“The insolence2 of that rabble3 passes belief!” she said, and refused even to discuss the subject with Bertrand.
“You do not suppose, I imagine,” she went on haughtily4, “that I should go curtsying to that lout5 and humbly6 beg for his wench’s hand in marriage for my grandson.”
But her pride, though it had received many a blow these last few days, was not altogether laid in the dust. It was not even humbled7. To the Comtesse Marcelle she said with the utmost confidence:
“You were always a coward and a fool, my dear: and imbued8 with the Christian9 spirit of holding out your left cheek when your right one had been smitten10. But you surely know
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me well enough to understand that I am not going to do the same in our present difficulty. Fate has dealt us an unpleasant blow, I admit, through the hand of that vixen, my sister Sybille. You notice that I have refrained from having Masses said for the repose11 of her soul, and if the bon Dieu thinks as I do on the subject, Sybille is having a very uncomfortable time in Purgatory12 just now. Be that as it may, her spirit shall not have the satisfaction of seeing how hard her body could hit, and in a very few days—two weeks at most—you will see how little I have bent13 to adverse14 fate, and how quickly I have turned the tide of our misfortune into one of prosperity.”
She would say no more just then, only hinted vaguely15 at Court influence, which she was neither too old nor too poor to wield16. The difficulty was to extract a promise from Bertrand not to do anything rash, until certain letters which she expected from Paris should arrive. Bertrand, indeed, was in such a state of misery17 that he felt very like a wounded animal that only desires to hide itself away in some hole and corner, there to bleed to death in peace. When Jaume Deydier had delivered his inflexible18 ultimatum19 to him, and he had realised that the exquisite20 Paradise which Nicolette’s
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love and self-sacrifice had revealed was indeed closed against him for ever, something in him had seemed to snap: it was his pride, his joy in life, his self-confidence. He had felt so poor, beside her, so poor in spirit, in love, in selflessness, that humiliation21 had descended22 on him like a pall23, which had in it something of the embrace, the inevitable24 embrace of death.
He had gone home like a sleepwalker, and had felt like a sleepwalker ever since: neither his sister’s sympathy, nor old Madame’s taunts25 and arrogance26 affected27 him in the least. The cords of life were so attenuated28 that he felt they would snap at any moment. This was his only consolation29: a broken spirit, which might lead to the breaking of the cords of life. Without Nicolette what was life worth now?
Love had come, but it had come too late. Too late he had come to understand that whilst he gazed, intoxicated30 and dazzled, upon a showy, artificial flower, an exquisite and fragrant31 bud had bloomed all the while close to his hand. Like so many young creatures on this earth, he believed that God had especially created him for love and happiness, that the Almighty32 Hand had for the time being so ordained33 the world and society that love and happiness would inevitably34 fall to his lot.
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Nevertheless, when those two priceless blessings35 were actually within his reach, he had thoughtlessly and wantonly turned away from them and rushed after a mirage36 which had proved as cruel as it was elusive37.
And now it was too late!
Like a wanderer on the face of the earth, he would henceforth be for ever seeking that which he had lost.
Only one thing held him now: held him to his home in old Provence, to the old owl’s nest and the ruined walls of his ancestral château: that was his mother. The Comtesse Marcelle, broken down in health and spirit, had such a weak hold on life that Bertrand felt that at any rate here was one little thing in the world that he could do to earn a semblance38 of peace and content for his soul. He could stay beside his mother and comfort her with his presence. He could allay39 the fears which she had for him and which seemed to drain the very fountain of life in her. So he remained beside her, spending his days beside her couch, reading to her, reassuring40 her as to his own state of mind. And when he went about the room, or turned toward the door, her anxious eyes would follow his every movement, as if at the back of her mind there was always the awful fear that
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the terrible tragedy which had darkened her life once and made of her the heart-broken widow that she was, would be re-enacted again, and she be left in uttermost loneliness and despair.
His mother, of course!
But as for Nicolette, and all that Nicolette stood for now: love, happiness, peace, content, it was too late!
Much, much too late!
He never argued with old Madame about her schemes and plans. He was much too tired to argue, and all his time belonged to his mother. She had so little time of her own left, whilst he had a kind of grotesque41 consciousness that grandmama would go on and on in this world, planning, scheming, writing letters, and making debts.
Oh! those awful debts! But for them Bertrand would have looked forward with perfect content to following his mother, when she went to her rest.
But there were the debts and the disgrace!
The last of the de Ventadours seeking in death a refuge from shame, and leaving an everlasting42 blot43 upon his name! The debts and the disgrace!
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He did once try to speak of it to old Madame, but she only laughed.
The debts would be paid—in full—in full! As for the disgrace, how dare Bertrand mention such a word in connection with the de Ventadours. And Bertrand did not dare speak of his father just then. Besides, what had been the use?
The debts and the disgrace; and the shame! That awful day in the magnificent apartment in Paris, when he knelt to Rixende and begged her, begged her not to throw him over! That awful, awful day! And her laugh! It would ring in his ears until the crack of doom44. When he told her he could not live without her, she laughed: when he vaguely hinted at a bullet through his head, she had warned him not to make a mess on the carpet. Oh! the shame of that! And old Madame did not seem to understand! The word “disgrace” or “shame” was not to be used in connection with the de Ventadours, and when he, Bertrand, thought of that day in Paris, and of the debts, and—and other things, he ground his teeth, and could have beaten his head against the wall in an agony of shame.
How right Jaume Deydier had been! How right! What was he, Comte de Ventadour,
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but a defaulting debtor45, a ne’er-do-well, sunk into a quagmire46 of improbity and beating the air with upstretched hands till they grasped a safety-pole held out to him by the weak, trusting arms of a young girl?
How right Jaume Deydier had been to turn on him and confound him with his final act of cowardice47. What had he to offer? Debts, a name disgraced, a heart spurned48 by another! How right, how right! But, God in heaven, the shame of it!
And grandmama would not understand. Deydier would give his ears, she said, to have a Comte de Ventadour for a son-in-law: he only demurred49, made difficulties and demands in order to dictate50 his own terms with regard to Nicolette’s dowry. That was old Madame’s explanation of the scene which had well-nigh killed Bertrand with shame. Pretence51, she declared, mere52 pretence on Deydier’s part.
“Keep away from the mas, my son,” she said coolly to Bertrand one day, “keep away from it for a week, and we’ll have Deydier sending his wench to the château on some pretext53 or another, just to throw her in your way again.”
“But, thank God,” she added a moment or two later, “that we have not yet sunk so low as to be driven into bestowing54 the name of Ventadour
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on a peasant wench for the sake of her money-bags.”
Not yet sunk so low? Ye gods! Could man sink lower than he, Bertrand, had sunk? Could man feel more shamed than he had done when Nicolette stood beside him and said: “Take me, take all! I’ll not even ask for love in return.”
There was no question that the Comtesse Marcelle was sinking. Vitality55 in her was at its lowest ebb56. Bertrand hardly ever left her side. Her only joy appeared to be in his presence, and that of Micheline. When her two children were near her she always seemed to revive a little, and when Bertrand made pathetic efforts to entertain her by telling her tales of gay life in Paris, she even tried to smile.
Old Madame spared her the infliction57 of her presence. She never entered the sick room; and Pérone only came two or three times a day to do what was necessary for the invalid58.
Then one day a mounted courier arrived from Avignon. He brought a letter for old Madame.
It was in the late afternoon. The old owl’s nest was wrapped in gloom, for though the Aubussons and the tapestries59, the silver and
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the spinet60 had been bought with borrowed money or else on credit, the funds had run low, and candles and oil were very dear.
Marcelle de Ventadour lay on her couch with her children beside her, and only the flickering61 fire-light to illumine the room. Bertrand for the first time had broached62 the magic word “America.” Many had gone to that far-off land of late, and made fortunes there. Why should not he tempt1 destiny too? He had sworn to his mother that he would never again think of suicide. The word “America” had made her tremble, but it was not so terrible as death.
And on this dull winter’s afternoon, with the fire-light making quaint63, fantastic patterns on the whitewashed64 ceiling, they had for the first time talked seriously of America.
“But promise me, Bertrand,” mother had entreated65, “that you will not think of it, until I’ve gone.”
And Micheline had said nothing: she had not even wondered what would become of her, when mother had gone and Bertrand sailed for America.
They all heard the noise attendant on the arrival of the courier: the tramping of the horse’s hoofs66 in the court-yard, the rattle67 of
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chains, the banging of doors, and old Madame’s voice harsh and excited. Then her quick step along the corridor, the rustle68 of her gown. Instinctively69 the three of them drew closer to one another—like trapped animals when the enemy is nigh.
Old Madame came in with arms outstretched, and an open letter in her hand.
“Come to my arms, Bertrand,” she said, with a dramatic gesture. “The last of the Ventadours can look every man in the face now.”
She was striving to hide her excitement, her obvious relief behind a theatrical70 and showy attitude. She went up to the little group around the invalid’s couch, and stood over them like a masterful, presiding deity71. And all the while she flourished the letter which she held.
“A light, Bertrand, for mercy’s sake!” she went on impatiently. “Name of a name, all our lives are transformed by this letter! Did I not tell you all along that I would turn the tide of our misfortune into one of prosperity? Well! I’ve done it. I’ve done it more completely, more wonderfully than I ever dared to hope! And you all sit here like automatons72 whilst the entire current of our destiny has been diverted to golden channels!”
She talked rather wildly, somewhat incoherently;
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altogether she appeared different to her usual haughty73, unimpassioned self. Bertrand rose obediently and lit the lamp, and placed a chair for old Madame beside the table.
She sat down and without another word to the others, she became absorbed in rereading the letter, the paper made a slight crackling sound while she read, as her hands were trembling a little. The Comtesse Marcelle, silent as usual, kept her eyes fixed74 on the stately figure of the family autocrat75 with the pathetic gaze of an unloved dog seeking to propitiate76 an irascible master. Micheline clung to her mother’s hand, silent and subdued77 by this atmosphere of unreality which grandmama’s theatrical gestures and speech had evoked78. Bertrand alone appeared disinterested79. He stood beside the hearth80 and stared moodily81 into the fire as if the whole affair, whatever it was, did not concern him.
Grandmama read the letter through twice from beginning to end. Then she folded it up carefully, laid it on the table, and clasped her hands over it.
“There is no mistake,” she said more quietly, “no ambiguity82.”
She looked at them all as if expecting to be questioned. The news was so wonderful! She
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was bubbling over with it, and they sat there like automatons!
“Bertrand,” she half implored83, half commanded.
“Yes, grandmama,” he responded dully.
“You say nothing,” she urged with a febrile beating together of her hands, “you ask no questions. And this letter—mon Dieu, this letter—it means life to you—to us all!”
“Is it from the King, Madame?” the Comtesse Marcelle asked, still with that look on her face of a poor dog trying to propitiate his master. She was so afraid that grandmama would become angry if Bertrand remained silent—and there were the habits of a life-time—the fear of grandmama if she should become angry.
“The letter is from M. le Marquis de Montaudon,” old Madame condescended84 to explain. “He writes to me in answer to an appeal which I made to him on behalf of Bertrand.”
Bertrand tried to rouse himself from his apathy85. The habits of a life-time ruled him too—the respect always accorded grandmama when she spoke86.
“M. de Montaudon,” he said, speaking with an effort, “is treasurer87 to the King.”
“And a valued friend of His Majesty,” old
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Madame rejoined. “You must have met him in Paris.”
“No, never,” Bertrand replied. “De Montaudon is a real misanthrope88 where society is concerned. He leads the life of a hermit89 wrapped up in bank-notes, so ’tis said, and juggling90 all day with figures.”
“A brilliant man,” grandmama assented91. “He has saved the financial situation of France and of his King. He is a man who deals in millions, and thinks in millions as others do in dozens. He and I were great friends once,” she went on with a quick, impatient sigh, “many, many years ago—in the happy days before the Revolution—my husband took me up to Paris one year when I was sick with nostalgia92 and ennui93, and he feared that I would die of both complaints in this old owl’s nest. Then it was that I met de Montaudon—le beau Montaudon as he was called—and he fell in love with me. He had the blood of the South in his veins94, for his mother was a Sicilian, and he loved me as only children of the South can love—ardently, immutably95.
“My husband’s jealousy96, then the turmoil97 of the Revolution, and finally Montaudon’s emigration to England, whence he only returned six years ago, kept us apart all this
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while. A whole life-time lies between the miseries98 of to-day and those happy, golden days in Paris. Since then my life has been one ceaseless, tireless struggle to rebuild the fortunes of this family to which I had been fool enough to link my destiny. Forty years I have worked and toiled99 and fought—beaten again and again—struck down by Fate and the cowardice of those who should have been my fellow-workers and my support—but vanquished100 never—I have fought and struggled—and had I died during the struggle I should have died fighting and unconquered. Forty years!” she went on with ever-growing excitement, whilst with a characteristic gesture of determination and energy she beat upon the letter before her with her fists, “but I have won at last! Montaudon has not forgotten. His letter here is in answer to mine. I asked him for the sake of old times to extend his patronage101 to my grandson, to befriend him, to help him in his career! And see his reply!”
She took up the letter once more, unfolded it, smoothed it out with loving, quivering hands. She put up her lorgnette to read: obviously her eyes were dim, filled with tears of excitement and of joy.
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“This is how he begins,” she began slowly, striving in vain to steady her voice.
Beautiful and Unforgettable Friend,
“Send your grandson to me! I will provide for him, because he belongs to you, and because in his eyes I shall mayhap find a look which will help me to recapture a memory or so out of the past. Send the boy without delay. I really need a help in my work, and there is a young and beautiful lady who is very dear to me; for whom I would gladly find a well-born and handsome husband. Your grandson appears to be the very man for that attractive office: thus he will have a brilliant career before him as my protégé and an exquisitely102 sentimental103 one as the husband of one of the loveliest women in this city where beautiful women abound104. See! how right you were to make appeal to my memory. I never forget....”
This was no more than one half of the letter, but old Madame read no more. She glanced round in triumph on the three faces that were turned so eagerly towards her. But nobody spoke. Marcelle was silent, but her eyes were glowing as if new life had been infused into
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her blood. Micheline was silent because, young as she was, she had had in life such vast experience of golden schemes that had always gone agley! and Bertrand was silent because his very soul was in travail105 with hope and fear, with anxiety and a wild, mad, bewildering excitement which almost choked him.
Grandmama talked on for awhile: she planned and she arranged and gazed into a future so golden that she and Marcelle and Micheline were dazzled by it all. Bertrand alone remained obstinately106 silent: neither old Madame’s impatience107, nor his mother’s joy dragged him out of his moodiness108. In vain did grandmama expatiate109 on M. de Montaudon’s wealth and influence, or on the array of beautiful and rich heiresses whose amorous110 advances to Bertrand would make the faithless Rixende green with envy, in vain did his mother murmur111 with pathetic entreaty112:
“Are you not happy, Bertrand?”
He remained absorbed, buried in thoughts, thoughts that he was for the moment wholly incapable113 of co-ordinating. It seemed to him as if hundreds of thousands of voices were shrieking114 in his ear: hundreds of thousands that were high-pitched and harsh like the voice of old Madame; they shrieked115 and they
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screamed, and they roared, and the words that they uttered all came in a jumble116, incoherent and deafening117: a medley118 of words through which he only distinguished119 a few from time to time:
“Treasurer to the King!” some of the voices shrieked.
“All debts paid in full—in full!” others screamed.
“Wealth—an heiress—a brilliant marriage—Rixende—envy—hatred—chance—career—money—money—money—wealth—a rich heiress—money—money—no debts——”
They shrieked and they shrieked, and he could no longer hear grandmama’s arguments, nor his mother’s gentle appeal. They shrieked so loudly that his head buzzed and his temples throbbed120: because all the while he was straining every nerve to listen to something which was inaudible, which was drowned in that awful uproar121.
After awhile the noise was stilled. Old Madame ceased to speak. The Comtesse Marcelle, wearied out by so much excitement, lay back with eyes closed against the pillows. Micheline was bathing her forehead with vinegar. Bertrand woke as from a dream. He
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gazed about him like a sleepwalker brought back to consciousness, and found old Madame’s slightly mocking gaze fixed upon him. She shrugged122 her shoulders.
“You are bewildered, my dear,” she said not unkindly. “I am not surprised. It will take you some time to realise the extent of your good fortune.”
She carefully folded the letter up again, and patted it with both her hands like a precious, precious treasure.
“What a future, Bertrand,” she exclaimed suddenly. “What a future! In my wildest dreams I had never hoped for this!”
She looked at him quizzically, then smiled again.
“Were I in your shoes, my dear, I should be equally bewildered. Take my advice and go quietly to your room and think it all over. To-morrow we will plan the immediate123 future. Eh?”
“Yes, to-morrow!” Bertrand assented mechanically.
“You will have to start for Paris very soon,” she went on earnestly.
“Very soon,” Bertrand assented again.
“Well! think over it, my dear,” old Madame concluded; she rose and made for the door;
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“I’ll say good night now, Marcelle,” she said coolly. “I am tired too, and will sup in my room, then go early to bed. Come and kiss me, Micheline!” she added.
The girl obeyed; old Madame’s hand was now on the handle of the door.
“Are you too dazed,” she said with a not unkind touch of irony124 and turning to Bertrand, “to bid me good night, my dear?”
He came across to her, took her hand and kissed it.
“Good night, grandmama,” he murmured.
Smiling she held up the letter.
“The casket,” she said, “that holds the golden treasure.”
He put out his hand for it.
“May I have it?”
For a moment she seemed to hesitate, then shrugged her shoulders:
“Why not?” she said, and placed the letter in his hand: but before her hold on it relaxed, she added seriously: “You will be discreet125, Bertrand?”
“Of course,” he replied.
“I mean you will not read more than the first page and a half, up to the words: ‘I never forget——’”
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“Up to the words ‘I never forget’,” Bertrand assented. “I promise.”
He took the letter and thrust it into the pocket of his coat. Old Madame with a final nod to him and the others sailed out of the room.
“Mother is tired,” Micheline said, as soon as grandmama had gone, “let us leave the talking until to-morrow; shall we?”
Bertrand agreed. He appeared much relieved at the suggestion, kissed his mother and sister and finally went away.
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收听单词发音
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1
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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repose
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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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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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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vaguely
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wield
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| vt.行使，运用，支配；挥，使用(武器等) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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humiliation
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descended
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pall
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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arrogance
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affected
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attenuated
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consolation
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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fragrant
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almighty
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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inevitably
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blessings
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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elusive
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semblance
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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44
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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45
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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46
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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47
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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48
spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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51
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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54
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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55
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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56
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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57
infliction
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| n.（强加于人身的）痛苦，刑罚 | |
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58
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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59
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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61
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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62
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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63
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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64
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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68
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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69
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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70
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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71
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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72
automatons
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| n.自动机，机器人( automaton的名词复数 ) | |
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73
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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74
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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75
autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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76
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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77
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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78
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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79
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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80
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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81
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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82
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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83
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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85
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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86
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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87
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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88
misanthrope
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| n.恨人类的人；厌世者 | |
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89
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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90
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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91
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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93
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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94
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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95
immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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96
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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97
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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98
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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99
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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100
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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101
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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102
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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103
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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104
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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105
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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106
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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107
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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108
moodiness
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| n.喜怒无常；喜怒无常，闷闷不乐；情绪 | |
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109
expatiate
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| v.细说，详述 | |
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110
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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111
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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112
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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113
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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114
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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115
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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117
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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118
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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119
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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120
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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121
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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122
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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123
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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124
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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125
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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