Small cell, cold cell, narrow bed and hard;
High wall, thick wall, window iron-barred;
Stone-paved, stone-pent little prison yard—
Young hearts weary of monotony and pain,
Young hearts weary of reiterant refrain:
"They say—they do—what will people think?"
At the two front windows of their rather crowded little parlor2 sat Miss Rebecca and Miss Josie Foote, Miss Sallie being out on a foraging3 expedition—marketing, as it were, among their neighbors to collect fresh food for thought.
A tall, slender girl in brown passed on the opposite walk.
"I should think Vivian Lane would get tired of wearing brown," said Miss Rebecca.
"I don't know why she should," her sister promptly4 protested, "it's a good enough wearing color, and becoming to her."
"She could afford to have more variety," said Miss Rebecca. "The Lanes are mean enough about some things, but I know they'd like to have her dress better. She'll never get married in the world."
"I don't know why not. She's only twenty-five—and good-looking."
"Good-looking! That's not everything. Plenty of girls marry that are not good-looking—and plenty of good-looking girls stay single."
"Plenty of homely5 ones, too. Rebecca," said Miss Josie, with meaning. Miss Rebecca certainly was not handsome. "Going to the library, of course!" she pursued presently. "That girl reads all the time."
"So does her grandmother. I see her going and coming from that library every day almost."
"Oh, well—she reads stories and things like that. Sallie goes pretty often and she notices. We use that library enough, goodness knows, but they are there every day. Vivian Lane reads the queerest things—doctor's books and works on pedagoggy."
"Godgy," said Miss Rebecca, "not33 goggy." And as her sister ignored this correction, she continued: "They might as well have let her go to college when she was so set on it."
"College! I don't believe she'd have learned as much in any college, from what I hear of 'em, as she has in all this time at home." The Foote girls had never entertained a high opinion of extensive culture.
"I don't see any use in a girl's studying so much," said Miss Rebecca with decision.
"Nor I," agreed Miss Josie. "Men don't like learned women."
"They don't seem to always like those that aren't learned, either," remarked Miss Rebecca with a pleasant sense of retribution for that remark about "homely ones."
The tall girl in brown had seen the two faces at the windows opposite, and had held her shoulders a little straighter as she turned the corner.
"Nine years this Summer since Morton Elder went West," murmured Miss Josie, reminiscently. "I shouldn't wonder if Vivian had stayed single on his account."
"Nonsense!" her sister answered sharply.34 "She's not that kind. She's not popular with men, that's all. She's too intellectual."
"She ought to be in the library instead of Sue Elder," Miss Rebecca suggested. "She's far more competent. Sue's a feather-headed little thing."
"She seems to give satisfaction so far. If the trustees are pleased with her, there's no reason for you to complain that I see," said Miss Rebecca with decision.
Vivian Lane waited at the library desk with an armful of books to take home. She had her card, her mother's and her father's—all utilized6. Her grandmother kept her own card—and her own counsel.
The pretty assistant librarian, withdrawing herself with some emphasis from the unnecessary questions of a too gallant7 old gentleman, came to attend her.
"You have got a load," she said, scribbling8 complex figures with one end of her hammer-headed pencil, and stamping violet dates with the other. She whisked out the pale blue slips from the lid pockets, dropped them into their proper openings in the desk35 and inserted the cards in their stead with delicate precision.
"Can't you wait a bit and go home with me?" she asked. "I'll help you carry them."
"No, thanks. I'm not going right home."
"You're going to see your Saint—I know!" said Miss Susie, tossing her bright head. "I'm jealous, and you know it."
"Don't be a goose, Susie! You know you're my very best friend, but—she's different."
"I should think she was different!" Susie sharply agreed. "And you've been 'different' ever since she came."
"I hope so," said Vivian gravely. "Mrs. St. Cloud brings out one's very best and highest. I wish you liked her better, Susie."
"I like you," Susie answered. "You bring out my 'best and highest'—if I've got any. She don't. She's like a lovely, faint, bright—bubble! I want to prick9 it!"
Vivian smiled down upon her.
"You bad little mouse!" she said. "Come, give me the books."
"Leave them with me, and I'll bring them in the car." Susie looked anxious to make amends10 for her bit of blasphemy11.
"All right, dear. Thank you. I'll be home by that time, probably."
In the street she stopped before a little shop where papers and magazines were sold.
"I believe Father'd like the new Centurion12," she said to herself, and got it for him, chatting a little with the one-armed man who kept the place. She stopped again at a small florist's and bought a little bag of bulbs.
"Your mother's forgotten about those, I guess," said Mrs. Crothers, the florist's wife, "but they'll do just as well now. Lucky you thought of them before it got too late in the season. Bennie was awfully13 pleased with that red and blue pencil you gave him, Miss Lane."
Vivian walked on. A child ran out suddenly from a gate and seized upon her.
"Aren't you coming in to see me—ever?" she demanded.
Vivian stooped and kissed her.
"Yes, dear, but not to-night. How's that dear baby getting on?"
"She's better," said the little girl. "Mother said thank you—lots of times. Wait a minute—"
The child fumbled14 in Vivian's coat pocket with a mischievous15 upward glance, fished out a handful of peanuts, and ran up the path laughing while the tall girl smiled down upon her lovingly.
A long-legged boy was lounging along the wet sidewalk. Vivian caught up with him and he joined her with eagerness.
"Good evening, Miss Lane. Say—are you coming to the club to-morrow night?"
She smiled cordially.
"Of course I am, Johnny. I wouldn't disappoint my boys for anything—nor myself, either."
They walked on together chatting until, at the minister's house, she bade him a cheery "good-night."
Mrs. St. Cloud was at the window pensively17 watching the western sky. She saw the girl coming and let her in with a tender,38 radiant smile—a lovely being in a most unlovely room.
There was a chill refinement18 above subdued19 confusion in that Cambridge-Bainville parlor, where the higher culture of the second Mrs. Williams, superimposed upon the lower culture of the first, as that upon the varying tastes of a combined ancestry20, made the place somehow suggestive of excavations21 at Abydos.
It was much the kind of parlor Vivian had been accustomed to from childhood, but Mrs. St. Cloud was of a type quite new to her. Clothed in soft, clinging fabrics22, always with a misty23, veiled effect to them, wearing pale amber24, large, dull stones of uncertain shapes, and slender chains that glittered here and there among her scarfs and laces, sinking gracefully25 among deep cushions, even able to sink gracefully into a common Bainville chair—this beautiful woman had captured the girl's imagination from the first.
Clearly known, she was a sister of Mrs. Williams, visiting indefinitely. Vaguely26—and very frequently—hinted, her husband had "left her," and "she did not believe in divorce." Against her background of dumb patience, he shone darkly forth27 as A Brute28 of unknown cruelties. Nothing against him would she ever say, and every young masculine heart yearned29 to make life brighter to the Ideal Woman, so strangely neglected; also some older ones. Her Young Men's Bible Class was the pride of Mr. Williams' heart and joy of such young men as the town possessed30; most of Bainville's boys had gone.
"A wonderful uplifting influence," Mr. Williams called her, and refused to say anything, even when directly approached, as to "the facts" of her trouble. "It is an old story," he would say. "She bears up wonderfully. She sacrifices her life rather than her principles."
To Vivian, sitting now on a hassock at the lady's feet and looking up at her with adoring eyes, she was indeed a star, a saint, a cloud of mystery.
She reached out a soft hand, white, slender, delicately kept, wearing one thin gold ring, and stroked the girl's smooth hair. Vivian seized the hand and kissed it, blushing as she did so.
"You foolish child! Don't waste your young affection on an old lady like me."
"Life wears on you, I'm afraid, my dear.... Do you ever hear from him?"
To no one else, not even to Susie, could Vivian speak of what now seemed the tragedy of her lost youth.
"No," said she. "Never now. He did write once or twice—at first."
"He writes to his aunt, of course?"
"Yes," said Vivian. "But not often. And he never—says anything."
"I understand. Poor child! You must be true, and wait." And the lady turned the thin ring on her finger. Vivian watched her in a passion of admiring tenderness.
"Oh, you understand!" she exclaimed. "You understand!"
"I understand, my dear," said Mrs. St. Cloud.
When Vivian reached her own gate she41 leaned her arms upon it and looked first one way and then the other, down the long, still street. The country was in sight at both ends—the low, monotonous32, wooded hills that shut them in. It was all familiar, wearingly familiar. She had known it continuously for such part of her lifetime as was sensitive to landscape effects, and had at times a mad wish for an earthquake to change the outlines a little.
The infrequent trolley33 car passed just then and Sue Elder joined her, to take the short cut home through the Lane's yard.
"Here you are," she said cheerfully, "and here are the books."
Vivian thanked her.
"Oh, say—come in after supper, can't you? Aunt Rella's had another letter from Mort."
Vivian's sombre eyes lit up a little.
"How's he getting on? In the same business he was last year?" she asked with an elaborately cheerful air. Morton had seemed to change occupations oftener than he wrote letters.
"Yes, I believe so. I guess he's well. He42 never says much, you know. I don't think it's good for him out there—good for any boy." And Susie looked quite the older sister.
"What are they to do? They can't stay here."
"No, I suppose not—but we have to."
"Dr. Bellair didn't," remarked Vivian. "I like her—tremendously, don't you?" In truth, Dr. Bellair was already a close second to Mrs. St. Cloud in the girl's hero-worshipping heart.
"Oh, yes; she's splendid! Aunt Rella is so glad to have her with us. They have great times recalling their school days together. Aunty used to like her then, though she is five years older—but you'd never dream it. And I think she's real handsome."
"She's not beautiful," said Vivian, with decision, "but she's a lot better. Sue Elder, I wish——"
"Wish what?" asked her friend.
Sue put the books on the gate-post, and the two girls, arm in arm, walked slowly up and down.
Susie was a round, palely rosy34 little person, with a delicate face and soft, light hair waving fluffily35 about her small head. Vivian's hair was twice the length, but so straight and fine that its mass had no effect. She wore it in smooth plaits wound like a wreath from brow to nape.
After an understanding silence and a walk past three gates and back again, Vivian answered her.
"I wish I were in your shoes," she said.
"What do you mean—having the Doctor in the house?"
"No—I'd like that too; but I mean work to do—your position."
"Oh, the library! You needn't; it's horrid36. I wish I were in your shoes, and had a father and mother to take care of me. I can tell you, it's no fun—having to be there just on time or get fined, and having to poke37 away all day with those phooty old ladies and tiresome38 children."
"But you're independent."
"Oh, yes, I'm independent. I have to be. Aunt Rella could take care of me, I suppose, but of course I wouldn't let her. And44 I dare say library work is better than school-teaching."
"What'll we be doing when we're forty, I wonder?" said Vivian, after another turn.
"Forty! Why I expect to be a grandma by that time," said Sue. She was but twenty-one, and forty looked a long way off to her.
"A grandma! And knit?" suggested Vivian.
"Oh, yes—baby jackets—and blankets—and socks—and little shawls. I love to knit," said Sue, cheerfully.
"But suppose you don't marry?" pursued her friend.
"Oh, but I shall marry—you see if I don't. Marriage"—here she carefully went inside the gate and latched39 it—"marriage is—a woman's duty!" And she ran up the path laughing.
Vivian laughed too, rather grimly, and slowly walked towards her own door.
The little sitting-room40 was hot, very hot; but Mr. Lane sat with his carpet-slippered feet on its narrow hearth41 with a shawl around him.
"Shut the door, Vivian!" he exclaimed irritably42. "I'll never get over this cold if such draughts43 are let in on me."
"Why, it's not cold out, Father—and it's very close in here."
Mrs. Lane looked up from her darning. "You think it's close because you've come in from outdoors. Sit down—and don't fret44 your father; I'm real worried about him."
Mr. Lane coughed hollowly. He had become a little dry old man with gray, glassy eyes, and had been having colds in this fashion ever since Vivian could remember.
"Dr. Bellair says that the out-door air is the best medicine for a cold," remarked Vivian, as she took off her things.
"Dr. Bellair has not been consulted in this case," her father returned wheezingly45. "I'm quite satisfied with my family physician. He's a man, at any rate."
"Save me from these women doctors!" exclaimed his wife.
Vivian set her lips patiently. She had long since learned how widely she differed46 from both father and mother, and preferred silence to dispute.
Mr. Lane was a plain, ordinary person, who spent most of a moderately useful life in the shoe business, from which he had of late withdrawn46. Both he and his wife "had property" to a certain extent; and now lived peacefully on their income with neither fear nor hope, ambition nor responsibility to trouble them. The one thing they were yet anxious about was to see Vivian married, but this wish seemed to be no nearer to fulfillment for the passing years.
"I don't know what the women are thinking of, these days," went on the old gentleman, putting another shovelful47 of coal on the fire with a careful hand. "Doctors and lawyers and even ministers, some of 'em! The Lord certainly set down a woman's duty pretty plain—she was to cleave48 unto her husband!"
"Some women have no husbands to cleave to, Father."
"They'd have husbands fast enough if they'd behave themselves," he answered. "No man's going to want to marry one of47 these self-sufficient independent, professional women, of course."
"I do hope, Viva," said her mother, "that you're not letting that Dr. Bellair put foolish ideas into your head."
"I want to do something to support myself—sometime, Mother. I can't live on my parents forever."
"You be patient, child. There's money enough for you to live on. It's a woman's place to wait," put in Mr. Lane.
"How long?" inquired Vivian. "I'm twenty-five. No man has asked me to marry him yet. Some of the women in this town have waited thirty—forty—fifty—sixty years. No one has asked them."
"I was married at sixteen," suddenly remarked Vivian's grandmother. "And my mother wasn't but fifteen. Huh!" A sudden little derisive49 noise she made; such as used to be written "humph!"
For the past five years, Mrs. Pettigrew had made her home with the Lanes. Mrs. Lane herself was but a feeble replica50 of her energetic parent. There was but seventeen years difference in their ages, and compara48tive idleness with some ill-health on the part of the daughter, had made the difference appear less.
Mrs. Pettigrew had but a poor opinion of the present generation. In her active youth she had reared a large family on a small income; in her active middle-age, she had trotted51 about from daughter's house to son's house, helping52 with the grandchildren. And now she still trotted about in all weathers, visiting among the neighbors and vibrating as regularly as a pendulum53 between her daughter's house and the public library.
The books she brought home were mainly novels, and if she perused54 anything else in the severe quiet of the reading-room, she did not talk about it. Indeed, it was a striking characteristic of Mrs. Pettigrew that she talked very little, though she listened to all that went on with a bright and beady eye, as of a highly intelligent parrot. And now, having dropped her single remark into the conversation, she shut her lips tight as was her habit, and drew another ball of worsted from the black bag that always hung at her elbow.
She was making one of those perennial55 knitted garments, which, in her young days, were called "Cardigan jackets," later "Jerseys," and now by the offensive name of "sweater." These she constructed in great numbers, and their probable expense was a source of discussion in the town. "How do you find friends enough to give them to?" they asked her, and she would smile enigmatically and reply, "Good presents make good friends."
"If a woman minds her P's and Q's she can get a husband easy enough," insisted the invalid56. "Just shove that lamp nearer, Vivian, will you."
Vivian moved the lamp. Her mother moved her chair to follow it and dropped her darning egg, which the girl handed to her.
"Supper's ready," announced a hard-featured middle-aged57 woman, opening the dining-room door.
At this moment the gate clicked, and a firm step was heard coming up the path.
"Gracious, that's the minister!" cried Mrs. Lane. "He said he'd be in this afternoon if50 he got time. I thought likely 'twould be to supper."
She received him cordially, and insisted on his staying, slipping out presently to open a jar of quinces.
The Reverend Otis Williams was by no means loathe58 to take occasional meals with his parishioners. It was noted59 that, in making pastoral calls, he began with the poorer members of his flock, and frequently arrived about meal-time at the houses of those whose cooking he approved.
"It is always a treat to take supper here," he said. "Not feeling well, Mr. Lane? I'm sorry to hear it. Ah! Mrs. Pettigrew! Is that jacket for me, by any chance? A little sombre, isn't it? Good evening, Vivian. You are looking well—as you always do."
Vivian did not like him. He had married her mother, he had christened her, she had "sat under" him for long, dull, uninterrupted years; yet still she didn't like him.
"That's what I say," his host agreed. "Vivian says it isn't; I say it is."
"Disagreement in the family! This won't do, Vivian," said the minister jocosely61. "Duty to parents, you know! Duty to parents!"
"Does duty to parents alter the temperature?" the girl asked, in a voice of quiet sweetness, yet with a rebellious62 spark in her soft eyes.
"Huh!" said her grandmother—and dropped her gray ball. Vivian picked it up and the old lady surreptitiously patted her.
"Pardon me," said the reverend gentleman to Mrs. Pettigrew, "did you speak?"
"No," said the old lady, "Seldom do."
"Silence is golden, Mrs. Pettigrew. Silence is golden. Speech is silver, but silence is golden. It is a rare gift."
Mrs. Pettigrew set her lips so tightly that they quite disappeared, leaving only a thin dented63 line in her smoothly64 pale face. She was called by the neighbors "wonderfully well preserved," a phrase she herself despised. Some visitor, new to the town, had the hardihood to use it to her face once. "Huh!" was the response. "I'm just sixty. Henry Haskins and George Baker65 and Stephen Doolittle are all older'n I am—and still doing business, doing it better'n any of the young folks as far as I can see. You don't compare them to canned pears, do you?"
Mr. Williams knew her value in church work, and took no umbrage66 at her somewhat inimical expression; particularly as just then Mrs. Lane appeared and asked them to walk out to supper.
Vivian sat among them, restrained and courteous67, but inwardly at war with her surroundings. Here was her mother, busy, responsible, serving creamed codfish and hot biscuit; her father, eating wheezily, and finding fault with the biscuit, also with the codfish; her grandmother, bright-eyed, thin-lipped and silent. Vivian got on well with her grandmother, though neither of them talked much.
"My mother used to say that the perfect supper was cake, preserves, hot bread, and a 'relish,'" said Mr. Williams genially68. "You have the perfect supper, Mrs. Lane."
"I'm glad if you enjoy it, I'm sure," said that lady. "I'm fond of a bit of salt myself."
"And what are you reading now, Vivian," he asked paternally69.
"Ward? Dr. Ward of the Centurion?"
Vivian smiled her gentlest.
"Oh, no," she replied; "Lester F. Ward, the Sociologist71."
"Poor stuff, I think!" said her father. "Girls have no business to read such things."
"I wish you'd speak to Vivian about it, Mr. Williams. She's got beyond me," protested her mother.
"Huh!" said Mrs. Pettigrew. "I'd like some more of that quince, Laura."
"My dear young lady, you are not reading books of which your parents disapprove72, I hope?" urged the minister.
"The duty of a daughter is not measured by years," he replied sonorously74. "Does parental75 duty cease? Are you not yet a child in your father's house?"
"Is a daughter always a child if she lives54 at home?" inquired the girl, as one seeking instruction.
He set down his cup and wiped his lips, flushing somewhat.
"The duty of a daughter begins at the age when she can understand the distinction between right and wrong," he said, "and continues as long as she is blessed with parents."
"What is it?" he repeated, looking at her in some surprise. "It is submission77, obedience—obedience."
"I see. So Mother ought to obey Grandmother," she pursued meditatively78, and Mrs. Pettigrew nearly choked in her tea.
Vivian was boiling with rebellion. To sit there and be lectured at the table, to have her father complain of her, her mother invite pastoral interference, the minister preach like that. She slapped her grandmother's shoulder, readjusted the little knit shawl on the straight back—and refrained from further speech.
When Mrs. Pettigrew could talk, she demanded suddenly of the minister, "Have you read Campbell's New Theology?" and from that on they were all occupied in listening to Mr. Williams' strong, clear and extensive views on the subject—which lasted into the parlor again.
Vivian sat for awhile in the chair nearest the window, where some thin thread of air might possibly leak in, and watched the minister with a curious expression. All her life he had been held up to her as a person to honor, as a man of irreproachable79 character, great learning and wisdom. Of late she found with a sense of surprise that she did not honor him at all. He seemed to her suddenly like a relic80 of past ages, a piece of an old parchment—or papyrus81. In the light of the studies she had been pursuing in the well-stored town library, the teachings of this worthy82 old gentleman appeared a jumble83 of age-old traditions, superimposed one upon another.
"He's a palimpsest," she said to herself, "and a poor palimpsest at that."
She sat with her shapely hands quiet in her lap while her grandmother's shining needles twinkled in the dark wool, and her mother's slim crochet84 hook ran along the widening spaces of some thin, white, fuzzy thing. The rich powers of her young womanhood longed for occupation, but she could never hypnotize herself with "fancywork." Her work must be worth while. She felt the crushing cramp85 and loneliness of a young mind, really stronger than those about her, yet held in dumb subjection. She could not solace86 herself by loving them; her father would have none of it, and her mother had small use for what she called "sentiment." All her life Vivian had longed for more loving, both to give and take; but no one ever imagined it of her, she was so quiet and repressed in manner. The local opinion was that if a woman had a head, she could not have a heart; and as to having a body—it was indelicate to consider such a thing.
"I mean to have six children," Vivian had planned when she was younger. "And they shall never be hungry for more loving." She meant to make up to her vaguely imagined future family for all that her own youth missed.
Even Grandma, though far more sympathetic in temperament87, was not given to demonstration88, and Vivian solaced89 her big, tender heart by cuddling all the babies she could reach, and petting cats and dogs when no children were to be found.
"I'm going over to Sue's," she said, and went out.
There was a moon again—a low, large moon, hazily91 brilliant. The air was sweet with the odors of scarce-gone Summer, of coming Autumn.
The girl stood still, half-way down the path, and looked steadily92 into that silver radiance. Moonlight always filled her heart with a vague excitement, a feeling that something ought to happen—soon.
This flat, narrow life, so long, so endlessly long—would nothing ever end it? Nine years since Morton went away! Nine years since the strange, invading thrill of her first kiss! Back of that was only childhood; these years really constituted Life; and Life, in the girl's eyes, was a dreary treadmill93.
She was externally quiet, and by conscience dutiful; so dutiful, so quiet, so without powers of expression, that the ache of an unsatisfied heart, the stir of young ambitions, were wholly unsuspected by those about her. A studious, earnest, thoughtful girl—but study alone does not supply life's needs, nor does such friendship as her life afforded.
Susie was "a dear"—Susie was Morton's sister, and she was very fond of her. But that bright-haired child did not understand—could not understand—all that she needed.
Then came Mrs. St. Cloud into her life, stirring the depths of romance, of the buried past, and of the unborn future. From her she learned to face a life of utter renunciation, to be true, true to her ideals, true to her principles, true to the past, to be patient; and to wait.
So strengthened, she had turned a deaf ear to such possible voice of admiration94 as might have come from the scant95 membership of the Young Men's Bible Class, leav59ing them the more devoted96 to Scripture97 study. There was no thin ring to turn upon her finger; but, for lack of better token, she had saved the rose she wore upon her breast that night, keeping it hidden among her precious things.
And then, into the gray, flat current of her daily life, sharply across the trend of Mrs. St. Cloud's soft influence, had come a new force—Dr. Bellair.
Vivian liked her, yet felt afraid, a slight, shivering hesitancy as before a too cold bath, a subtle sense that this breezy woman, strong, cheerful, full of new ideas, if not ideals, and radiating actual power, power used and enjoyed, might in some way change the movement of her life.
Slowly she followed the long garden path, paused lingeringly by that rough garden seat, went through and closed the gate.
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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amends
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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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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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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21
excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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fluffily
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| 空洞的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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40
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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41
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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42
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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44
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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wheezingly
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| adv.哮喘地，喘息地 | |
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46
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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shovelful
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| n．一铁铲 | |
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48
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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51
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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sociologist
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| n.研究社会学的人，社会学家 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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76
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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77
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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78
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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79
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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80
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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81
papyrus
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| n.古以纸草制成之纸 | |
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82
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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83
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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84
crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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85
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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86
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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87
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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88
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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89
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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90
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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93
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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94
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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95
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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98
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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