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couch in the sitting-room1, with Emily beside him in the old wing-chair, he went past the curtain—went so quietly and easily that Emily did not know he was gone until she suddenly felt the strange stillness of the room—there was no breathing in it but her own.
“Father—Father!” she cried. Then she screamed for Ellen.
Ellen Greene told the Murrays when they came that Emily had behaved real well, when you took everything into account. To be sure, she had cried all night and hadn’t slept a wink2; none of the Maywood people who came flocking kindly3 in to help could comfort her; but when morning came her tears were all shed. She was pale and quiet and docile4.
“That’s right, now,” said Ellen, “that’s what comes of being properly prepared. Your pa was so mad at me for warning you that he wasn’t rightly civil to me since—and him a dying man. But I don’t hold any grudge5 against him. I did my duty. Mrs. Hubbard’s fixing up a black dress for you and it’ll be ready by supper time. Your ma’s people will be here tonight, so they’ve telegraphed, and I’m bound they’ll find you looking respectable. They’re well off and they’ll provide for you. Your pa hasn’t left a cent but there ain’t any debts, I’ll say that for him. Have you been in to see the body?”
“Don’t call him that,” cried Emily, wincing6. It was horrible to hear Father called that.
“Why not? If you ain’t the queerest child! He makes a better looking corpse7 than I thought he would, what with being so wasted and all. He was always a pretty man, though too thin.”
“Ellen Greene,” said Emily suddenly, “if you say any more of—those things—about Father, I will put the black curse on you!”
Ellen Greene stared.
“I don’t know what on earth you mean. But that’s
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no way to talk to me, after all I’ve done for you. You’d better not let the Murrays hear you talking like that or they won’t want much to do with you. The black curse indeed! Well, here’s gratitude8!”
Emily’s eyes smarted. She was just a lonely, solitary9 little creature and she felt very friendless. But she was not at all remorseful10 for what she had said to Ellen and she was not going to pretend she was.
“Come you here and help me wash these dishes,” ordered Ellen. “It’ll do you good to have something to take up your mind and then you won’t be after putting curses on people who have worked their fingers to the bone for you.”
Emily, with an eloquent11 glance at Ellen’s hands, went and got the dish towel.
“Your hands are fat and pudgy,” she said. “The bones don’t show at all.”
“Never mind sassing back! It’s awful, with your poor pa dead in there. But if your Aunt Ruth takes you she’ll soon cure you of that.”
“Is Aunt Ruth going to take me?”
“I don’t know, but she ought to. She’s a widow with no chick or child, and well-to-do.”
“I don’t think I want Aunt Ruth to take me,” said Emily deliberately12, after a moment’s reflection.
“Well, you won’t have the choosing likely. You ought to be thankful to get a home anywhere. Remember you’re not of much importance.”
“I am important to myself,” cried Emily proudly.
“It’ll be some chore to bring you up,” muttered Ellen. “Your Aunt Ruth is the one to do it, in my opinion. She won’t stand no nonsense. A fine woman she is and the neatest housekeeper13 on P. E. Island. You could eat off her floor.”
“I don’t want to eat off her floor. I don’t care if a floor is dirty as long as the tablecloth14 is clean.”
“Well, her tablecloths15 are clean too, I reckon. She’s
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got an elegant house in Shrewsbury with bow windows and wooden lace all round the roof. It’s very stylish16. It would be a fine home for you. She’d learn you some sense and do you a world of good.”
“I don’t want to learn sense and be done a world of good to,” cried Emily with a quivering lip. “I—I want somebody to love me.”
“Well, you’ve got to behave yourself if you want people to like you. You’re not to blame so much—your pa has spoiled you. I told him so often enough, but he just laughed. I hope he ain’t sorry for it now. The fact is, Emily Starr, you’re queer, and folks don’t care for queer children.”
“How am I queer?” demanded Emily.
“You talk queer—and you act queer—and at times you look queer. And you’re too old for your age—though that ain’t your fault. It comes of never mixing with other children. I’ve always threaped at your father to send you to school—learning at home ain’t the same thing—but he wouldn’t listen to me, of course. I don’t say but what you are as far along in book learning as you need to be, but what you want is to learn how to be like other children. In one way it would be a good thing if your Uncle Oliver would take you, for he’s got a big family. But he’s not as well off as the rest, so it ain’t likely he will. Your Uncle Wallace might, seeing as he reckons himself the head of the family. He’s only got a grown-up daughter. But his wife’s delicate—or fancies she is.”
“I wish Aunt Laura would take me,” said Emily. She remembered that Father had said Aunt Laura was something like her mother.
“Aunt Laura! She won’t have no say in it—Elizabeth’s boss at New Moon. Jimmy Murray runs the farm, but he ain’t quite all there, I’m told—”
“What part of him isn’t there?” asked Emily curiously17.
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“Laws, it’s something about his mind, child. He’s a bit simple—some accident or other when he was a youngster, I’ve heard. It addled18 his head, kind of. Elizabeth was mixed up in it some way—I’ve never heard the rights of it. I don’t reckon the New Moon people will want to be bothered with you. They’re awful set in their ways. You take my advice and try to please your Aunt Ruth. Be polite—and well-behaved—mebbe she’ll take a fancy to you. There, that’s all the dishes. You’d better go upstairs and be out of the way.”
“Can I take Mike and Saucy19 Sal?” asked Emily.
“No, you can’t.”
“They’d be company for me,” pleaded Emily.
“Company or no company, you can’t have them. They’re outside and they’ll stay outside. I ain’t going to have them tracking all over the house. The floor’s been scrubbed.”
“Why didn’t you scrub the floor when Father was alive?” asked Emily. “He liked things to be clean. You hardly ever scrubbed it then. Why do you do it now?”
“Listen to her! Was I to be always scrubbing floors with my rheumatiz? Get off upstairs and you’d better lie down awhile.”
“I’m going upstairs, but I’m not going to lie down,” said Emily. “I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.”
“There’s one thing I’d advise you to do,” said Ellen, determined20 to lose no chance of doing her duty, “and that is to kneel down and pray to God to make you a good and respectful and grateful child.”
Emily paused at the foot of the stairs and looked back.
“Father said I wasn’t to have anything to do with your God,” she said gravely.
Ellen gasped21 foolishly, but could not think of any reply to this heathenish statement. She appealed to the universe.
“Did any one ever hear the like!”
“I know what your God is like,” said Emily. “I saw
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His picture in that Adam-and-Eve book of yours. He has whiskers and wears a nightgown. I don’t like Him. But I like Father’s God.”
“And what is your father’s God like, if I may ask?” demanded Ellen sarcastically22.
Emily hadn’t any idea what Father’s God was like, but she was determined not to be posed by Ellen.
“He is clear as the moon, fair as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners,” she said triumphantly23.
“Well, you’re bound to have the last word, but the Murrays will teach you what’s what,” said Ellen, giving up the argument. “They’re strict Presbyterians and won’t hold by any of your father’s awful notions. Get off upstairs.”
Emily went up to the south room, feeling very desolate24.
“There isn’t anybody in the world who loves me now,” she said, as she curled up on her bed by the window. But she was determined she would not cry. The Murrays, who had hated her father, should not see her crying. She felt that she detested25 them all—except perhaps Aunt Laura. How very big and empty the world had suddenly become. Nothing was interesting any more. It did not matter that the little squat26 apple-tree between Adam-and-Eve had become a thing of rose-and-snow beauty—that the hills beyond the hollow were of green silk, purple-misted—that the daffodils were out in the garden—that the birches were hung all over with golden tassels—that the Wind Woman was blowing white young clouds across the sky. None of these things had any charm or consolation27 for her now. In her inexperience she believed they never would have again.
“But I promised Father I’d be brave,” she whispered, clenching28 her little fists, “and I will. And I won’t let the Murrays see I’m afraid of them—I won’t be afraid of them!”
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When the far-off whistle of the afternoon train blew beyond the hills, Emily’s heart began to beat. She clasped her hands and lifted her face.
“Please help me, Father’s God—not Ellen’s God,” she said. “Help me to be brave and not cry before the Murrays.”
Soon after there was the sound of wheels below—and voices—loud, decided29 voices. Then Ellen came puffing30 up the stairs with the black dress—a sleazy thing of cheap merino.
“Mrs. Hubbard just got it done in time, thanks be. I wouldn’t ’a’ had the Murrays see you not in black for the world. They can’t say I haven’t done my duty. They’re all here—the New Moon people and Oliver and his wife, your Aunt Addie, and Wallace and his wife, your Aunt Eva, and Aunt Ruth—Mrs. Dutton, her name is. There, you’re ready now. Come along.”
“Can’t I put my Venetian beads31 on?” asked Emily.
“Did ever any mortal! Venetian beads with a mourning dress! Shame on you! Is this a time to be thinking of vanity?”
“It isn’t vanity!” cried Emily. “Father gave me those beads last Christmas—and I want to show the Murrays that I’ve got something!”
“No more of your nonsense! Come along, I say! Mind your manners—there’s a good deal depends on the impression you make on them.”
Emily walked rigidly32 downstairs before Ellen and into the parlour. Eight people were sitting around it—and she instantly felt the critical gaze of sixteen stranger eyes. She looked very pale and plain in her black dress; the purple shadows left by weeping made her large eyes look too large and hollow. She was desperately33 afraid, and she knew it—but she would not let the Murrays see it. She held up her head and faced the ordeal34 before her gallantly35.
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“This,” said Ellen, turning her around by the shoulder, “is your Uncle Wallace.”
Emily shuddered36 and put out a cold hand. She did not like Uncle Wallace—she knew that at once—he was black and grim and ugly, with frowning, bristly brows and a stern, unpitying mouth. He had big pouches37 under his eyes, and carefully-trimmed black side-whiskers. Emily decided then and there that she did not admire side-whiskers.
“How do you do, Emily?” he said coldly—and just as coldly he bent38 forward and kissed her cheek.
A sudden wave of indignation swept over Emily’s soul. How dared he kiss her—he had hated her father and disowned her mother! She would have none of his kisses! Flash-quick, she snatched her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her outraged39 cheek.
“Well—well!” exclaimed a disagreeable voice from the other side of the room.
Uncle Wallace looked as if he would like to say a great many things but couldn’t think of them. Ellen, with a grunt40 of despair, propelled Emily to the next sitter.
“Your Aunt Eva,” she said.
Aunt Eva was sitting huddled41 up in a shawl. She had the fretful face of the imaginary invalid42. She shook hands with Emily and said nothing. Neither did Emily.
“Your Uncle Oliver,” announced Ellen.
Emily rather liked Uncle Oliver’s appearance. He was big and fat and rosy43 and jolly-looking. She thought she would not mind so much if he kissed her, in spite of his bristly white moustache. But Uncle Oliver had learned Uncle Wallace’s lesson.
“I’ll give you a quarter for a kiss,” he whispered genially44. A joke was Uncle Oliver’s idea of being kind and sympathetic, but Emily did not know this, and resented it.
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“I don’t sell my kisses,” she said, lifting her head as haughtily45 as any Murray of them all could do.
Uncle Oliver chuckled47 and seemed infinitely48 amused and not a bit offended. But Emily heard a sniff49 across the room.
Aunt Addie was next. She was as fat and rosy and jolly-looking as her husband and she gave Emily’s cold hand a nice, gentle squeeze.
“How are you, dear?” she said.
That “dear” touched Emily and thawed50 her a trifle. But the next in turn froze her up instantly again. It was Aunt Ruth—Emily knew it was Aunt Ruth before Ellen said so, and she knew it was Aunt Ruth who had “well—welled” and sniffed51. She knew the cold, grey eyes, the prim52, dull brown hair, the short, stout53 figure, the thin, pinched, merciless mouth.
Aunt Ruth held out the tips of her fingers, but Emily did not take them.
“Shake hands with your Aunt,” said Ellen in an angry whisper.
“She does not want to shake hands with me,” said Emily, distinctly, “and so I am not going to do it.”
Aunt Ruth folded her scorned hands back on her black silk lap.
“You are a very ill-bred child,” she said; “but of course it was only what was to be expected.”
Emily felt a sudden compunction. Had she cast a reflection on her father by her behaviour? Perhaps after all she should have shaken hands with Aunt Ruth. But it was too late now—Ellen had already jerked her on.
“This is your Cousin, Mr. James Murray,” said Ellen, in the disgusted tone of one who gives up something as a bad job and is only anxious to be done with it.
“Cousin Jimmy—Cousin Jimmy,” said that individual. Emily looked steadily54 at him, and liked him at once without any reservations.
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He had a little, rosy, elfish face with a forked grey beard; his hair curled over his head in a most un-Murray-like mop of glossy55 brown; and his large, brown eyes were as kind and frank as a child’s. He gave Emily a hearty56 handshake, though he looked askance at the lady across from him while doing it.
“Hello, pussy57!” he said.
Emily began to smile at him, but her smile was, as always, so slow in developing that Ellen had whisked her on before it was in full flower, and it was Aunt Laura who got the benefit of it. Aunt Laura started and paled.
“Juliet’s smile!” she said, half under her breath. And again Aunt Ruth sniffed.
Aunt Laura did not look like any one else in the room. She was almost pretty, with her delicate features and the heavy coils of pale, sleek58, fair hair, faintly greyed, pinned closely all around her head. But it was her eyes that won Emily. They were such round blue, blue eyes. One never quite got over the shock of their blueness. And when she spoke59 it was in a beautiful, soft voice.
“You poor, dear, little child,” she said, and put her arm around Emily for a gentle hug.
Emily returned the hug and had a narrow escape then from letting the Murrays see her cry. All that saved her was the fact that Ellen suddenly pushed her on into the corner by the window.
“And this is your Aunt Elizabeth.”
Yes, this was Aunt Elizabeth. No doubt about that—and she had on a stiff, black satin dress, so stiff and rich that Emily felt sure it must be her very best. This pleased Emily. Whatever Aunt Elizabeth thought of her father, at least she had paid him the respect of her best dress. And Aunt Elizabeth was quite fine looking in a tall, thin, austere60 style, with clear-cut features and a massive coronet of iron-grey hair under her black lace cap. But her eyes, though steel-blue, were as cold as Aunt Ruth’s, and her long, thin mouth was compressed severely61. Under
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her cool, appraising62 glance Emily retreated into herself and shut the door of her soul. She would have liked to please Aunt Elizabeth—who was “boss” at New Moon—but she felt she could not do it.
Aunt Elizabeth shook hands and said nothing—the truth being that she did not know exactly what to say. Elizabeth Murray would not have felt “put about” before King or Governor-General. The Murray pride would have carried her through there; but she did feel disturbed in the presence of this alien, level-gazing child who had already shown that she was anything but meek63 and humble64. Though Elizabeth Murray would never have admitted it, she did not want to be snubbed as Wallace and Ruth had been.
“Go and sit on the sofa,” ordered Ellen.
Emily sat on the sofa with her eyes cast down, a slight, black, indomitable little figure. She folded her hands on her lap and crossed her ankles. They should see she had manners.
Ellen had retreated to the kitchen, thanking her stars that that was over. Emily did not like Ellen but she felt deserted65 when Ellen had gone. She was alone now before the bar of Murray opinion. She would have given anything to be out of the room. Yet in the back of her mind a design was forming of writing all about it in the old account book. It would be interesting. She could describe them all—she knew she could. She had the very word for Aunt Ruth’s eyes—“stone-grey.” They were just like stones—as hard and cold and relentless66. Then a pang67 tore through her heart. Father could never again read what she wrote in the account book.
Still—she felt that she would rather like to write it all out. How could she best describe Aunt Laura’s eyes? They were such beautiful eyes—just to call them “blue” meant nothing—hundreds of people had blue eyes—oh, she had it—“wells of blue”—that was the very thing.
And then the flash came!
30
It was the first time since the dreadful night when Ellen had met her on the doorstep. She had thought it could never come again—and now in this most unlikely place and time it had come—she had seen, with other eyes than those of sense, the wonderful world behind the veil. Courage and hope flooded her cold little soul like a wave of rosy light. She lifted her head and looked about her undauntedly—“brazenly” Aunt Ruth afterwards declared.
Yes, she would write them all out in the account book—describe every last one of them—sweet Aunt Laura, nice Cousin Jimmy, grim old Uncle Wallace, and moon-faced Uncle Oliver, stately Aunt Elizabeth and detestable Aunt Ruth.
“She’s a delicate-looking child,” said Aunt Eva, suddenly, in her fretful, colourless voice.
“Well, what else could you expect?” said Aunt Addie, with a sigh that seemed to Emily to hold some dire68 significance. “She’s too pale—if she had a little colour she wouldn’t be bad-looking.”
“I don’t know who she looks like,” said Uncle Oliver, staring at Emily.
“She is not a Murray, that is plain to be seen,” said Aunt Elizabeth, decidedly and disapprovingly69.
“They are talking about me just as if I wasn’t here,” thought Emily, her heart swelling70 with indignation over the indecency of it.
“I wouldn’t call her a Starr either,” said Uncle Oliver. “Seems to me she’s more like the Byrds—she’s got her grandmother’s hair and eyes.”
“She’s got old George Byrd’s nose,” said Aunt Ruth, in a tone that left no doubt as to her opinion of George’s nose.
“She’s got her father’s forehead,” said Aunt Eva, also disapprovingly.
“She has her mother’s smile,” said Aunt Laura, but in such a low tone that nobody heard her.
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“And Juliet’s long lashes71—hadn’t Juliet very long lashes?” said Aunt Addie.
Emily had reached the limit of her endurance.
“You make me feel as if I was made up of scraps72 and patches!” she burst out indignantly.
The Murrays stared at her. Perhaps they felt some compunction—for, after all, none of them were ogres and all were human, more or less. Apparently73 nobody could think of anything to say, but the shocked silence was broken by a chuckle46 from Cousin Jimmy—a low chuckle, full of mirth and free from malice74.
“That’s right, puss,” he said. “Stand up to them—take your own part.”
“Jimmy!” said Aunt Ruth.
Jimmy subsided75.
Aunt Ruth looked at Emily.
“When I was a little girl,” she said, “I never spoke until I was spoken to.”
“But if nobody ever spoke until they were spoken to there would be no conversation,” said Emily argumentatively.
“I never answered back,” Aunt Ruth went on severely. “In those days little girls were trained properly. We were polite and respectful to our elders. We were taught our place and we kept it.”
“I don’t believe you ever had much fun,” said Emily—and then gasped in horror. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud—she had only meant to think it. But she had such an old habit of thinking aloud to Father.
“Fun!” said Aunt Ruth, in a shocked tone. “I did not think of fun when I was a little girl.”
“No, I know,” said Emily gravely. Her voice and manner were perfectly76 respectful, for she was anxious to atone77 for her involuntary lapse78. Yet Aunt Ruth looked as if she would like to box her ears. This child was pitying her—insulting her by being sorry for her—because of her prim, impeccable childhood. It was unendurable—especially
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in a Starr. And that abominable79 Jimmy was chuckling80 again! Elizabeth should suppress him!
Fortunately Ellen Greene appeared at this juncture81 and announced supper.
“You’ve got to wait,” she whispered to Emily. “There ain’t room for you at the table.”
Emily was glad. She knew she could not eat a bite under the Murray eyes. Her aunts and uncles filed out stiffly without looking at her—all except Aunt Laura, who turned at the door and blew her a tiny, furtive82 kiss. Before Emily could respond Ellen Greene had shut the door.
Emily was left all alone in the room that was filling with twilight83 shadows. The pride that had sustained her in the presence of the Murrays suddenly failed her and she knew that tears were coming. She went straight to the closed door at the end of the parlour, opened it, and went in. Her father’s coffin84 stood in the centre of the small room which had been a bedroom. It was heaped with flowers—the Murrays had done the proper thing in that as in all else. The great anchor of white roses Uncle Wallace had brought stood up aggressively on the small table at the head. Emily could not see her father’s face for Aunt Ruth’s heavily-fragrant pillow of white hyacinths lying on the glass, and she dared not move it. But she curled herself up on the floor and laid her cheek against the polished side of the casket. They found her there asleep when they came in after supper. Aunt Laura lifted her up and said,
“I’m going to take the poor child up to bed—she’s worn right out.”
Emily opened her eyes and looked drowsily85 about her.
“Can I have Mike?” she said.
“Who is Mike?”
“My cat—my big grey cat.”
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“A cat!” exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth in a shocked tone. “You must not have a cat in your bedroom!”
“Why not—for once?” pleaded Laura.
“Certainly not!” said Aunt Elizabeth. “A cat is a most unwholesome thing in a sleeping apartment. I’m surprised at you, Laura! Take the child up to bed and see that there are plenty of bedclothes. It’s a cold night—but let me hear no more talk of sleeping with cats.”
“Mike is a clean cat,” said Emily. “He washes himself—every day.”
“Take her up to bed, Laura!” said Aunt Elizabeth, ignoring Emily.
Aunt Laura yielded meekly86. She carried Emily upstairs, helped her undress, and tucked her into bed. Emily was very sleepy. But before she was wholly asleep she felt something, soft and warm and purry and companionable, snuggling down by her shoulder. Aunt Laura had sneaked87 down, found Mike and brought him up to her. Aunt Elizabeth never knew and Ellen Greene dared not say a word in protest—for was not Laura a Murray of New Moon?
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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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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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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tablecloths
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| n.桌布，台布( tablecloth的名词复数 ) | |
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stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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addled
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| adj.（头脑）糊涂的，愚蠢的；（指蛋类）变坏v.使糊涂( addle的过去式和过去分词 )；使混乱；使腐臭；使变质 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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determined
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gasped
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sarcastically
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squat
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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puffing
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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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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pouches
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| n.（放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的）小袋( pouch的名词复数 )；（袋鼠等的）育儿袋；邮袋；（某些动物贮存食物的）颊袋 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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41
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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47
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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49
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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thawed
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| 解冻 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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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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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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71
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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78
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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79
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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80
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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82
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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83
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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84
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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85
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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86
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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87
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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