the commercial credit which John Lorraine had spent his life in building up, had been gradually crumbling48 away. Two years more of this decadence49, such as the perusal50 of the firm's books exhibited had taken place during the last ten years, and the great house of Lorraine Brothers would be in the Bankruptcy51 Court. Then it was that Mr. Calverley, hitherto known only as a plodding52 reliable head-clerk, thoroughly53 conversant54 with all details of business, but never having shown any peculiar55 capabilities56, came forward and made his mark. At the meeting of the creditors57 he expounded58 his views so lucidly59, and showed so plainly how, by reorganising the business in every department, it could once more be put on a safe and proper footing, and reinstated in its old position as one of the leading houses in the City, that the helm was at once put into his hands. So safely and so prosperously did he steer61 the ship, that, before old John Lorraine died, he saw the business in Mincing-lane, though no longer conducted under its old name (Mr. Calverley had made a point of that, and had insisted on claiming whatever was due to his ability and exertions), more flourishing than in its best days; while Lambton and Lowther, who had been paid out at the reorganisation of affairs, and had thought themselves very lucky at escaping being sucked-in by the expected whirlpool, were disgusted at the triumphant62 results of the operations of a man by whom they had set so little store, and complained indignantly of their ill-treatment.
And then John Calverley, who, as one of the necessities involved in carrying out his business transactions, had been frequently brought into communication with the widowed Mrs. Gurwood, first conceived the idea of making her an offer of marriage. Nearly forty years of his life had been spent in a state of bachelorhood, though he had not been without the comforts of a home. He was thoroughly domesticated63 by nature, simple in his tastes, shy and shrinking from society, and so engrossed64 by his unceasing labour during the day, that it was his happiness at night to put aside from his mind everything relating, however remotely, to his City toil65, and to sit drinking his tea, and placidly66 chatting, reading, or listening to his old mother, from whom since his childhood he had never been separated. The first great grief of John Calverley's life, the death of this old lady, took place very shortly after he had assumed the reins60 of government in Mincing-lane and since then his home had been dull and cheerless. He sorely felt the want of a companion, but he knew nobody whom he could ask to share his lot. He had but rare opportunities of making the acquaintance of any ladies, but Mrs. Gurwood had been thrown in his way by chance, and, after some little hesitation68, he ventured to propose to her. The proposition was not disagreeable to Jane Gurwood. For some time past she had felt the loss of some constantly present object on which to vent3 her bile; her tongue and her temper were both becoming rusty69 by disuse; and in the meek70, pleasant little man, now rich and well-to-do, she thought she saw a very fitting recipient71 for both. So John Calverley and Jane Gurwood were married, with what result we have already seen.
The offices in Mincing-lane remained pretty much in the same state as they had been in old John Lorraine's day. They had been painted, of course, many times since he first entered upon their occupation, but in the heart of the City the brilliancy of paint does not last very long, and in a very few months after the ladders and the scaffoldings had been removed, the outside woodwork relapsed into its state of grubbiness. There was a talk at one time of making some additions to the building, to provide accommodation for the increased staff of clerks which it had been found necessary to engage; but Mr. Calverley thought that the rooms originally occupied by Lambton and Lowther Lorraine would do very well for the newly-appointed young gentlemen, and there accordingly they set up their high desks and stools, their enormous ledgers72 and day-books. The elderly men, who had been John Lorraine's colleagues and subordinates in bygone days, still remained attached to the business; but their employer, not unmindful of the good services they had rendered, and conscious, perhaps, that without their aid he might have had some difficulty in carrying out his reorganisation so successfully, took means to lighten their duties and to place them rather in the position of overseers and superintendents73, leaving the grinding desk-work to be performed by their juniors. Of these young gentlemen there were several. They inhabited the lower floor of the warehouse74, and the most presentable of them were told-off to see any stray customers that might enter. The ships' captains, the brokers75, and the consignees, knew their way about the premises76, and passed in and out unheeded; but occasionally strangers arrived with letters of introduction, or foreign merchants put in a fantastic appearance, and for the benefit of these there was a small glazed77 waiting-room set apart, with one or other of the presentable clerks to attend to them.
About a fortnight after Pauline's first visit, about the middle of the day, Mr. Walker, one of the clerks, entered the large office and proceeded to hang up his hat and to doff78 his coat, preparatory to putting on a sporting-looking garment made of shepherd's-plaid, with extremely short tails, and liberally garnished79 with ink-spots. Judging from his placid67, satisfied appearance, and from the fact that he carried a toothpick between his lips, which he was elegantly chewing, one might have guessed without fear of contradiction, that Mr. Walker had just returned from dinner.
"You shouldn't hurry yourself in this way, Postman, you really shouldn't," said Mr. Briscoe, one of the presentable clerks aforenamed. "You will spoil your digestion80 if you do; and fancy what a calamity81 that would be to a man of your figure. You have only been out an hour and a quarter, and I understand they have sent round from Lake's to Newgate Market for some more joints82."
"Don't you be funny, William," said Mr. Walker, wiping his lips, and slowly climbing on to his stool; "it isn't in your line, and you might hurt yourself."
"Hurt myself!" echoed Mr. Briscoe. "I will hurt you, and spoil your appetite too, when I get the chance, keeping a fellow hanging on here, waiting for his luncheon83, while you are gorging84 yourself to repletion85 for one and ninepence. Only you wait till next week, when it's my turn to go out at one, and you will see what a twist I'll give you. However, one comfort is, I'm off at last." And Mr. Briscoe jumped from his seat, and proceeded towards the hat-pegs.
"No, you're not," said Mr. Walker, who had commenced a light dessert on a half-hundred of walnuts86, which he had purchased at a stall on his way; "there's a party just come into the private office, William, and as you're picked out for that berth87 on account of your beauty and superior manners, you will have to attend to her. A female party, do you hear, William; so, brush your hair, and pull down your wristbands, and make a swell88 of yourself."
Mr. Briscoe looked with great disgust towards the partition through the dulled glass, on which he saw the outline of a female figure; then, stepping across, he opened a pane89 in the glass, and inquired what was wanted.
"I called here some time ago," said Pauline, for it was she, "and left a letter for Mr. Calverley. I was told he was out of town, but would return in a few days. Perhaps he is now here?"
"Mr. Calverley has returned," said Mr. Briscoe, in his most fascinating manner, a compound of the familiarity with which he addressed the waitresses in the eating-houses and the nonchalance90 with which he regarded the duchesses in the Park. "I believe he is engaged just now, but I will let him know you are here. What name shall I say?"
"Say Madame Du Tertre, if you please," said Pauline; "and mention that he has already had a letter from me."
Mr. Briscoe bowed, and delivered his message through a speaking-tube which communicated with Mr. Calverley's room. In reply he was instructed to bring the lady upstairs; and bidding Pauline follow him, he at once introduced her into the presence of his chief.
As his visitor entered, Mr. Calverley rose from the desk at which he was seated, and graciously motioned her to a chair, looking hard at her from under his light eyebrows91 meanwhile.
Pauline was the first to speak. After she had seated herself, and Mr. Calverley had resumed his place at his desk, she leaned forward and said, "I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Calverley?"
"That is my name," said John, with a bow and a pleasant smile. "In what way can I have the pleasure of being of service to you?"
"You speak kindly92, Mr. Calverley, and your appearance is just what I had expected. You received a letter from me--a strange letter you thought it; is it not so?"
"Well," said John, "it was not the sort of letter I have been in the habit of receiving; it was not strictly93 a business kind of letter, you know."
"It was not addressed to you in your strictly business capacity, Mr. Calverley; it was written from the heart, a thing which does not often enter into business matters, I believe. It was written because I have heard of you as a man of benevolence94 and charity, interested in the fate of foreigners and exiles, able, if willing, to do what I wish."
"My dear madam," said John Calverley, "I fear you much exaggerate any good qualities I may possess. The very nature of my business throws me into constant communication with people from other countries, and if they are unfortunate I endeavour to help them to the best of my power. Such power is limited to the giving away of small sums of money, and helping95 them to return to their native country, to getting them employment if they desire to remain here, or recommending them to hospitals if they are ill; but yours is a peculiar case, if I recollect96 your letter rightly. I have it here, and can refer to it--"
"There is no occasion to do that. I can explain more fully and more promptly by word of mouth. Mine is, as you say, a peculiar case. I am the daughter of a retired officer of artillery97, who lived at Lyons. At his death I married Monsieur Du Tertre, who was engaged as a traveller for one of the large silk factories there. He was frequently coming to England, and spoke the language well. He taught it to me, and I, to aid an income which was but small, taught it again to several pupils in my native city. My husband, like most Frenchmen of his class, took a vivid interest in politics, and was mixed up in several of the more prominent Republican societies. One day, immediately after his return from a foreign journey, he was arrested, and since then, save on the day of his trial. I have not set eyes upon him. I know not where he is; he may be in the cachots of Mont Saint Michele; he may be kept au secret in the Conciergerie; he may be exiled to Cayenne--I know not. All I know is, I shall never see him again. 'Avec ces gens-là il faut en finir,' was all the reply I could get to my inquiries--they must be finished, done with, stamped out, what you will. There," continued Pauline, brushing her eyes with her handkerchief, "it is not often that I give way, monsieur; my life is too stern and too hard for that. After he was taken from me I could remain in Lyons no longer. It is not alone upon the heads of families that the Imperial Government revenges itself; so I came away to England, bringing with me all that I had saved, all that I could scrape together, after selling everything we possessed99, and the result is that I have, monsieur, a sum of two thousand pounds, which I wish to place in your hands, begging you to invest it in such a manner as will enable me to live honestly, and with something like decency100, for the remainder of my days."
John Calverley had listened to this recital101 with great attention, and when Pauline ceased speaking, he said to her with a half-grave smile:
"The remainder of your days, madam, is likely, I hope, to be a tolerably long period; for you are evidently quite a young woman. Now, with regard to your proposition, you yourself say it is unbusiness-like, and I must confess it strikes me as being so in the highest degree. You know nothing of me, beyond seeing my name as a subscriber102 to certain charities, or having heard it mentioned as that of a man who takes some interest in assisting foreigners in distress103; and yet you offer to place in my hands what constitutes your entire fortune, and intrust me with the disposal of it. I really do not think," said John Calverley, hesitating, "I can possibly undertake--"
"One moment, Mr. Calverley," said Pauline. "The responsibility of declining to take this money will be far greater than of accepting it; for if you decline to act for me, I will consult no one else; I will act on my own impulse, and shall probably either invest the sum in some swindling company, or squander104 and spend it."
"You must not do that," said John promptly; "you must not think of doing that. Two thousand pounds is not a very large sum of money; but properly invested, a lady without encumbrance," said John, with a dim recollection of the formula of servants' advertisements, "might live very comfortably on the interest, more especially if she had no home to keep up."
"But, monsieur, I must always have a home, a lodging105, a something to live in," said Pauline with a shrug106.
"Yes, of course," said John Calverley, rather absently; for at that moment a notable plan had suggested itself to him, and he was revolving107 it in his mind. "Where are you living now, Madame Du Tertre?"
"I have a lodging--a bed-room--in Poland-street," she replied.
"Dear me," said John Calverley, in horrified108 amazement109. "Poland-street? I know, of course; back of the Pantheon--very stuffy110 and grimy, children playing battledore and shuttlecock in the street, organ-men and fish-barrows, and all that kind of thing; not at all pleasant."
"No," said Pauline, with a repetition of her shrug; "but beggars have no choice, as the proverb says."
"Did it ever occur to you," said John nervously111, "that you might become a companion to a lady--quite comfortable, you know, and well treated, made one of the family, in point of fact?" he added, again recurring112 to the advertisement formula.
Pauline's eyes glistened113 at once, but her voice was quite calm as she said: "I have never thought of such a thing. I don't know whether I should like it. It would, of course, depend upon the family."
"O yes, sufficiently115 well."
"Ah," said John unconsciously, "some of it does go a long way. Well, I was thinking that perhaps--"
"Mrs. Calverley, sir," said Mr. Briscoe, throwing open the door.
Mrs. Calverley walked into the room, looking so stern and defiant116 that her husband saw he must take immediate98 action to prevent the outbreak of a storm. Since that evening in Great Walpole-street, when John Calverley had plucked up his spirit, and ventured to assert himself, his wife, though cold and grim as ever, had kept more outward control over her temper, and had almost ceased to give vent to the virulent117 raillery in which she formerly118 indulged. Like most despots she had been paralysed when her meek slave rebelled against her tyranny, and had stood in perpetual fear of him ever since.
"It scarcely seems so," said his wife, from between her closed lips. "I was afraid I might be regarded as an unpleasant interruption to a private interview."
"It is I, madam," said Pauline, rising, "who am the interrupter here. My business with Mr. Calverley is ended, and I will now retire."
"Pray stay, Madame Du Tertre," said John, motioning her again to her chair.--"This lady, Jane, is Madame Du Tertre, a foreigner and a stranger in England."
"But not a stranger to the history of Madame Calverley," said Pauline, rising gracefully120; "not a stranger to the beneficence, the charities, the piety121 of Mademoiselle Lorraine; not a stranger," she added, in a lower tone, "to the sainted sufferings of Madame Gurwood. Ah, madame, though I have been but a very short time in this great city of London, I have heard of you, of your religion, and your goodness, and I am honoured in the opportunity of being able to kiss your hand." And suiting the action to the word, Pauline took Jane Calverley's plum-coloured gauntlet into her own neatly-gloved palm and pressed it to her lips.
Mrs. Calverley was so taken aback at this performance, that, beyond muttering "not worthy122" and "too generous," she said nothing. But her husband marked the faint blush of satisfaction which spread over her clay-coloured complexion123, and took advantage of the impression made to say:
"Madame Du Tertre, my dear Jane, is a French lady, a widow with a small fortune, which she wishes me to invest for her in the best way possible. In the mean time she is a stranger here in London, as I said before, and she has no comfortable lodging and no friends. I thought perhaps that, as I am compelled by business to be frequently absent from home, and am likely to continue to be so, it might break the loneliness of your life if Madame Du Tertre, who speaks our language well, and plays the piano, and is no doubt generally accomplished124, might come as your visitor for a short time, and then if you found you suited each other, one might make some more permanent arrangement."
When Jane Calverley first entered the room and saw a lady gossipping with her husband, she thought she had discovered the means of bringing him to shame, and making his life a burden to him. Now in his visitor she saw, as she thought, a woman possessing qualities such as she admired, but for which she never gave her husband credit, and one who might render her efficient aid in her life's campaign against him. Even if what had been told her were false, and that this woman were an old friend of his, as a visitor in Great Walpole-street Mrs. Calverley would have her under her own eye, and she believed sufficiently in her own powers of penetration125 to enable her to judge of the relations between them. So that, after a little more talk, the visit was determined126 on, and it was arranged that the next day Madame Du Tertre should remove to her new quarters.
"And now," said Pauline, as she knocked at Mr. Mogg's door, whither the Calverley's carriage had brought her, "and now, Monsieur Tom Durham, gare à vous! for this day I have laid the beginning of the train which, sooner or later, shall blow your newly-built castle of happiness into the air!"
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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destined
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veracious
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sipping
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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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partnership
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foresight
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uncommon
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outstripping
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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speculations
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promptly
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prosper
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accrued
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devoted
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unwillingness
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tart
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wigging
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unduly
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rebuke
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virgin
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bliss
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jovial
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previously
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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convivial
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predilections
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promulgated
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| v.宣扬（某事物）( promulgate的过去式和过去分词 )；传播；公布；颁布（法令、新法律等） | |
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genial
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34
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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35
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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36
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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37
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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38
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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39
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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40
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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41
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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42
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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43
colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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44
ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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45
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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46
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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47
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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48
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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49
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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50
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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51
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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52
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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55
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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56
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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57
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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58
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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60
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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61
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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62
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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63
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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65
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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67
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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68
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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69
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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70
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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71
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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72
ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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73
superintendents
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| 警长( superintendent的名词复数 )； （大楼的）管理人； 监管人； （美国）警察局长 | |
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74
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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75
brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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77
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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78
doff
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| v.脱，丢弃，废除 | |
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79
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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81
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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82
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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83
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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84
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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85
repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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86
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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87
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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88
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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89
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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90
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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91
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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92
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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93
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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94
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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95
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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96
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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97
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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98
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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99
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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100
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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101
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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102
subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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103
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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104
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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105
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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106
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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107
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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108
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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109
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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110
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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111
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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112
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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113
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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114
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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116
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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117
virulent
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| adj.有毒的，有恶意的，充满敌意的 | |
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118
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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119
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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120
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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121
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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122
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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123
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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124
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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125
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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126
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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