"Perhaps so, my dear," said Mrs. Ashurst, with reluctant submissiveness. "You are right; I am sure you always are right; but it is so little use to go to any place where one can't enjoy one's self, and where everybody must see that it is impossible; and you have--you know----" Her lips trembled, her voice broke. Her little hands, still soft and pretty, twined themselves together, with an expression of pain. Then she said no more.
Marian had been standing1 by the open window, looking out, the side of her head turned to her mother, who was glancing at her timidly. Now she crossed the room, with a quick steady step, and knelt down by Mrs. Ashurst's chair, clasping her hands upon the arm.
"Listen to me, dear," she said, with her clear eyes fixed2 on her mother's face, and her voice, though softened4 to a tone of the utmost tenderness, firm and decided5. "You must never forget that I know exactly what and how much you feel, and that I share it all" (there was a forlornness in the girl's face which bore ample testimony6 to the truth of what she said) "when I tell you, in my practical way, what we must do. You remember, once, then, you spoke7 to me about the Creswells, and I made light of them and their importance and influence. I would not admit it; I did not understand it. I had not fully8 thought about it then; but I admit it now. I understand it now, and it is my turn to tell you, my dearest mother, that we must be civil to them; we must take, or seem to take, their offers of kindness, of protection, of intimacy9, as they are made. We cannot afford to do otherwise, and they are just the sort of people to be offended with us irreparably, if we did not allow them to extend their hospitality to us. It is rather officious, rather ostentatious; it has all the bitterness of making us remember more keenly what they might have done for us, but it is hospitality, and we need it; it is the promise of further services which we shall require urgently. You must rouse yourself, mother; this must be your share of helpfulness to me in the burden of our life. And, after all, what does it matter? What real difference does it make? My father is as much present to you and to me in one place as in another. Nothing can alter, or modify, or soften3; nothing can deepen or embitter11 that truth. Come with me--the effort will repay itself."
Mrs. Ashurst had begun to look more resolved, before her daughter, who had spoken with more than her usual earnestness and decision, had come to an end of her argument. She put her arm round the girl's neck, and gave her a timid squeeze, and then half rose, as though she were ready to go with her, anywhere she chose, that very minute. Then Marian, without asking another word on the subject, busied herself about her mother's dress, arranging the widow's heavy sombre drapery with a deft12 hand, and talking about the weather, the pleasantness of their projected walk, and the daily dole13 of Helmingham gossip. Marian cared little for gossip of any kind herself, but it was a godsend to her sometimes, when she had particular reasons for not talking to her mother of the things that were in her mind, and did not find it easy to invent other things to talk to her about.
The object which Marian had in view just now, and which she had had some difficulty in attaining14, was the inducing of her mother, who had passed the time since her bereavement15 in utter seclusion16, to accept the invitation of Mr. Creswell, the owner of Woolgreaves, the local grandee17 par10 excellence,the person whose absence Marian had so lamented18 on the occasion of her father's illness, to pass "a long day" with him and his nieces. It was not the first time such an invitation had reached Mrs. Ashurst. Their rich neighbour, the dead schoolmaster's friend, had not been neglectful of the widow and her daughter, but it was the first time Marian had made up her mind that this advance on his part must be met and welcomed. She had as much reluctance19 to break through the seclusion of their life as her mother, though of a somewhat different stamp; but she had been pondering and calculating, while her mother had been only thinking and suffering, and she had decided that it must be done. She did not doubt that she should suffer more in the acting20 upon this decision than her mother; but it was made, and must be acted upon. So Marian took her mother to Woolgreaves. Mr. Creswell had offered to send a carriage (he rather liked the use of the indefinite article, which implied the extent of his establishment) to fetch the ladies, but Marian had declined this. The walk would do her mother good, and brace21 her nerves; she meant to talk to her easily, with seeming carelessness, of the possibilities of the future, on the way. At length Mrs. Ashurst was ready, and her daughter and she set forth22, in the direction of the distressingly24 modern, but really imposing25, mansion26, which, for the first time, they approached, unsupported by him, in whose presence it had never occurred to them to suffer from any feeling of inferiority of position or means, or to believe that any one could regard them in a slighting manner.
Mr. Creswell, of Woolgreaves, had entertained a sincere regard, built on profound respect, for Mr. Ashurst. He knew the inferiority of his own mind, and his own education, to those of the man who had contentedly27 and laboriously28 filled so humble29 a position--one so unworthy of his talents, as well as he knew the superiority of his own business abilities, the difference which had made him a rich man, and which would, under any circumstances, have kept Mr. Ashurst poor. He was a man possessed30 of much candour of mind and sound judgment31; and though he preferred, quite sincerely, the practical ability which had made him what he was, and heartily32 enjoyed all the material advantages and pleasures of his life, he was capable of profound admiration33 for such unattainable things as taste, learning, and the indefinable moral and personal elements which combine to form a scholar and a gentleman. He was a commonplace man in every other respect than this, that he most sincerely despised and detested34 flattery, and was incapable35 of being deceived by it. He had not failed to understand that it would have been as impossible to James Ashurst to flatter as to rob him; and for this reason, as well as for the superiority he had so fully recognised, he had felt warm and abiding36 friendship for him, and lamented his death, as he had not mourned any accident of mortality since the day which had seen his pretty young wife laid in her early grave. Mr. Creswell, a poor man in those days, struggling manfully very far down on the ladder, which he had since climbed with the ease which not unfrequently attends effort, when something has happened to decrease the value of success, had loved his pretty, uneducated, merry little wife very much, and had felt for a while after she died, that he was not sure whether anything was worth working or striving for. But his constitutional activity of mind and body had got the better of that sort of feeling, and he had worked and striven to remarkably37 good purpose; but he had never asked another woman to share his fortunes.
This was not altogether occasioned by lingering regret for his pretty Jenny. He was not of a sentimental38 turn of mind, and he might even have been brought to acknowledge, reluctantly, that his wife would probably have been much out of place in the fine house, and at the head of the luxurious39 establishment which his wealth had formed. She was humbly40 born, like himself, had not been ambitious, except of love and happiness, and had had no better education than enabled her to read and write, not so perfectly41 as to foster in her a taste for either occupation. If Mr. Creswell had a sorrowful remembrance of her sometimes, it died away with the reflection that she had been happy while she lived, and would not have been so happy now. His continued bachelor estate was occasioned rather by his close and engrossing42 attention to the interests of his business, and, perhaps, also to the narrow social circle in which he lived. Pretty, uneducated, simple young country women will retain their power of pleasing men who have acquired education, and made money, and so elevated themselves far above their original station; but the influence of education and wealth upon the tastes of men of this sort is inimical to the chances of the young women of the classes in society among which they habitually43 find their associates. The women of the "well-to-do" world are unattractive to those men, who have not been born in it. Such men either retain the predilections44 of their youth for women like those whose girlhood they remember, or cherish ambitious aspirations45 towards the inimitable, not to be borrowed or imported, refinement46 of the women of social spheres far above them.
The former was Mr. Creswell's case, in as far as anything except business can be said to have been active in his affairs. The "ladies" in the Helmingham district were utterly47 uninteresting to him, and he had made that fact so evident long ago that they had accepted it; of course regarding him as an "oddity," and much to be pitied; and since his nieces had taken up their abode48, on the death of their father, Mr. Creswell's only brother, at Woolgreaves, a matrimonial development in Mr. Creswell's career had been regarded as an impossibility. The owner of Woolgreaves was voted by general feminine consent "a dear old thing," and a very good neighbour, and the ladies only hoped he might not have trouble before him with "that pickle49, young Tom," and were glad to think no poor woman had been induced to put herself in for such a life as that of Tom's step-mother would have been.
Mr. Creswell's only brother had belonged, not to the "well-to-do" community, but, on the contrary, to that of the "neer-do-weels," and he had died without a shilling, heavily in debt, and leaving two helpless girls--sufficiently50 delicately nurtured51 to feel their destitution52 with keenness amounting to despair, and sufficiently "fashionably," i.e. ill, educated to be wholly incapable of helping53 themselves--to the mercy of the world. The contemplation of this contingency54, for which he had plenty of leisure, for he died of a lingering illness, did not appear to have distressed55 Tom Creswell. He had believed in "luck" all his life, with the touching56 devotion of a selfish man who defines "luck" as the making of things comfortable for himself, and is not troubled with visions of, after him, the modern version of the deluge57, which takes the squalid form of the pawnbroker's and the poor-house; and "luck" had lasted his time. It had even survived him, so far as his children were concerned, for his brother, who had quarrelled with him, more from policy and of deliberate interest, regarding him as a hopeless spendthrift, the helping of whom was a useless extravagance, than from anger or disgust, came to the aid of the widow and her children, when he found that things were very much worse than he had supposed they would prove to be.
Mrs. Tom Creswell afforded a living example of her husband's "luck." She was a mild, gentle, very silly, very self-denying, estimable woman, who laved the "ne'er-do-weal" so literally58 with all her heart that when he died she had not enough of that organ left to go on living with. She did not see why she should try, and she did not try, but quietly died in a few months, to the astonishment59 of rational people, who declared that Tom Creswell was a "good loss," and had never been of the least use either to himself or any other human being. What on earth was the woman about? Was she such an idiot as not to see his faults? Did she not know what a selfish, idle, extravagant60, worthless fellow he was, and that he had left her to either pauperism61 or dependence62 on any one who would support her, quite complacently63? If such a husband as he was--what she had seen in him beyond his handsome face and his pleasant manner, they could not tell--was to be honoured in this way, gone quite daft about, in fact, they really could not perceive the advantage to men in being active, industrious64, saving, prudent65, and domestic. Nothing could be more true, more reasonable, more unanswerable, or more ineffectual. Mrs. Tom Creswell did not dispute it; she patiently endured much bullying66 by strong-minded, tract-dropping females of the spinster persuasion67; she was quite satisfied to be told she had proved herself unworthy of a better husband. She did not murmur68 as it was proved to her, in the fiercest forms of accurate arithmetic, that her Tom had squandered69 sums which might have provided for her and her children decently, and had not even practised the poor self-denial of paying for an insurance on his life. She contradicted no one, she rebuked70 no one, she asked forbearance and pity from no one; she merely wept and said she was sure her brother-in-law would be kind to the girls, and that she would not like to be a trouble to Mr. Creswell herself, and was sure her Tom would not have liked her to be a trouble to Mr. Creswell.
On this point the brother of the "departed saint," as the widow called the amiable71 idler of whose presence she considered the world unworthy, by no means agreed with her. Mr. Creswell was of opinion that so long as trouble kept clear of Tom, Tom would have been perfectly indifferent as to where it lighted. But he did not say so. He had not much respect for his sister-in-law's intellect, but he pitied her, and he was not only generous to her distress23, but also merciful to her weakness. He offered her a home at Woolgreaves, and it was arranged that she should "try" to go there, after a while. But she never tried, and she never went; she "did not see the good of" anything; and in six months after Tom Creswell's death his daughters were settled at Woolgreaves, and it is doubtful whether the state of orphanhood72 was ever in any case a more tempered, modified misfortune than in theirs.
Thus the family party at the handsome house, which Mrs. Ashurst and her daughter were about to visit, was composed of Mr. Creswell, his son Tom, a specimen73 of the schoolboy class, of whom this history has already afforded a glimpse, and the Misses Creswell, the Maude and Gertrude of whom Marian had, in her grief, spoken in terms of sharp and contemptuous disparagement74 which, though not entirely75 censurable76, judged from her point of view, were certainly not altogether deserved.
Mr. Creswell earnestly desired to befriend the visitor and her daughter. Gertrude Creswell thought it would be very "nice" to be "great friends" with that clever Miss Ashurst, and had, with all the impulsiveness77 of generous girlhood, exulted78 in the idea of being, in her turn, able to extend kindness to people in need of it, even as she and her sister had been. But Maude, who, though her actual experience of life had been identical with her sister's, had more natural intuition and caution, checked the enthusiasm with which Gertrude drew this picture.
"We must be very careful, Gerty dear," she said; "I fancy this clever Miss Ashurst is very proud. People say you never find out the nature of any one until trouble brings it to the light. It would never do to let her think one had any notion of doing her services, you know. She might not like it from us; uncle's kindness to them is a different thing; but we must remember that we are, in reality, no better off than she is."
Gertrude reddened. She had not spoken with the remotest idea of patronage79 of Miss Ashurst in her mind, and her sister's warning pained her. Gertrude had a dash of her father's insouciance80 in her, though in him it had been selfish joviality81, and in her it as only happy thoughtlessness. It had occurred to Gertrude, more than once before to-day, to think she should like to be married to some one whom she could love very much indeed, and away from this fine place, which did not belong to them, though her uncle was very kind, in a home of her awn. Maude had a habit of saying and looking things which made Gertrude entertain such notions; and now she had, with the best intentions, injured her pleasure in the anticipation82 of the visit of Mrs. Ashurst and Marian.
It was probably this little incident which lent the slight touch of coldness and restraint to the manner of Gertrude Creswell which Marian instantly felt, and which she erroneously interpreted. When they had met formerly83, there had been none of this hesitating formality.
"These girls don't want us here?" said Marian to herself; "they grudge84 us their uncle's friendship, lest it should take a form which would deprive them of any of his money."
Perhaps Marian was not aware of the resolve, lurking85 in her heart even then, that such was precisely86 the form which that friendship should be made to take. The evil warp87 in her otherwise frank and noble mind told in this. Gertrude Creswell, to whom in particular she imputed88 mercenary feeling, and the forethought of a calculating jealousy89, was entirely incapable of anything of the kind, and was actuated wholly by her dread90 that Marian should misinterpret any premature91 advance towards intimacy on her part as an impertinence. Thus the foundation of a misunderstanding between the two was laid.
Marian's thoughts had been busy with the history of the sisters, as she and her mother approached Woolgreaves. She had heard her father describe Tom Creswell and his wife, and dwell upon the fortunate destiny which had transferred Maude and Gertrude to their uncle's care. She thought of all that now with bitterness. The contrast between her father's character, life, and fate, and the character, life, and fate of Tom Creswell, was a problem difficult to solve, hard to endure. Why had the measure been so differently--she would, she must say so unjustly--meted to these two men? Her fancy dwelt on every point in that terrible difference, lingered around the two deathbeds, pictured the happy, sheltered, luxurious, unearned security of those whom the spendthrift had left uncared for, and the harsh, gloomy future before her mother and herself, in which only two things, hard work and scanty92 means, were certain, which had been the vision her father must have seen of the fate of those he loved, when he, so fitted to adorn93 an honoured and conspicuous94 position, had died, worn out in the long vain strife95 with poverty. Here were the children of the man who had lived utterly for self, and the widow and child of the "righteous," who had done his duty manfully from first to last. Hard and bitter were Marian's reflections on this contrast, and earnestly did she wish that some speedy means of accelerating by efforts of her own the fulfilment of those promises of Providence96, in which she felt sometimes tempted97 to put little faith, might arise.
"I suppose he was not exactly 'forsaken,'" said the girl in her mind as she approached the grand gates of Woolgreaves, whose ironmongery displayed itself in the utmost profusion98, allied99 with artistic100 designs more sumptuous101 than elegant, "and that no one will see us 'begging our bread;' but there is only meagre consolation102 to me in this, since he had not what might--or all their service is a pretence103, all their 'opinions' are lies--have saved him, and I see little to rejoice in in being just above the begging of bread."
"They have done a great deal to the place since we were here, Marian," said Mrs. Ashurst, looking round admiringly upon the skilful104 gardening and rich display of shrubs105 and flowers and outdoor decorations of all kinds. "It must take a great many hands to keep this in order. Not so much as a leaf or a pebble106 out of its place."
"They say there are four gardeners always employed," said Marian. "I wish we had the money it costs; we needn't wish Midsummer-day further off then. But here is Mr. Creswell, coming to meet us."
Marian Ashurst was much more attractive in her early womanhood than she had promised to be as a very young girl, and the style of her face and figure was of the kind which is assisted in its effect by a somewhat severe order of costume. She was not beautiful, not even positively107 handsome, and it is possible she might have looked commonplace in the ordinary dress of young women of limited means, where cheap material and coarse colouring must necessarily be used. In her plain attire108 of deep mourning, with no ornament109 save one or two trinkets of jet which had been her mother's, Marian Ashurst looked far from commonplace, and remarkably ladylike. The strongly defined character in her face, the composure of her manner, the quietness of her movements, were not the charms which are usually associated with youth, but they were charms, and her host was a person to whom they were calculated to prove especially charming. Except in his generally benevolent110 way of entertaining a kindly111 regard for his friend's daughter, Mr. Creswell had never noted112 nor taken any particular notice of Marian Ashurst; but she had not been an hour in his house before she impressed herself upon him as being very different from all the other girls of his acquaintance, and much more interesting than his nieces.
Mr. Creswell felt rather annoyed with his nieces. They were civil, certainly; but they did not seem to understand the art of making the young lady who was visiting them happy and "at home." There was none of the freemasonry of "the young person" about them. After a while, Mr. Creswell found that the order of things he had been prepared for--what he certainly would have taken to be the natural order of things--was altered, set aside, he did not know how, and that he was walking along the trim garden-paths, after luncheon113, with Miss Ashurst, while Maude and Gertrude took charge of the visitor to whom he had meant to devote himself, and were making themselves as amiable and pleasant to her as they had failed to make themselves to Marian. Perhaps the fault or the reason was as much on Miss Ashurst's side as on theirs. Before he had conducted his visitor over all the "show" portions of the grounds and gardens, Mr. Creswell had arrived at the conclusion that Marian was a remarkable114 young woman, with strong powers of observation, and a decided aptitude115 for solid and sensible conversation, which probably explained the coldness towards her of Maude and Gertrude, who were not remarkable, except for fine complexions116, and hair to correspond, and whose talk was of the most vapid117 description, so far as he had had the opportunity of observing.
There was not much of importance in appearance to relate about the occurrences of a day which was destined118 to be remembered as very important by all who passed its hours at Woolgreaves. It had the usual features of a "long day," spasmodic attacks of animation119 and lapses120 of weariness, a great deal of good eating and drinking, much looking at pictures and parade-books, some real gratification, and not a little imperfectly disguised fatigue121. It differed in one respect, however, from the usual history of a "long day." There was one person who was not glad when it came to an end. That person was Mr. Creswell.
Poor Mrs. Ashurst had found her visit to Woolgreaves much more endurable than she expected. She had indeed found it almost pleasurable. She had been amused--the time had passed, the young ladies had been kind to her. She praised them to Marian.
"They are nice creatures," she said; "really tender-hearted and sincere. Of course, they are not clever like you, my dear; but then all girls cannot be expected to be that."
"They are very fortunate," said Marian, moodily122. "Just think of the safe and happy life they lead. Living like that is living; we only exist. They have no want for the present; no anxiety for the future. Everything they see and touch, all the food they eat, everything they wear means money."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ashurst; "and after all, money is a great thing. Not, indeed," she added, with tears in her eyes, "that I could care much for it now, for it could not, if we had it, restore what we have lost."
"No," said Marian, frowning, "but it could have saved us from losing it; it could have preserved love and care, home, position, and happiness to us. True, mother, money is a great thing."
But Marian's mother was not listening to her. Her mind had returned to its familiar train of thought again.
Something had been said that day about Mrs. Ashurst's paying Woolgreaves a longer visit, going for a week or two, of course accompanied by Marian. Mrs. Ashurst had not decidedly accepted or negatived the proposition. She felt rather nervous about it herself, and uncertain as to Marian's sentiments, and her daughter had not aided her by word or look. Nor did Marian recur123 to the subject when she found themselves at home again in the evening. But she remembered it, and discussed it with herself in the night. Would it be well that her mother should be habituated to the comforts, the luxuries of such a house, so unattainable to her at home, so desirable in her state of broken health and spirits? This was the great difficulty which beset124 Marian, and she felt she could not decide it then.
Her long waking reverie of that night did not concern itself with the people she had been with. It was fully occupied with the place. Her mind mounted from floor to floor of the handsome house, which represented so much money, reviewing and appraising125 the furniture, speculating on the separate and collective value of the plate, the mirrors, the hangings, the decorations. Thousands and thousands of pounds, she thought, hundreds and hundreds of times more money than she had ever seen, and nothing to do for it all. Those girls who lived among it, what had they done that they should have all of it? Why had she, whose mother needed it so much, who could so well appreciate it, none of it? Marian's last thought 'before she fell asleep that night was, not only that money was a great thing, but that almost anything would be worth doing to get money.
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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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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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7
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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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embitter
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| v.使苦；激怒 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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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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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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33
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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34
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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35
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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36
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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37
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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38
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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39
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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40
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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41
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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42
engrossing
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| adj.使人全神贯注的，引人入胜的v.使全神贯注( engross的现在分词 ) | |
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43
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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44
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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45
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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46
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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47
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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48
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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49
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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50
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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51
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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52
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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53
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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54
contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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55
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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56
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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57
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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58
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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59
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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60
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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61
pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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62
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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63
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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66
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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67
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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68
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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69
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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72
orphanhood
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| 孤儿的身份，孤儿状态 | |
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73
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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74
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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75
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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76
censurable
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| adj.可非难的，该责备的 | |
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77
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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insouciance
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| n.漠不关心 | |
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81
joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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82
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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83
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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84
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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85
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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86
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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87
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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88
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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90
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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91
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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92
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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93
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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94
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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95
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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96
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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97
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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98
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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99
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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100
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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101
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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102
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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103
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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104
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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105
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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106
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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107
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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108
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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109
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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110
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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111
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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112
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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113
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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114
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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115
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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116
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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117
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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118
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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119
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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120
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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121
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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122
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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123
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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124
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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125
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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