It relates to my youth, and to Italy: two fine things! (H--- began). I had arrived late in the evening at Florence, and while I finished my bottle of wine at supper, had fancied that, tired traveller though I was, I might pay the city a finer compliment than by going vulgarly to bed. A narrow passage wandered darkly away out of the little square before my hotel, and looked as if it bored into the heart of Florence. I followed it, and at the end of ten minutes emerged upon a great piazza10, filled only with the mild autumn moonlight. Opposite rose the Palazzo Vecchio, like some huge civic11 fortress12, with the great bell-tower springing from its embattled verge13 as a mountain-pine from the edge of a cliff. At its base, in its projected shadow, gleamed certain dim sculptures which I wonderingly approached. One of the images, on the left of the palace door, was a magnificent colossus, shining through the dusky air like a sentinel who has taken the alarm. In a moment I recognised him as Michael Angelo’s David. I turned with a certain relief from his sinister14 strength to a slender figure in bronze, stationed beneath the high light loggia, which opposes the free and elegant span of its arches to the dead masonry15 of the palace; a figure supremely16 shapely and graceful17; gentle, almost, in spite of his holding out with his light nervous arm the snaky head of the slaughtered18 Gorgon19. His name is Perseus, and you may read his story, not in the Greek mythology20, but in the memoirs21 of Benvenuto Cellini. Glancing from one of these fine fellows to the other, I probably uttered some irrepressible commonplace of praise, for, as if provoked by my voice, a man rose from the steps of the loggia, where he had been sitting in the shadow, and addressed me in good English—a small, slim personage, clad in a sort of black velvet22 tunic23 (as it seemed), and with a mass of auburn hair, which gleamed in the moonlight, escaping from a little mediæval birretta. In a tone of the most insinuating24 deference25 he asked me for my “impressions.” He seemed picturesque26, fantastic, slightly unreal. Hovering27 there in this consecrated29 neighbourhood, he might have passed for the genius of æsthetic hospitality—if the genius of æsthetic hospitality were not commonly some shabby little custode, flourishing a calico pocket-handkerchief and openly resentful of the divided franc. This analogy was made none the less complete by the brilliant tirade30 with which he greeted my embarrassed silence.
“I have known Florence long, sir, but I have never known her so lovely as tonight. It’s as if the ghosts of her past were abroad in the empty streets. The present is sleeping; the past hovers31 about us like a dream made visible. Fancy the old Florentines strolling up in couples to pass judgment32 on the last performance of Michael, of Benvenuto! We should come in for a precious lesson if we might overhear what they say. The plainest burgher of them, in his cap and gown, had a taste in the matter! That was the prime of art, sir. The sun stood high in heaven, and his broad and equal blaze made the darkest places bright and the dullest eyes clear. We live in the evening of time! We grope in the gray dusk, carrying each our poor little taper33 of selfish and painful wisdom, holding it up to the great models and to the dim idea, and seeing nothing but overwhelming greatness and dimness. The days of illumination are gone! But do you know I fancy—I fancy”—and he grew suddenly almost familiar in this visionary fervour—“I fancy the light of that time rests upon us here for an hour! I have never seen the David so grand, the Perseus so fair! Even the inferior productions of John of Bologna and of Baccio Bandinelli seem to realise the artist’s dream. I feel as if the moonlit air were charged with the secrets of the masters, and as if, standing34 here in religious attention, we might—we might witness a revelation!” Perceiving at this moment, I suppose, my halting comprehension reflected in my puzzled face, this interesting rhapsodist paused and blushed. Then with a melancholy35 smile, “You think me a moonstruck charlatan36, I suppose. It’s not my habit to bang about the piazza and pounce37 upon innocent tourists. But tonight, I confess, I am under the charm. And then, somehow, I fancied you too were an artist!”
“I am not an artist, I am sorry to say, as you must understand the term. But pray make no apologies. I am also under the charm; your eloquent38 remarks have only deepened it.”
“If you are not an artist you are worthy39 to be one!” he rejoined, with an expressive40 smile. “A young man who arrives at Florence late in the evening, and, instead of going prosaically41 to bed, or hanging over the traveller’s book at his hotel, walks forth42 without loss of time to pay his devoirs to the beautiful, is a young man after my own heart!”
The mystery was suddenly solved; my friend was an American! He must have been, to take the picturesque so prodigiously43 to heart. “None the less so, I trust,” I answered, “if the young man is a sordid44 New Yorker.”
For a moment I was alarmed. Was this midnight reverie mere47 Yankee enterprise, and was he simply a desperate brother of the brush who had posted himself here to extort48 an “order” from a sauntering tourist? But I was not called to defend myself. A great brazen49 note broke suddenly from the far-off summit of the bell-tower above us, and sounded the first stroke of midnight. My companion started, apologised for detaining me, and prepared to retire. But he seemed to offer so lively a promise of further entertainment that I was indisposed to part with him, and suggested that we should stroll homeward together. He cordially assented50; so we turned out of the Piazza, passed down before the statued arcade51 of the Uffizi, and came out upon the Arno. What course we took I hardly remember, but we roamed slowly about for an hour, my companion delivering by snatches a sort of moon-touched æsthetic lecture. I listened in puzzled fascination52, and wondered who the deuce he was. He confessed with a melancholy but all-respectful head-shake to his American origin.
“We are the disinherited of Art!” he cried. “We are condemned53 to be superficial! We are excluded from the magic circle. The soil of American perception is a poor little barren artificial deposit. Yes! we are wedded54 to imperfection. An American, to excel, has just ten times as much to learn as a European. We lack the deeper sense. We have neither taste, nor tact55, nor power. How should we have them? Our crude and garish56 climate, our silent past, our deafening57 present, the constant pressure about us of unlovely circumstance, are as void of all that nourishes and prompts and inspires the artist, as my sad heart is void of bitterness in saying so! We poor aspirants58 must live in perpetual exile.”
“You seem fairly at home in exile,” I answered, “and Florence seems to me a very pretty Siberia. But do you know my own thought? Nothing is so idle as to talk about our want of a nutritive soil, of opportunity, of inspiration, and all the rest of it. The worthy part is to do something fine! There is no law in our glorious Constitution against that. Invent, create, achieve! No matter if you have to study fifty times as much as one of these! What else are you an artist for? Be you our Moses,” I added, laughing, and laying my hand on his shoulder, “and lead us out of the house of bondage59!”
“Golden words—golden words, young man!” he cried, with a tender smile. “‘Invent, create, achieve!’ Yes, that’s our business; I know it well. Don’t take me, in Heaven’s name, for one of your barren complainers—impotent cynics who have neither talent nor faith! I am at work!”—and he glanced about him and lowered his voice as if this were a quite peculiar60 secret—“I’m at work night and day. I have undertaken a creation! I am no Moses; I am only a poor patient artist; but it would be a fine thing if I were to cause some slender stream of beauty to flow in our thirsty land! Don’t think me a monster of conceit,” he went on, as he saw me smile at the avidity with which he adopted my illustration; “I confess that I am in one of those moods when great things seem possible! This is one of my nervous nights—I dream waking! When the south wind blows over Florence at midnight it seems to coax61 the soul from all the fair things locked away in her churches and galleries; it comes into my own little studio with the moonlight, and sets my heart beating too deeply for rest. You see I am always adding a thought to my conception! This evening I felt that I couldn’t sleep unless I had communed with the genius of Buonarotti!”
He seemed deeply versed62 in local history and tradition, and he expatiated64 con28 amore on the charms of Florence. I gathered that he was an old resident, and that he had taken the lovely city into his heart. “I owe her everything,” he declared. “It’s only since I came here that I have really lived, intellectually. One by one, all profane65 desires, all mere worldly aims, have dropped away from me, and left me nothing but my pencil, my little note-book” (and he tapped his breast-pocket), “and the worship of the pure masters—those who were pure because they were innocent, and those who were pure because they were strong!”
“And have you been very productive all this time?” I asked sympathetically.
He was silent a while before replying. “Not in the vulgar sense!” he said at last. “I have chosen never to manifest myself by imperfection. The good in every performance I have re-absorbed into the generative force of new creations; the bad—there is always plenty of that—I have religiously destroyed. I may say, with some satisfaction, that I have not added a mite66 to the rubbish of the world. As a proof of my conscientiousness”—and he stopped short, and eyed me with extraordinary candour, as if the proof were to be overwhelming—“I have never sold a picture! ‘At least no merchant traffics in my heart!’ Do you remember that divine line in Browning? My little studio has never been profaned67 by superficial, feverish68, mercenary work. It’s a temple of labour, but of leisure! Art is long. If we work for ourselves, of course we must hurry. If we work for her, we must often pause. She can wait!”
This had brought us to my hotel door, somewhat to my relief, I confess, for I had begun to feel unequal to the society of a genius of this heroic strain. I left him, however, not without expressing a friendly hope that we should meet again. The next morning my curiosity had not abated69; I was anxious to see him by common daylight. I counted upon meeting him in one of the many pictorial70 haunts of Florence, and I was gratified without delay. I found him in the course of the morning in the Tribune of the Uffizi—that little treasure-chamber of world-famous things. He had turned his back on the Venus de’ Medici, and with his arms resting on the rail-mug which protects the pictures, and his head buried in his hands, he was lost in the contemplation of that superb triptych of Andrea Mantegna—a work which has neither the material splendour nor the commanding force of some of its neighbours, but which, glowing there with the loveliness of patient labour, suits possibly a more constant need of the soul. I looked at the picture for some time over his shoulder; at last, with a heavy sigh, he turned away and our eyes met. As he recognised me a deep blush rose to his face; he fancied, perhaps, that he had made a fool of himself overnight. But I offered him my hand with a friendliness71 which assured him I was not a scoffer72. I knew him by his ardent73 chevelure; otherwise he was much altered. His midnight mood was over, and he looked as haggard as an actor by daylight. He was far older than I had supposed, and he had less bravery of costume and gesture. He seemed the quiet, poor, patient artist he had proclaimed himself, and the fact that he had never sold a picture was more obvious than glorious. His velvet coat was threadbare, and his short slouched hat, of an antique pattern, revealed a rustiness74 which marked it an “original,” and not one of the picturesque reproductions which brethren of his craft affect. His eye was mild and heavy, and his expression singularly gentle and acquiescent75; the more so for a certain pallid76 leanness of visage, which I hardly knew whether to refer to the consuming fire of genius or to a meagre diet. A very little talk, however, cleared his brow and brought back his eloquence77.
“And this is your first visit to these enchanted78 halls?” he cried. “Happy, thrice happy youth!” And taking me by the arm, he prepared to lead me to each of the pre-eminent80 works in turn and show me the cream of the gallery. But before we left the Mantegna he pressed my arm and gave it a loving look. “He was not in a hurry,” he murmured. “He knew nothing of ‘raw Haste, half-sister to Delay!’” How sound a critic my friend was I am unable to say, but he was an extremely amusing one; overflowing83 with opinions, theories, and sympathies, with disquisition and gossip and anecdote84. He was a shade too sentimental85 for my own sympathies, and I fancied he was rather too fond of superfine discriminations and of discovering subtle intentions in shallow places. At moments, too, he plunged86 into the sea of metaphysics, and floundered a while in waters too deep for intellectual security. But his abounding87 knowledge and happy judgment told a touching88 story of long attentive89 hours in this worshipful company; there was a reproach to my wasteful90 saunterings in so devoted91 a culture of opportunity. “There are two moods,” I remember his saying, “in which we may walk through galleries—the critical and the ideal. They seize us at their pleasure, and we can never tell which is to take its turn. The critical mood, oddly, is the genial92 one, the friendly, the condescending93. It relishes94 the pretty trivialities of art, its vulgar cleverness, its conscious graces. It has a kindly96 greeting for anything which looks as if, according to his light, the painter had enjoyed doing it—for the little Dutch cabbages and kettles, for the taper fingers and breezy mantles97 of late-coming Madonnas, for the little blue-hilled, pastoral, sceptical Italian landscapes. Then there are the days of fierce, fastidious longing—solemn church feasts of the intellect—when all vulgar effort and all petty success is a weariness, and everything but the best—the best of the best—disgusts. In these hours we are relentless98 aristocrats99 of taste. We will not take Michael Angelo for granted, we will not swallow Raphael whole!”
The gallery of the Uffizi is not only rich in its possessions, but peculiarly fortunate in that fine architectural accident, as one may call it, which unites it—with the breadth of river and city between them—to those princely chambers100 of the Pitti Palace. The Louvre and the Vatican hardly give you such a sense of sustained inclosure as those long passages projected over street and stream to establish a sort of inviolate101 transition between the two palaces of art. We passed along the gallery in which those precious drawings by eminent hands hang chaste102 and gray above the swirl103 and murmur81 of the yellow Arno, and reached the ducal saloons of the Pitti. Ducal as they are, it must be confessed that they are imperfect as show-rooms, and that, with their deep-set windows and their massive mouldings, it is rather a broken light that reaches the pictured walls. But here the masterpieces hang thick, and you seem to see them in a luminous104 atmosphere of their own. And the great saloons, with their superb dim ceilings, their outer wall in splendid shadow, and the sombre opposite glow of mellow105 canvas and dusky gilding106, make, themselves, almost as fine a picture as the Titians and Raphaels they imperfectly reveal. We lingered briefly107 before many a Raphael and Titian; but I saw my friend was impatient, and I suffered him at last to lead me directly to the goal of our journey—the most tenderly fair of Raphael’s virgins108, the Madonna in the Chair. Of all the fine pictures of the world, it seemed to me this is the one with which criticism has least to do. None betrays less effort, less of the mechanism110 of success and of the irrepressible discord111 between conception and result, which shows dimly in so many consummate112 works. Graceful, human, near to our sympathies as it is, it has nothing of manner, of method, nothing, almost, of style; it blooms there in rounded softness, as instinct with harmony as if it were an immediate4 exhalation of genius. The figure melts away the spectator’s mind into a sort of passionate113 tenderness which he knows not whether he has given to heavenly purity or to earthly charm. He is intoxicated114 with the fragrance115 of the tenderest blossom of maternity116 that ever bloomed on earth.
“That’s what I call a fine picture,” said my companion, after we had gazed a while in silence. “I have a right to say so, for I have copied it so often and so carefully that I could repeat it now with my eyes shut. Other works are of Raphael: this is Raphael himself. Others you can praise, you can qualify, you can measure, explain, account for: this you can only love and admire. I don’t know in what seeming he walked among men while this divine mood was upon him; but after it, surely, he could do nothing but die; this world had nothing more to teach him. Think of it a while, my friend, and you will admit that I am not raving117. Think of his seeing that spotless image, not for a moment, for a day, in a happy dream, or a restless fever-fit; not as a poet in a five minutes’ frenzy—time to snatch his phrase and scribble118 his immortal119 stanza120; but for days together, while the slow labour of the brush went on, while the foul121 vapours of life interposed, and the fancy ached with tension, fixed122, radiant, distinct, as we see it now! What a master, certainly! But ah! what a seer!”
“Don’t you imagine,” I answered, “that he had a model, and that some pretty young woman—”
“As pretty a young woman as you please! It doesn’t diminish the miracle! He took his hint, of course, and the young woman, possibly, sat smiling before his canvas. But, meanwhile, the painter’s idea had taken wings. No lovely human outline could charm it to vulgar fact. He saw the fair form made perfect; he rose to the vision without tremor123, without effort of wing; he communed with it face to face, and resolved into finer and lovelier truth the purity which completes it as the fragrance completes the rose. That’s what they call idealism; the word’s vastly abused, but the thing is good. It’s my own creed124, at any rate. Lovely Madonna, model at once and muse125, I call you to witness that I too am an idealist!”
“An idealist, then,” I said, half jocosely126, wishing to provoke him to further utterance127, “is a gentleman who says to Nature in the person of a beautiful girl, ‘Go to, you are all wrong! Your fine is coarse, your bright is dim, your grace is gaucherie. This is the way you should have done it!’ Is not the chance against him?”
He turned upon me almost angrily, but perceiving the genial savour of my sarcasm128, he smiled gravely. “Look at that picture,” he said, “and cease your irreverent mockery! Idealism is that! There’s no explaining it; one must feel the flame! It says nothing to Nature, or to any beautiful girl, that they will not both forgive! It says to the fair woman, ‘Accept me as your artist friend, lend me your beautiful face, trust me, help me, and your eyes shall be half my masterpiece!’ No one so loves and respects the rich realities of nature as the artist whose imagination caresses130 and flatters them. He knows what a fact may hold (whether Raphael knew, you may judge by his portrait, behind us there, of Tommaso Inghirami); bad his fancy hovers above it, as Ariel hovered131 above the sleeping prince. There is only one Raphael, bad an artist may still be an artist. As I said last night, the days of illumination are gone; visions are rare; we have to look long to see them. But in meditation132 we may still cultivate the ideal; round it, smooth it, perfect it. The result—the result,” (here his voice faltered133 suddenly, and he fixed his eyes for a moment on the picture; when they met my own again they were full of tears)—“the result may be less than this; but still it may be good, it may be great!” he cried with vehemence134. “It may hang somewhere, in after years, in goodly company, and keep the artist’s memory warm. Think of being known to mankind after some such fashion as this! of hanging here through the slow centuries in the gaze of an altered world; living on and on in the cunning of an eye and hand that are part of the dust of ages, a delight and a law to remote generations; making beauty a force and purity an example!”
“Heaven forbid,” I said, smiling, “that I should take the wind out of your sails! But doesn’t it occur to you that, besides being strong in his genius, Raphael was happy in a certain good faith of which we have lost the trick? There are people, I know, who deny that his spotless Madonnas are anything more than pretty blondes of that period enhanced by the Raphaelesque touch, which they declare is a profane touch. Be that as it may, people’s religious and æsthetic needs went arm in arm, and there was, as I may say, a demand for the Blessed Virgin109, visible and adorable, which must have given firmness to the artist’s hand. I am afraid there is no demand now.”
My companion seemed painfully puzzled; he shivered, as it were, in this chilling blast of scepticism. Then shaking his head with sublime135 confidence—“There is always a demand!” he cried; “that ineffable136 type is one of the eternal needs of man’s heart; but pious137 souls long for it in silence, almost in shame. Let it appear, and their faith grows brave. How should it appear in this corrupt138 generation? It cannot be made to order. It could, indeed, when the order came, trumpet-toned, from the lips of the Church herself, and was addressed to genius panting with inspiration. But it can spring now only from the soil of passionate labour and culture. Do you really fancy that while, from time to time, a man of complete artistic139 vision is born into the world, that image can perish? The man who paints it has painted everything. The subject admits of every perfection—form, colour, expression, composition. It can be as simple as you please, and yet as rich; as broad and pure, and yet as full of delicate detail. Think of the chance for flesh in the little naked, nestling child, irradiating divinity; of the chance for drapery in the chaste and ample garment of the mother! think of the great story you compress into that simple theme! Think, above all, of the mother’s face and its ineffable suggestiveness, of the mingled140 burden of joy and trouble, the tenderness turned to worship, and the worship turned to far-seeing pity! Then look at it all in perfect line and lovely colour, breathing truth and beauty and mastery!”
“Anch’ io son pittore!” I cried. “Unless I am mistaken, you have a masterpiece on the stocks. If you put all that in, you will do more than Raphael himself did. Let me know when your picture is finished, and wherever in the wide world I may be, I will post back to Florence and pay my respects to—the Madonna of the future!”
He blushed vividly141 and gave a heavy sigh, half of protest, half of resignation. “I don’t often mention my picture by name. I detest142 this modern custom of premature143 publicity144. A great work needs silence, privacy, mystery even. And then, do you know, people are so cruel, so frivolous145, so unable to imagine a man’s wishing to paint a Madonna at this time of day, that I have been laughed at—laughed at, sir!” and his blush deepened to crimson146. “I don’t know what has prompted me to be so frank and trustful with you. You look as if you wouldn’t laugh at me. My dear young man”—and he laid his hand on my arm—“I am worthy of respect. Whatever my talents may be, I am honest. There is nothing grotesque147 in a pure ambition, or in a life devoted to it.”
There was something so sternly sincere in his look and tone that further questions seemed impertinent. I had repeated opportunity to ask them, however, for after this we spent much time together. Daily for a fortnight, we met by appointment, to see the sights. He knew the city so well, he had strolled and lounged so often through its streets and churches and galleries, he was so deeply versed in its greater and lesser148 memories, so imbued149 with the local genius, that he was an altogether ideal valet de place, and I was glad enough to leave my Murray at home, and gather facts and opinions alike from his gossiping commentary. He talked of Florence like a lover, and admitted that it was a very old affair; he had lost his heart to her at first sight. “It’s the fashion to talk of all cities as feminine,” he said, “but, as a rule, it’s a monstrous150 mistake. Is Florence of the same sex as New York, as Chicago? She is the sole perfect lady of them all; one feels towards her as a lad in his teens feels to some beautiful older woman with a ‘history.’ She fills you with a sort of aspiring151 gallantry.” This disinterested152 passion seemed to stand my friend in stead of the common social ties; he led a lonely life, and cared for nothing but his work. I was duly flattered by his having taken my frivolous self into his favour, and by his generous sacrifice of precious hours to my society. We spent many of these hours among those early paintings in which Florence is so rich, returning ever and anon, with restless sympathies, to wonder whether these tender blossoms of art had not a vital fragrance and savour more precious than the full-fruited knowledge of the later works. We lingered often in the sepulchral153 chapel154 of San Lorenzo, and watched Michael Angelo’s dim-visaged warrior155 sitting there like some awful Genius of Doubt and brooding behind his eternal mask upon the mysteries of life. We stood more than once in the little convent chambers where Fra Angelico wrought156 as if an angel indeed had held his hand, and gathered that sense of scattered157 dews and early bird-notes which makes an hour among his relics158 seem like a morning stroll in some monkish159 garden. We did all this and much more—wandered into dark chapels160, damp courts, and dusty palace-rooms, in quest of lingering hints of fresco161 and lurking162 treasures of carving163.
I was more and more impressed with my companion’s remarkable164 singleness of purpose. Everything was a pretext165 for some wildly idealistic rhapsody or reverie. Nothing could be seen or said that did not lead him sooner or later to a glowing discourse166 on the true, the beautiful, and the good. If my friend was not a genius, he was certainly a monomaniac; and I found as great a fascination in watching the odd lights and shades of his character as if he had been a creature from another planet. He seemed, indeed, to know very little of this one, and lived and moved altogether in his own little province of art. A creature more unsullied by the world it is impossible to conceive, and I often thought it a flaw in his artistic character that he had not a harmless vice167 or two. It amused me greatly at times to think that he was of our shrewd Yankee race; but, after all, there could be no better token of his American origin than this high æsthetic fever. The very heat of his devotion was a sign of conversion169; those born to European opportunity manage better to reconcile enthusiasm with comfort. He had, moreover, all our native mistrust for intellectual discretion170, and our native relish95 for sonorous171 superlatives. As a critic he was very much more generous than just, and his mildest terms of approbation172 were “stupendous,” “transcendent,” and “incomparable.” The small change of admiration173 seemed to him no coin for a gentleman to handle; and yet, frank as he was intellectually, he was personally altogether a mystery. His professions, somehow, were all half-professions, and his allusions175 to his work and circumstances left something dimly ambiguous in the background. He was modest and proud, and never spoke176 of his domestic matters. He was evidently poor; yet he must have had some slender independence, since he could afford to make so merry over the fact that his culture of ideal beauty had never brought him a penny. His poverty, I supposed, was his motive178 for neither inviting179 me to his lodging180 nor mentioning its whereabouts. We met either in some public place or at my hotel, where I entertained him as freely as I might without appearing to be prompted by charity. He seemed always hungry, and this was his nearest approach to human grossness. I made a point of asking no impertinent questions, but, each time we met, I ventured to make some respectful allusion174 to the magnum opus, to inquire, as it were, as to its health and progress. “We are getting on, with the Lord’s help,” he would say, with a grave smile. “We are doing well. You see, I have the grand advantage that I lose no time. These hours I spend with you are pure profit. They are suggestive! Just as the truly religious soul is always at worship, the genuine artist is always in labour. He takes his property wherever he finds it, and learns some precious secret from every object that stands up in the light. If you but knew the rapture7 of observation! I gather with every glance some hint for light, for colour, or relief! When I get home, I pour out my treasures into the lap of toy Madonna. Oh, I am not idle! Nulla dies sine linea.”
I was introduced in Florence to an American lady whose drawing-room had long formed an attractive place of reunion for the foreign residents. She lived on a fourth floor, and she was not rich; but she offered her visitors very good tea, little cakes at option, and conversation not quite to match. Her conversation had mainly an æsthetic flavour, for Mrs. Coventry was famously “artistic.” Her apartment was a sort of Pitti Palace au petit pied. She possessed181 “early masters” by the dozen—a cluster of Peruginos in her dining-room, a Giotto in her boudoir, an Andrea del Sarto over her drawing-room chimney-piece. Surrounded by these treasures, and by innumerable bronzes, mosaics182, majolica dishes, and little worm-eaten diptychs covered with angular saints on gilded183 backgrounds, our hostess enjoyed the dignity of a sort of high-priestess of the arts. She always wore on her bosom184 a huge miniature copy of the Madonna della Seggiola. Gaining her ear quietly one evening, I asked her whether she knew that remarkable man, Mr. Theobald.
“Know him!” she exclaimed; “know poor Theobald! All Florence knows him, his flame-coloured locks, his black velvet coat, his interminable harangues185 on the beautiful, and his wondrous186 Madonna that mortal eye has never seen, and that mortal patience has quite given up expecting.”
“Really,” I cried, “you don’t believe in his Madonna?”
“My dear ingenuous187 youth,” rejoined my shrewd friend, “has he made a convert of you? Well, we all believed in him once; he came down upon Florence and took the town by storm. Another Raphael, at the very least, had been born among men, and the poor dear United States were to have the credit of him. Hadn’t he the very hair of Raphael flowing down on his shoulders? The hair, alas188, but not the head! We swallowed him whole, however; we hung upon his lips and proclaimed his genius on the house-tops. The women were all dying to sit to him for their portraits and be made immortal, like Leonardo’s Joconde. We decided189 that his manner was a good deal like Leonardo’s—mysterious, and inscrutable, and fascinating. Mysterious it certainly was; mystery was the beginning and the end of it. The months passed by, and the miracle hung fire; our master never produced his masterpiece. He passed hours in the galleries and churches, posturing190, musing82, and gazing; he talked more than ever about the beautiful, but he never put brush to canvas. We had all subscribed191, as it were, to the great performance; but as it never came off people began to ask for their money again. I was one of the last of the faithful; I carried devotion so far as to sit to him for my head. If you could have seen the horrible creature he made of me, you would admit that even a woman with no more vanity than will tie her bonnet192 straight must have cooled off then. The man didn’t know the very alphabet of drawing! His strong point, he intimated, was his sentiment; but is it a consolation193, when one has been painted a fright, to know it has been done with peculiar gusto? One by one, I confess, we fell away from the faith, and Mr. Theobald didn’t lift his little finger to preserve us. At the first hint that we were tired of waiting, and that we should like the show to begin, he was off in a huff. ‘Great work requires time, contemplation, privacy, mystery! O ye of little faith!’ We answered that we didn’t insist on a great work; that the five-act tragedy might come at his convenience; that we merely asked for something to keep us from yawning, some inexpensive little lever de rideau. Hereupon the poor man took his stand as a genius misconceived and persecuted194, an âme méconnue, and washed his hands of us from that hour! No, I believe he does me the honour to consider me the head and front of the conspiracy195 formed to nip his glory in the bud—a bud that has taken twenty years to blossom. Ask him if he knows me, and he will tell you I am a horribly ugly old woman, who has vowed196 his destruction because he won’t paint her portrait as a pendant to Titian’s Flora197. I fancy that since then he has had none but chance followers198, innocent strangers like yourself, who have taken him at his word. The mountain is still in labour; I have not heard that the mouse has been born. I pass him once in a while in the galleries, and he fixes his great dark eyes on me with a sublimity199 of indifference200, as if I were a bad copy of a Sassoferrato! It is a long time ago now that I heard that he was making studies for a Madonna who was to be a résumé of all the other Madonnas of the Italian school—like that antique Venus who borrowed a nose from one great image and an ankle from another. It’s certainly a masterly idea. The parts may be fine, but when I think of my unhappy portrait I tremble for the whole. He has communicated this striking idea under the pledge of solemn secrecy201 to fifty chosen spirits, to every one he has ever been able to button-hole for five minutes. I suppose he wants to get an order for it, and he is not to blame; for Heaven knows how he lives. I see by your blush,” my hostess frankly202 continued, “that you have been honoured with his confidence. You needn’t be ashamed, my dear young man; a man of your age is none the worse for a certain generous credulity. Only allow me to give you a word of advice: keep your credulity out of your pockets! Don’t pay for the picture till it’s delivered. You have not been treated to a peep at it, I imagine! No more have your fifty predecessors203 in the faith. There are people who doubt whether there is any picture to be seen. I fancy, myself, that if one were to get into his studio, one would find something very like the picture in that tale of Balzac’s—a mere mass of incoherent scratches and daubs, a jumble204 of dead paint!”
I listened to this pungent205 recital206 in silent wonder. It had a painfully plausible207 sound, and was not inconsistent with certain shy suspicions of my own. My hostess was not only a clever woman, but presumably a generous one. I determined208 to let my judgment wait upon events. Possibly she was right; but if she was wrong, she was cruelly wrong! Her version of my friend’s eccentricities209 made me impatient to see him again and examine him in the light of public opinion. On our next meeting I immediately asked him if he knew Mrs. Coventry. He laid his hand on my arm and gave me a sad smile. “Has she taxed your gallantry at last?” he asked. “She’s a foolish woman. She’s frivolous and heartless, and she pretends to be serious and kind. She prattles210 about Giotto’s second manner and Vittoria Colonna’s liaison211 with ‘Michael’—one would think that Michael lived across the way and was expected in to take a hand at whist—but she knows as little about art, and about the conditions of production, as I know about Buddhism212. She profanes213 sacred words,” he added more vehemently214, after a pause. “She cares for you only as some one to band teacups in that horrible mendacious215 little parlour of hers, with its trumpery216 Peruginos! If you can’t dash off a new picture every three days, and let her hand it round among her guests, she tells them in plain English that you are an impostor!”
This attempt of mine to test Mrs. Coventry’s accuracy was made in the course of a late afternoon walk to the quiet old church of San Miniato, on one of the hill-tops which directly overlook the city, from whose gates you are guided to it by a stony217 and cypress-bordered walk, which seems a very fitting avenue to a shrine218. No spot is more propitious219 to lingering repose220 than the broad terrace in front of the church, where, lounging against the parapet, you may glance in slow alternation from the black and yellow marbles of the church façade, seamed and cracked with time and wind-sown with a tender flora of its own, down to the full domes177 and slender towers of Florence and over to the blue sweep of the wide-mouthed cup of mountains into whose hollow the little treasure city has been dropped. I had proposed, as a diversion from the painful memories evoked221 by Mrs. Coventry’s name, that Theobald should go with me the next evening to the opera, where some rarely-played work was to be given. He declined, as I half expected, for I observed that he regularly kept his evenings in reserve, and never alluded222 to his manner of passing them. “You have reminded me before,” I said, smiling, “of that charming speech of the Florentine painter in Alfred de Musset’s ‘Lorenzaccio’: ‘I do no harm to anyone. I pass my days in my studio, On Sunday I go to the Annunziata or to Santa Mario; the monks224 think I have a voice; they dress me in a white gown and a red cap, and I take a share in the choruses; sometimes I do a little solo: these are the only times I go into public. In the evening, I visit my sweetheart; when the night is fine, we pass it on her balcony.’ I don’t know whether you have a sweetheart, or whether she has a balcony. But if you are so happy, it’s certainly better than trying to find a charm in a third-rate prima donna.”
He made no immediate response, but at last he turned to me solemnly. “Can you look upon a beautiful woman with reverent129 eyes?”
“Really,” I said, “I don’t pretend to be sheepish, but I should be sorry to think I was impudent225.” And I asked him what in the world he meant. When at last I had assured him that I could undertake to temper admiration with respect, he informed me, with an air of religious mystery, that it was in his power to introduce me to the most beautiful woman in Italy—“A beauty with a soul!”
“Upon my word,” I cried, “you are extremely fortunate, and that is a most attractive description.”
“This woman’s beauty,” he went on, “is a lesson, a morality, a poem! It’s my daily study.”
Of course, after this, I lost no time in reminding him of what, before we parted, had taken the shape of a promise. “I feel somehow,” he had said, “as if it were a sort of violation226 of that privacy in which I have always contemplated228 her beauty. This is friendship, my friend. No hint of her existence has ever fallen from my lips. But with too great a familiarity we are apt to lose a sense of the real value of things, and you perhaps will throw some new light upon it and offer a fresher interpretation229.”
We went accordingly by appointment to a certain ancient house in the heart of Florence—the precinct of the Mercato Vecchio—and climbed a dark, steep staircase, to the very summit of the edifice230. Theobald’s beauty seemed as loftily exalted231 above the line of common vision as his artistic ideal was lifted above the usual practice of men. He passed without knocking into the dark vestibule of a small apartment, and, flinging open an inner door, ushered232 me into a small saloon. The room seemed mean and sombre, though I caught a glimpse of white curtains swaying gently at an open window. At a table, near a lamp, sat a woman dressed in black, working at a piece of embroidery233. As Theobald entered she looked up calmly, with a smile; but seeing me she made a movement of surprise, and rose with a kind of stately grace. Theobald stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it, with an indescribable air of immemorial usage. As he bent234 his head she looked at me askance, and I thought she blushed.
“Behold235 the Serafina!” said Theobald, frankly, waving me forward. “This is a friend, and a lover of the arts,” he added, introducing me. I received a smile, a curtsey, and a request to be seated.
The most beautiful woman in Italy was a person of a generous Italian type and of a great simplicity236 of demeanour. Seated again at her lamp, with her embroidery, she seemed to have nothing whatever to say. Theobald, bending towards her in a sort of Platonic237 ecstasy238, asked her a dozen paternally239 tender questions as to her health, her state of mind, her occupations, and the progress of her embroidery, which he examined minutely and summoned me to admire. It was some portion of an ecclesiastical vestment—yellow satin wrought with an elaborate design of silver and gold. She made answer in a full rich voice, but with a brevity which I hesitated whether to attribute to native reserve or to the profane constraint240 of my presence. She had been that morning to confession241; she had also been to market, and had bought a chicken for dinner. She felt very happy; she had nothing to complain of except that the people for whom she was making her vestment, and who furnished her materials, should be willing to put such rotten silver thread into the garment, as one might say, of the Lord. From time to time, as she took her slow stitches, she raised her eyes and covered me with a glance which seemed at first to denote a placid242 curiosity, but in which, as I saw it repeated, I thought I perceived the dim glimmer243 of an attempt to establish an understanding with me at the expense of our companion. Meanwhile, as mindful as possible of Theobald’s injunction of reverence244, I considered the lady’s personal claims to the fine compliment he had paid her.
That she was indeed a beautiful woman I perceived, after recovering from the surprise of finding her without the freshness of youth. Her beauty was of a sort which, in losing youth, loses little of its essential charm, expressed for the most part as it was in form and structure, and, as Theobald would have said, in “composition.” She was broad and ample, low-browed and large-eyed, dark and pale. Her thick brown hair hung low beside her cheek and ear, and seemed to drape her head with a covering as chaste and formal as the veil of a nun223. The poise245 and carriage of her head were admirably free and noble, and they were the more effective that their freedom was at moments discreetly246 corrected by a little sanctimonious247 droop248, which harmonised admirably with the level gaze of her dark and quiet eye. A strong, serene249, physical nature, and the placid temper which comes of no nerves and no troubles, seemed this lady’s comfortable portion. She was dressed in plain dull black, save for a sort of dark blue kerchief which was folded across her bosom and exposed a glimpse of her massive throat. Over this kerchief was suspended a little silver cross. I admired her greatly, and yet with a large reserve. A certain mild intellectual apathy250 belonged properly to her type of beauty, and had always seemed to round and enrich it; but this bourgeoise Egeria, if I viewed her right, betrayed a rather vulgar stagnation251 of mind. There might have been once a dim spiritual light in her face; but it had long since begun to wane252. And furthermore, in plain prose, she was growing stout253. My disappointment amounted very nearly to complete disenchantment when Theobald, as if to facilitate my covert254 inspection255, declaring that the lamp was very dim, and that she would ruin her eyes without more light, rose and fetched a couple of candles from the mantelpiece, which he placed lighted on the table. In this brighter illumination I perceived that our hostess was decidedly an elderly woman. She was neither haggard, nor worn, nor gray; she was simply coarse. The “soul” which Theobald had promised seemed scarcely worth making such a point of; it was no deeper mystery than a sort of matronly mildness of lip and brow. I should have been ready even to declare that that sanctified bend of the head was nothing more than the trick of a person constantly working at embroidery. It occurred to me even that it was a trick of a less innocent sort; for, in spite of the mellow quietude of her wits, this stately needlewoman dropped a hint that she took the situation rather less seriously than her friend. When he rose to light the candles she looked across at me with a quick, intelligent smile, and tapped her forehead with her forefinger256; then, as from a sudden feeling of compassionate257 loyalty258 to poor Theobald, I preserved a blank face, she gave a little shrug259 and resumed her work.
What was the relation of this singular couple? Was he the most ardent of friends or the most reverent of lovers? Did she regard him as an eccentric swain, whose benevolent260 admiration of her beauty she was not ill pleased to humour at this small cost of having him climb into her little parlour and gossip of summer nights? With her decent and sombre dress, her simple gravity, and that fine piece of priestly needlework, she looked like some pious lay-member of a sisterhood, living by special permission outside her convent walls. Or was she maintained here aloft by her friend in comfortable leisure, so that he might have before him the perfect, eternal type, uncorrupted and untarnished by the struggle for existence? Her shapely hands, I observed, wore very fair and white; they lacked the traces of what is called honest toil261.
“And the pictures, how do they come on?” she asked of Theobald, after a long pause.
“Finely, finely! I have here a friend whose sympathy and encouragement give me new faith and ardour.”
Our hostess turned to me, gazed at me a moment rather inscrutably, and then tapping her forehead with the gesture she had used a minute before, “He has a magnificent genius!” she said, with perfect gravity.
“I am inclined to think so,” I answered, with a smile.
“Eh, why do you smile?” she cried. “If you doubt it, you must see the bambino!” And she took the lamp and conducted me to the other side of the room, where on the wall, in a plain black frame, hung a large drawing in red chalk. Beneath it was fastened a little howl for holy water. The drawing represented a very young child, entirely262 naked, half nestling back against his mother’s gown, but with his two little arms outstretched, as if in the act of benediction263. It was executed with singular freedom and power, and yet seemed vivid with the sacred bloom of infancy264. A sort of dimpled elegance265 and grace, mingled with its boldness, recalled the touch of Correggio. “That’s what he can do!” said my hostess. “It’s the blessed little boy whom I lost. It’s his very image, and the Signor Teobaldo gave it me as a gift. He has given me many things besides!”
I looked at the picture for some time and admired it immensely. Turning back to Theobald I assured him that if it were hung among the drawings in the Uffizi and labelled with a glorious name it would hold its own. My praise seemed to give him extreme pleasure; he pressed my hands, and his eyes filled with tears. It moved him apparently with the desire to expatiate63 on the history of the drawing, for he rose and made his adieux to our companion, kissing her band with the same mild ardour as before. It occurred to me that the offer of a similar piece of gallantry on my own part might help me to know what manner of woman she was. When she perceived my intention she withdrew her hand, dropped her eyes solemnly, and made me a severe curtsey. Theobald took my arm and led me rapidly into the street.
“And what do you think of the divine Serafina?” he cried with fervour.
“It is certainly an excellent style of good looks!” I answered.
He eyed me an instant askance, and then seemed hurried along by the current of remembrance. “You should have seen the mother and the child together, seen them as I first saw them—the mother with her head draped in a shawl, a divine trouble in her face, and the bambino pressed to her bosom. You would have said, I think, that Raphael had found his match in common chance. I was coming in, one summer night, from a long walk in the country, when I met this apparition266 at the city gate. The woman held out her hand. I hardly knew whether to say, ‘What do you want?’ or to fall down and worship. She asked for a little money. I saw that she was beautiful and pale; she might have stepped out of the stable of Bethlehem! I gave her money and helped her on her way into the town. I had guessed her story. She, too, was a maiden267 mother, and she had been turned out into the world in her shame. I felt in all my pulses that here was my subject marvellously realised. I felt like one of the old monkish artists who had had a vision. I rescued the poor creatures, cherished them, watched them as I would have done some precious work of art, some lovely fragment of fresco discovered in a mouldering268 cloister269. In a month—as if to deepen and sanctify the sadness and sweetness of it all—the poor little child died. When she felt that he was going she held him up to me for ten minutes, and I made that sketch270. You saw a feverish haste in it, I suppose; I wanted to spare the poor little mortal the pain of his position. After that I doubly valued the mother. She is the simplest, sweetest, most natural creature that ever bloomed in this brave old land of Italy. She lives in the memory of her child, in her gratitude271 for the scanty272 kindness I have been able to show her, and in her simple religion! She is not even conscious of her beauty; my admiration has never made her vain. Heaven knows that I have made no secret of it. You must have observed the singular transparency of her expression, the lovely modesty273 of her glance. And was there ever such a truly virginal brow, such a natural classic elegance in the wave of the hair and the arch of the forehead? I have studied her; I may say I know her. I have absorbed her little by little; my mind is stamped and imbued, and I have determined now to clinch274 the impression; I shall at last invite her to sit for me!”
“‘At last—at last’?” I repeated, in much amazement275. “Do you mean that she has never done so yet?”
“I have not really had—a—a sitting,” said Theobald, speaking very slowly. “I have taken notes, you know; I have got my grand fundamental impression. That’s the great thing! But I have not actually had her as a model, posed and draped and lighted, before my easel.”
What had become for the moment of my perception and my tact I am at a loss to say; in their absence I was unable to repress a headlong exclamation276. I was destined277 to regret it. We had stopped at a turning, beneath a lamp. “My poor friend,” I exclaimed, laying my hand on his shoulder, “you have dawdled278! She’s an old, old woman—for a Madonna!”
It was as if I had brutally279 struck him; I shall never forget the long, slow, almost ghastly look of pain, with which he answered me.
“Why, my dear fellow, I suppose you don’t take her for a woman of twenty?”
He drew a long breath and leaned against a house, looking at me with questioning, protesting, reproachful eyes. At last, starting forward, and grasping my arm—“Answer me solemnly: does she seem to you truly old? Is she wrinkled, is she faded, am I blind?”
Then at last I understood the immensity of his illusion how, one by one, the noiseless years had ebbed281 away and left him brooding in charmed inaction, for ever preparing for a work for ever deferred282. It seemed to me almost a kindness now to tell him the plain truth. “I should be sorry to say you are blind,” I answered, “but I think you are deceived. You have lost time in effortless contemplation. Your friend was once young and fresh and virginal; but, I protest, that was some years ago. Still, she has de beaux restes. By all means make her sit for you!” I broke down; his face was too horribly reproachful.
He took off his hat and stood passing his handkerchief mechanically over his forehead. “De beaux restes? I thank you for sparing me the plain English. I must make up my Madonna out of de beaux restes! What a masterpiece she will be! Old—old! Old—old!” he murmured.
“Never mind her age,” I cried, revolted at what I had done, “never mind my impression of her! You have your memory, your notes, your genius. Finish your picture in a month. I pronounce it beforehand a masterpiece, and I hereby offer you for it any sum you may choose to ask.”
He stared, but he seemed scarcely to understand me. “Old—old!” he kept stupidly repeating. “If she is old, what am I? If her beauty has faded, where—where is my strength? Has life been a dream? Have I worshipped too long—have I loved too well?” The charm, in truth, was broken. That the chord of illusion should have snapped at my light accidental touch showed how it had been weakened by excessive tension. The poor fellow’s sense of wasted time, of vanished opportunity, seemed to roll in upon his soul in waves of darkness. He suddenly dropped his head and burst into tears.
I led him homeward with all possible tenderness, but I attempted neither to check his grief, to restore his equanimity283, nor to unsay the hard truth. When we reached my hotel I tried to induce him to come so.
“We will drink a glass of wine,” I said, smiling, “to the completion of the Madonna.”
With a violent effort he held up his head, mused168 for a moment with a formidably sombre frown, and then giving me his hand, “I will finish it,” he cried, “in a month! No, in a fortnight! After all, I have it here!” And he tapped his forehead. “Of course she’s old! She can afford to have it said of her—a woman who has made twenty years pass like a twelvemonth! Old—old! Why, sir, she shall be eternal!”
I wished to see him safely to his own door, but he waved me back and walked away with an air of resolution, whistling and swinging his cane284. I waited a moment, and then followed him at a distance, and saw him proceed to cross the Santa Trinità Bridge. When he reached the middle he suddenly paused, as if his strength had deserted285 him, and leaned upon the parapet gazing over into the river. I was careful to keep him in sight; I confess that I passed ten very nervous minutes. He recovered himself at last, and went his way, slowly and with hanging head.
That I had really startled poor Theobald into a bolder use of his long-garnered stores of knowledge and taste, into the vulgar effort and hazard of production, seemed at first reason enough for his continued silence and absence; but as day followed day without his either calling or sending me a line, and without my meeting him in his customary haunts, in the galleries, in the Chapel at San Lorenzo, or strolling between the Arno side and the great hedge-screen of verdure which, along the drive of the Cascine, throws the fair occupants of barouche and phaeton into such becoming relief—as for more than a week I got neither tidings nor sight of him, I began to fear that I had fatally offended him, and that, instead of giving a wholesome286 impetus287 to his talent, I had brutally paralysed it. I had a wretched suspicion that I had made him ill. My stay at Florence was drawing to a close, and it was important that, before resuming my journey, I should assure myself of the truth. Theobald, to the last, had kept his lodging a mystery, and I was altogether at a loss where to look for him. The simplest course was to make inquiry288 of the beauty of the Mercato Vecchio, and I confess that unsatisfied curiosity as to the lady herself counselled it as well. Perhaps I had done her injustice289, and she was as immortally290 fresh and fair as be conceived her. I was, at any rate, anxious to behold once more the ripe enchantress who had made twenty years pass as a twelvemonth. I repaired accordingly, one morning, to her abode291, climbed the interminable staircase, and reached her door. It stood ajar, and as I hesitated whether to enter, a little serving-maid came clattering292 out with an empty kettle, as if she had just performed some savoury errand. The inner door, too, was open; so I crossed the little vestibule and entered the room in which I had formerly293 been received. It had not its evening aspect. The table, or one end of it, was spread for a late breakfast, and before it sat a gentleman—an individual, at least, of the male sex—doing execution upon a beefsteak and onions, and a bottle of wine. At his elbow, in friendly proximity294, was placed the lady of the house. Her attitude, as I entered, was not that of an enchantress. With one hand she held in her lap a plate of smoking maccaroni; with the other she had lifted high in air one of the pendulous295 filaments296 of this succulent compound, and was in the act of slipping it gently down her throat. On the uncovered end of the table, facing her companion, were ranged half a dozen small statuettes, of some snuff-coloured substance resembling terra-cotta. He, brandishing297 his knife with ardour, was apparently descanting on their merits.
Evidently I darkened the door. My hostess dropped liner maccaroni—into her mouth, and rose hastily with a harsh exclamation and a flushed face. I immediately perceived that the Signora Serafina’s secret was even better worth knowing than I had supposed, and that the way to learn it was to take it for granted. I summoned my best Italian, I smiled and bowed and apologised for my intrusion; and in a moment, whether or no I had dispelled298 the lady’s irritation299, I had at least stimulated300 her prudence301. I was welcome, she said; I must take a seat. This was another friend of hers—also an artist, she declared with a smile which was almost amiable302. Her companion wiped his moustache and bowed with great civility. I saw at a glance that he was equal to the situation. He was presumably the author of the statuettes on the table, and he knew a money-spending forestiére when he saw one. He was a small wiry man, with a clever, impudent, tossed-up nose, a sharp little black eye, and waxed ends to his moustache. On the side of his head he wore jauntily303 a little crimson velvet smoking-cap, and I observed that his feet were encased in brilliant slippers304. On Serafina’s remarking with dignity that I was the friend of Mr. Theobald, he broke out into that fantastic French of which certain Italians are so insistently305 lavish306, and declared with fervour that Mr. Theobald was a magnificent genius.
“I am sure I don’t know,” I answered with a shrug. “If you are in a position to affirm it, you have the advantage of me. I have seen nothing from his hand but the bambino yonder, which certainly is fine.”
He declared that the bambino was a masterpiece, a pure Corregio. It was only a pity, he added with a knowing laugh, that the sketch had not been made on some good bit of honeycombed old panel. The stately Serafina hereupon protested that Mr. Theobald was the soul of honour, and that he would never lend himself to a deceit. “I am not a judge of genius,” she said, “and I know nothing of pictures. I am but a poor simple widow; but I know that the Signor Teobaldo has the heart of an angel and the virtue307 of a saint. He is my benefactor,” she added sententiously. The after-glow of the somewhat sinister flush with which she had greeted me still lingered in her cheek, and perhaps did not favour her beauty; I could not but fancy it a wise custom of Theobald’s to visit her only by candle-light. She was coarse, and her pour adorer was a poet.
“I have the greatest esteem308 for him,” I said; “it is for this reason that I have been uneasy at not seeing him for ten days. Have you seen him? Is he perhaps ill?”
“Ill! Heaven forbid!” cried Serafina, with genuine vehemence.
Her companion uttered a rapid expletive, and reproached her with not having been to see him. She hesitated a moment; then she simpered the least bit and bridled309. “He comes to see me—without reproach! But it would not be the same for me to go to him, though, indeed, you may almost call him a man of holy life.”
“He has the greatest admiration for you,” I said. “He would have been honoured by your visit.”
She looked at me a moment sharply. “More admiration than you. Admit that!” Of course I protested with all the eloquence at my command, and my mysterious hostess then confessed that she had taken no fancy to me on my former visit, and that, Theobald not having returned, she believed I had poisoned his mind against her. “It would be no kindness to the poor gentleman, I can tell you that,” she said. “He has come to see me every evening for years. It’s a long friendship! No one knows him as well as I.”
“I don’t pretend to know him or to understand him,” I said. “He’s a mystery! Nevertheless, he seems to me a little—” And I touched my forehead and waved my hand in the air.
Serafina glanced at her companion a moment, as if for inspiration. He contented310 himself with shrugging his shoulders as he filled his glass again. The padrona hereupon gave me a more softly insinuating smile than would have seemed likely to bloom on so candid311 a brow. “It’s for that that I love him!” she said. “The world has so little kindness for such persons. It laughs at them, and despises them, and cheats them. He is too good for this wicked life! It’s his fancy that he finds a little Paradise up here in my poor apartment. If he thinks so, how can I help it? He has a strange belief—really, I ought to be ashamed to tell you—that I resemble the Blessed Virgin: Heaven forgive me! I let him think what he pleases, so long as it makes him happy. He was very kind to me once, and I am not one that forgets a favour. So I receive him every evening civilly, and ask after his health, and let him look at me on this side and that! For that matter, I may say it without vanity, I was worth looking at once! And he’s not always amusing, poor man! He sits sometimes for an hour without speaking a word, or else he talks away, without stopping, on art and nature, and beauty and duty, and fifty fine things that are all so much Latin to me. I beg you to understand that he has never said a word to me that I mightn’t decently listen to. He may be a little cracked, but he’s one of the blessed saints.”
“Eh!” cried the man, “the blessed saints were all a little cracked!”
Serafina, I fancied, left part of her story untold312; but she told enough of it to make poor Theobald’s own statement seem intensely pathetic in its exalted simplicity. “It’s a strange fortune, certainly,” she went on, “to have such a friend as this dear man—a friend who is less than a lover and more than a friend.” I glanced at her companion, who preserved an impenetrable smile, twisted the end of his moustache, and disposed of a copious313 mouthful. Was he less than a lover? “But what will you have?” Serafina pursued. “In this hard world one must not ask too many questions; one must take what comes and keep what one gets. I have kept my good friend for twenty years, and I do hope that, at this time of day, signore, you have not come to turn him against me!”
I assured her that I had no such design, and that I should vastly regret disturbing Mr. Theobald’s habits or convictions. On the contrary, I was alarmed about him, and I should immediately go in search of him. She gave me his address, and a florid account of her sufferings at his non-appearance. She had not been to him for various reasons; chiefly because she was afraid of displeasing314 him, as he had always made such a mystery of his home. “You might have sent this gentleman!” I ventured to suggest.
“Ah,” cried the gentleman, “he admires the Signora Serafina, but he wouldn’t admire me.” And then, confidentially315, with his finger on his nose, “He’s a purist!”
I was about to withdraw, after having promised that I would inform the Signora Serafina of my friend’s condition, when her companion, who had risen from table and girded his loins apparently for the onset316, grasped me gently by the arm, and led me before the row of statuettes. “I perceive by your conversation, signore, that you are a patron of the arts. Allow me to request your honourable317 attention for these modest products of my own ingenuity318. They are brand-new, fresh from my atelier, and have never been exhibited in public. I have brought them here to receive the verdict of this dear lady, who is a good critic, for all she may pretend to the contrary. I am the inventor of this peculiar style of statuette—of subject, manner, material, everything. Touch them, I pray you; handle them freely—you needn’t fear. Delicate as they look, it is impossible they should break! My various creations have met with great success. They are especially admired by Americans. I have sent them all over Europe—to London, Paris, Vienna! You may have observed some little specimens319 in Paris, on the Boulevard, in a shop of which they constitute the specialty320. There is always a crowd about the window. They form a very pleasing ornament321 for the mantel-shelf of a gay young bachelor, for the boudoir of a pretty woman. You couldn’t make a prettier present to a person with whom you wished to exchange a harmless joke. It is not classic art, signore, of course; but, between ourselves, isn’t classic art sometimes rather a bore? Caricature, burlesque322, la charge, as the French say, has hitherto been confined to paper, to the pen and pencil. Now, it has been my inspiration to introduce it into statuary. For this purpose I have invented a peculiar plastic compound which you will permit me not to divulge323. That’s my secret, signore! It’s as light, you perceive, as cork324, and yet as firm as alabaster325! I frankly confess that I really pride myself as much on this little stroke of chemical ingenuity as upon the other element of novelty in my creations—my types. What do you say to my types, signore? The idea is bold; does it strike you as happy? Cats and monkeys—monkeys and cats—all human life is there! Human life, of course, I mean, viewed with the eye of the satirist326! To combine sculpture and satire327, signore, has been my unprecedented328 ambition. I flatter myself that I have not egregiously329 failed.”
As this jaunty330 Juvenal of the chimney-piece delivered himself of his persuasive331 allocution, he took up his little groups successively from the table, held them aloft, turned them about, rapped them with his knuckles332, and gazed at them lovingly, with his head on one side. They consisted each of a cat and a monkey, fantastically draped, in some preposterously333 sentimental conjunction. They exhibited a certain sameness of motive, and illustrated334 chiefly the different phases of what, in delicate terms, may be called gallantry and coquetry; but they were strikingly clever and expressive, and were at once very perfect cats and monkeys and very natural men and women. I confess, however, that they failed to amuse me. I was doubtless not in a mood to enjoy them, for they seemed to me peculiarly cynical335 and vulgar. Their imitative felicity was revolting. As I looked askance at the complacent336 little artist, brandishing them between finger and thumb and caressing337 them with an amorous338 eye, he seemed to me himself little more than an exceptionally intelligent ape. I mustered339 an admiring grin, however, and he blew another blast. “My figures are studied from life! I have a little menagerie of monkeys whose frolics I contemplate227 by the hour. As for the cats, one has only to look out of one’s back window! Since I have begun to examine these expressive little brutes340, I have made many profound observations. Speaking, signore, to a man of imagination, I may say that my little designs are not without a philosophy of their own. Truly, I don’t know whether the cats and monkeys imitate us, or whether it’s we who imitate them.” I congratulated him on his philosophy, and he resumed: “You will do use the honour to admit that I have handled my subjects with delicacy341. Eh, it was needed, signore! I have been free, but not too free—eh? Just a hint, you know! You may see as much or as little as you please. These little groups, however, are no measure of my invention. If you will favour me with a call at my studio, I think that you will admit that my combinations are really infinite. I likewise execute figures to command. You have perhaps some little motive—the fruit of your philosophy of life, signore—which you would like to have interpreted. I can promise to work it up to your satisfaction; it shall be as malicious342 as you please! Allow me to present you with my card, and to remind you that my prices are moderate. Only sixty francs for a little group like that. My statuettes are as durable343 as bronze—ære perennius, signore—and, between ourselves, I think they are more amusing!”
As I pocketed his card I glanced at Madonna Serafina, wondering whether she had an eye for contrasts. She had picked up one of the little couples and was tenderly dusting it with a feather broom.
What I had just seen and heard had so deepened my compassionate interest in my deluded344 friend that I took a summary leave, making my way directly to the house designated by this remarkable woman. It was in an obscure corner of the opposite side of the town, and presented a sombre and squalid appearance. An old woman in the doorway345, on my inquiring for Theobald, ushered me in with a mumbled346 blessing347 and an expression of relief at the poor gentleman having a friend. His lodging seemed to consist of a single room at the top of the house. On getting no answer to my knock, I opened the door, supposing that he was absent, so that it gave me a certain shock to find him sitting there helpless and dumb. He was seated near the single window, facing an easel which supported a large canvas. On my entering he looked up at me blankly, without changing his position, which was that of absolute lassitude and dejection, his arms loosely folded, his legs stretched before him, his head hanging on his breast. Advancing into the room I perceived that his face vividly corresponded with his attitude. He was pale, haggard, and unshaven, and his dull and sunken eye gazed at me without a spark of recognition. I had been afraid that he would greet me with fierce reproaches, as the cruelly officious patron who had turned his contentment to bitterness, and I was relieved to find that my appearance awakened348 no visible resentment349. “Don’t you know me?” I asked, as I put out my hand. “Have you already forgotten me?”
He made no response, kept his position stupidly, and left me staring about the room. It spoke most plaintively350 for itself. Shabby, sordid, naked, it contained, beyond the wretched bed, but the scantiest351 provision for personal comfort. It was bedroom at once and studio—a grim ghost of a studio. A few dusty casts and prints on the walls, three or four old canvases turned face inward, and a rusty-looking colour-box, formed, with the easel at the window, the sum of its appurtenances. The place savoured horribly of poverty. Its only wealth was the picture on the easel, presumably the famous Madonna. Averted352 as this was from the door, I was unable to see its face; but at last, sickened by the vacant misery353 of the spot, I passed behind Theobald, eagerly and tenderly. I can hardly say that I was surprised at what I found—a canvas that was a mere dead blank, cracked and discoloured by time. This was his immortal work! Though not surprised, I confess I was powerfully moved, and I think that for five minutes I could not have trusted myself to speak. At last my silent nearness affected354 him; he stirred and turned, and then rose and looked at me with a slowly kindling355 eye. I murmured some kind ineffective nothings about his being ill and needing advice and care, but he seemed absorbed in the effort to recall distinctly what had last passed between us. “You were right,” he said, with a pitiful smile, “I am a dawdler356! I am a failure! I shall do nothing more in this world. You opened my eyes; and, though the truth is bitter, I bear you no grudge357. Amen! I have been sitting here for a week, face to face with the truth, with the past, with my weakness and poverty and nullity. I shall never touch a brush! I believe I have neither eaten nor slept. Look at that canvas!” he went on, as I relieved my emotion in an urgent request that he would come home with me and dine. “That was to have contained my masterpiece! Isn’t it a promising358 foundation? The elements of it are all here.” And he tapped his forehead with that mystic confidence which had marked the gesture before. “If I could only transpose them into some brain that has the hand, the will! Since I have been sitting here taking stock of my intellects, I have come to believe that I have the material for a hundred masterpieces. But my hand is paralysed now, and they will never be painted. I never began! I waited and waited to be worthier359 to begin, and wasted my life in preparation. While I fancied my creation was growing it was dying. I have taken it all too hard! Michael Angelo didn’t, when he went at the Lorenzo! He did his best at a venture, and his venture is immortal. That’s mine!” And he pointed360 with a gesture I shall never forget at the empty canvas. “I suppose we are a genus by ourselves in the providential scheme—we talents that can’t act, that can’t do nor dare! We take it out in talk, in plans and promises, in study, in visions! But our visions, let me tell you,” he cried, with a toss of his head, “have a way of being brilliant, and a man has not lived in vain who has seen the things I have seen! Of course you will not believe in them when that bit of worm-eaten cloth is all I have to show for them; but to convince you, to enchant79 and astound361 the world, I need only the hand of Raphael. His brain I already have. A pity, you will say, that I haven’t his modesty! Ah, let me boast and babble362 now; it’s all I have left! I am the half of a genius! Where in the wide world is my other half? Lodged363 perhaps in the vulgar soul, the cunning, ready fingers of some dull copyist or some trivial artisan, who turns out by the dozen his easy prodigies364 of touch! But it’s not for me to sneer365 at him; he at least does something. He’s not a dawdler! Well for me if I had been vulgar and clever and reckless, if I could have shut my eyes and taken my leap.”
What to say to the poor fellow, what to do for him, seemed hard to determine; I chiefly felt that I must break the spell of his present inaction, and remove him from the haunted atmosphere of the little room it was such a cruel irony366 to call a studio. I cannot say I persuaded him to come out with me; he simply suffered himself to be led, and when we began to walk in the open air I was able to appreciate his pitifully weakened condition. Nevertheless, he seemed in a certain way to revive, and murmured at last that he should like to go to the Pitti Gallery. I shall never forget our melancholy stroll through those gorgeous halls, every picture on whose walls seemed, even to my own sympathetic vision, to glow with a sort of insolent367 renewal368 of strength and lustre369. The eyes and lips of the great portraits appeared to smile in ineffable scorn of the dejected pretender who had dreamed of competing with their triumphant370 authors; the celestial371 candour, even, of the Madonna of the Chair, as we paused in perfect silence before her, was tinged372 with the sinister irony of the women of Leonardo. Perfect silence, indeed, marked our whole progress—the silence of a deep farewell; for I felt in all my pulses, as Theobald, leaning on my arm, dragged one heavy foot after the other, that he was looking his last. When we came out he was so exhausted373 that instead of taking him to my hotel to dine, I called a carriage and drove him straight to his own poor lodging. He had sunk into an extraordinary lethargy; he lay back in the carriage, with his eyes closed, as pale as death, his faint breathing interrupted at intervals374 by a sudden gasp375, like a smothered376 sob377 or a vain attempt to speak. With the help of the old woman who had admitted me before, and who emerged from a dark back court, I contrived378 to lead him up the long steep staircase and lay him on his wretched bed. To her I gave him in charge, while I prepared in all haste to seek a physician. But she followed me out of the room with a pitiful clasping of her hands.
“Poor, dear, blessed gentleman,” she murmured; “is he dying?”
“Possibly. How long has he been thus?”
“Since a certain night he passed ten days ago. I came up in the morning to make his poor bed, and found him sitting up in his clothes before that great canvas he keeps there. Poor, dear, strange man, he says his prayers to it! He had not been to bed, nor since then, properly! What has happened to him? Has he found out about the Serafina?” she whispered, with a glittering eye and a toothless grin.
“Prove at least that one old woman can be faithful,” I said, “and watch him well till I come back.” My return was delayed, through the absence of the English physician, who was away on a round of visits, and whom I vainly pursued from house to house before I overtook him. I brought him to Theobald’s bedside none too soon. A violent fever had seized our patient, and the case was evidently grave. A couple of hours later I knew that he had brain fever. From this moment I was with him constantly; but I am far from wishing to describe his illness. Excessively painful to witness, it was happily brief. Life burned out in delirium379. One night in particular that I passed at his pillow, listening to his wild snatches of regret, of aspiration380, of rapture and awe381 at the phantasmal pictures with which his brain seemed to swarm382, comes back to my memory now like some stray page from a lost masterpiece of tragedy. Before a week was over we had buried him in the little Protestant cemetery383 on the way to Fiesole. The Signora Serafina, whom I had caused to be informed of his illness, had come in person, I was told, to inquire about its progress; but she was absent from his funeral, which was attended by but a scanty concourse of mourners. Half a dozen old Florentine sojourners, in spite of the prolonged estrangement384 which had preceded his death, had felt the kindly impulse to honour his grave. Among them was my friend Mrs. Coventry, whom I found, on my departure, waiting in her carriage at the gate of the cemetery.
“Well,” she said, relieving at last with a significant smile the solemnity of our immediate greeting, “and the great Madonna? Have you seen her, after all?”
“And why not, pray?”
“My dear Mrs. Coventry, you would not understand her!”
“Upon my word, you are polite.”
“Excuse me; I am sad and vexed386 and bitter.” And with reprehensible387 rudeness I marched away. I was excessively impatient to leave Florence; my friend’s dark spirit seemed diffused388 through all things. I had packed my trunk to start for Rome that night, and meanwhile, to beguile389 my unrest, I aimlessly paced the streets. Chance led me at last to the church of San Lorenzo. Remembering poor Theobald’s phrase about Michael Angelo—“He did his best at a venture”—I went in and turned my steps to the chapel of the tombs. Viewing in sadness the sadness of its immortal treasures, I fancied, while I stood there, that they needed no ampler commentary than these simple words. As I passed through the church again to leave it, a woman, turning away from one of the side altars, met me face to face. The black shawl depending from her head draped picturesquely390 the handsome visage of Madonna Serafina. She stopped as she recognised me, and I saw that she wished to speak. Her eye was bright, and her ample bosom heaved in a way that seemed to portend391 a certain sharpness of reproach. But the expression of my own face, apparently, drew the sting from her resentment, and she addressed me in a tone in which bitterness was tempered by a sort of dogged resignation. “I know it was you, now, that separated us,” she said. “It was a pity he ever brought you to see me! Of course, you couldn’t think of me as he did. Well, the Lord gave him, the Lord has taken him. I have just paid for a nine days’ mass for his soul. And I can tell you this, signore—I never deceived him. Who put it into his head that I was made to live on holy thoughts and fine phrases? It was his own fancy, and it pleased him to think so.—Did he suffer much?” she added more softly, after a pause.
“His sufferings were great, but they were short.”
“And did he speak of me?” She had hesitated and dropped her eyes; she raised them with her question, and revealed in their sombre stillness a gleam of feminine confidence which, for the moment, revived and illumined her beauty. Poor Theobald! Whatever name he had given his passion, it was still her fine eyes that had charmed him.
“Be contented, madam,” I answered, gravely.
She dropped her eyes again and was silent. Then exhaling392 a full rich sigh, as she gathered her shawl together—“He was a magnificent genius!”
I bowed, and we separated.
Passing through a narrow side street on my way back to my hotel, I perceived above a doorway a sign which it seemed to me I had read before. I suddenly remembered that it was identical with the superscription of a card that I had carried for an hour in my waistcoat pocket. On the threshold stood the ingenious artist whose claims to public favour were thus distinctly signalised, smoking a pipe in the evening air, and giving the finishing polish with a bit of rag to one of his inimitable “combinations.” I caught the expressive curl of a couple of tails. He recognised me, removed his little red cap with a most obsequious393 bow, and motioned me to enter his studio. I returned his salute394 and passed on, vexed with the apparition. For a week afterwards, whenever I was seized among the ruins of triumphant Rome with some peculiarly poignant395 memory of Theobald’s transcendent illusions and deplorable failure, I seemed to hear a fantastic, impertinent murmur, “Cats and monkeys, monkeys and cats; all human life there!”
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1
afflatus
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n.灵感,神感 | |
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2
apparently
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adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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3
meditative
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adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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immediate
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adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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5
engrossed
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adj.全神贯注的 | |
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raptures
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极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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rapture
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n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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8
rustling
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n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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9
catastrophe
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n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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10
piazza
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n.广场;走廊 | |
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11
civic
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adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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12
fortress
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n.堡垒,防御工事 | |
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13
verge
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n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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14
sinister
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adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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15
masonry
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n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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16
supremely
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adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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17
graceful
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adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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18
slaughtered
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v.屠杀,杀戮,屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
gorgon
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n.丑陋女人,蛇发女怪 | |
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20
mythology
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n.神话,神话学,神话集 | |
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21
memoirs
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n.回忆录;回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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22
velvet
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n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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23
tunic
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n.束腰外衣 | |
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24
insinuating
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adj.曲意巴结的,暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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25
deference
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n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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26
picturesque
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adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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27
hovering
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鸟( hover的现在分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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con
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n.反对的观点,反对者,反对票,肺病;vt.精读,学习,默记;adv.反对地,从反面;adj.欺诈的 | |
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29
consecrated
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adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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30
tirade
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n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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31
hovers
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鸟( hover的第三人称单数 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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32
judgment
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n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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33
taper
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n.小蜡烛,尖细,渐弱;adj.尖细的;v.逐渐变小 | |
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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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35
melancholy
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n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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charlatan
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n.骗子;江湖医生;假内行 | |
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pounce
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n.猛扑;v.猛扑,突然袭击,欣然同意 | |
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eloquent
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adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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expressive
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adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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41
prosaically
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adv.无聊地;乏味地;散文式地;平凡地 | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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prodigiously
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adv.异常地,惊人地,巨大地 | |
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sordid
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adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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munificent
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adj.慷慨的,大方的 | |
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urbanely
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adv.都市化地,彬彬有礼地,温文尔雅地 | |
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mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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extort
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v.勒索,敲诈,强要 | |
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49
brazen
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adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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50
assented
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同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
arcade
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n.拱廊;(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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52
fascination
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n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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53
condemned
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adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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54
wedded
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adj.正式结婚的;渴望…的,执著于…的v.嫁,娶,(与…)结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
tact
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n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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56
garish
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adj.华丽而俗气的,华而不实的 | |
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57
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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58
aspirants
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n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的,有抱负的,追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 );有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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59
bondage
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n.奴役,束缚 | |
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60
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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61
coax
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v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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62
versed
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adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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63
expatiate
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v.细说,详述 | |
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64
expatiated
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v.详述,细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
profane
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adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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66
mite
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n.极小的东西;小铜币 | |
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67
profaned
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v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 );亵渎,玷污 | |
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68
feverish
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adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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69
abated
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减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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70
pictorial
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adj.绘画的;图片的;n.画报 | |
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71
friendliness
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n.友谊,亲切,亲密 | |
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72
scoffer
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嘲笑者 | |
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73
ardent
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adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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74
rustiness
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生锈,声音沙哑; 荒疏; 锈蚀 | |
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75
acquiescent
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adj.默许的,默认的 | |
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76
pallid
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adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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77
eloquence
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n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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78
enchanted
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adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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79
enchant
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vt.使陶醉,使入迷;使着魔,用妖术迷惑 | |
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80
eminent
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adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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81
murmur
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n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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82
musing
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n. 沉思,冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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83
overflowing
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n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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84
anecdote
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n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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85
sentimental
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adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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86
plunged
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v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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87
abounding
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adj.丰富的,大量的v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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88
touching
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adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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89
attentive
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adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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90
wasteful
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adj.(造成)浪费的,挥霍的 | |
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91
devoted
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adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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92
genial
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adj.亲切的,和蔼的,愉快的,脾气好的 | |
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93
condescending
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adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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94
relishes
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n.滋味( relish的名词复数 );乐趣;(大量的)享受;快乐v.欣赏( relish的第三人称单数 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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95
relish
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n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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96
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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97
mantles
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vt.&vi.覆盖(mantle的第三人称单数形式) | |
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98
relentless
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adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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99
aristocrats
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n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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100
chambers
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n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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101
inviolate
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adj.未亵渎的,未受侵犯的 | |
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102
chaste
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adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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103
swirl
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v.(使)打漩,(使)涡卷;n.漩涡,螺旋形 | |
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104
luminous
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adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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105
mellow
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adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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106
gilding
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n.贴金箔,镀金 | |
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107
briefly
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adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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108
virgins
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处女,童男( virgin的名词复数 ); 童贞玛利亚(耶稣之母) | |
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109
virgin
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n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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110
mechanism
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n.机械装置;机构,结构 | |
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111
discord
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n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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112
consummate
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adj.完美的;v.成婚;使完美 [反]baffle | |
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113
passionate
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adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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114
intoxicated
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喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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115
fragrance
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n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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116
maternity
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n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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117
raving
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adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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118
scribble
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v.潦草地书写,乱写,滥写;n.潦草的写法,潦草写成的东西,杂文 | |
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119
immortal
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adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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120
stanza
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n.(诗)节,段 | |
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121
foul
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adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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122
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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123
tremor
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n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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124
creed
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n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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125
muse
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n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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126
jocosely
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adv.说玩笑地,诙谐地 | |
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127
utterance
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n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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128
sarcasm
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n.讥讽,讽刺,嘲弄,反话 (adj.sarcastic) | |
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129
reverent
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adj.恭敬的,虔诚的 | |
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130
caresses
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爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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131
hovered
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鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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132
meditation
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n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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133
faltered
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(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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134
vehemence
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n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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135
sublime
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adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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136
ineffable
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adj.无法表达的,不可言喻的 | |
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137
pious
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adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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138
corrupt
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v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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139
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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140
mingled
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混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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141
vividly
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adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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142
detest
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vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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143
premature
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adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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144
publicity
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n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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145
frivolous
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adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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146
crimson
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n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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147
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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148
lesser
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adj.次要的,较小的;adv.较小地,较少地 | |
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149
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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150
monstrous
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adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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151
aspiring
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adj.有志气的;有抱负的;高耸的v.渴望;追求 | |
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152
disinterested
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adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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153
sepulchral
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adj.坟墓的,阴深的 | |
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154
chapel
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n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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155
warrior
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n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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156
wrought
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v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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157
scattered
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adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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158
relics
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[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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159
monkish
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adj.僧侣的,修道士的,禁欲的 | |
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160
chapels
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n.小教堂, (医院、监狱等的)附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 );(在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的)礼拜仪式 | |
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161
fresco
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n.壁画;vt.作壁画于 | |
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162
lurking
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潜在 | |
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163
carving
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n.雕刻品,雕花 | |
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164
remarkable
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adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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165
pretext
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n.借口,托词 | |
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166
discourse
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n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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167
vice
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n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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168
mused
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v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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169
conversion
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n.转化,转换,转变 | |
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170
discretion
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n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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171
sonorous
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adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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172
approbation
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n.称赞;认可 | |
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173
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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174
allusion
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n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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175
allusions
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暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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176
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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177
domes
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n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 );像圆屋顶一样的东西;圆顶体育场 | |
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178
motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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179
inviting
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adj.诱人的,引人注目的 | |
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180
lodging
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n.寄宿,住所;(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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181
possessed
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adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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182
mosaics
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n.马赛克( mosaic的名词复数 );镶嵌;镶嵌工艺;镶嵌图案 | |
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183
gilded
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a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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184
bosom
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n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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185
harangues
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n.高谈阔论的长篇演讲( harangue的名词复数 )v.高谈阔论( harangue的第三人称单数 ) | |
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186
wondrous
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adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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187
ingenuous
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adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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188
alas
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int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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189
decided
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adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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190
posturing
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做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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191
subscribed
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v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 );签署,题词;订阅;同意 | |
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192
bonnet
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n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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193
consolation
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n.安慰,慰问 | |
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194
persecuted
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(尤指宗教或政治信仰的)迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 ); 烦扰,困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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195
conspiracy
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n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
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196
vowed
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起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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197
flora
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n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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198
followers
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追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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199
sublimity
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崇高,庄严,气质高尚 | |
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200
indifference
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n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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201
secrecy
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n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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202
frankly
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adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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203
predecessors
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204
jumble
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vt.使混乱,混杂;n.混乱;杂乱的一堆 | |
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205
pungent
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adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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206
recital
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n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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207
plausible
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adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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208
determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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209
eccentricities
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n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 );反常;怪癖 | |
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210
prattles
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v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话( prattle的第三人称单数 );发出连续而无意义的声音;闲扯;东拉西扯 | |
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211
liaison
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n.联系,(未婚男女间的)暖昧关系,私通 | |
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212
Buddhism
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n.佛教(教义) | |
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213
profanes
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n.不敬(神)的( profane的名词复数 );渎神的;亵渎的;世俗的v.不敬( profane的第三人称单数 );亵渎,玷污 | |
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214
vehemently
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adv. 热烈地 | |
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215
mendacious
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adj.不真的,撒谎的 | |
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216
trumpery
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n.无价值的杂物;adj.(物品)中看不中用的 | |
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217
stony
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adj.石头的,多石头的,冷酷的,无情的 | |
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218
shrine
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n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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219
propitious
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adj.吉利的;顺利的 | |
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220
repose
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v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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221
evoked
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[医]诱发的 | |
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222
alluded
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提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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223
nun
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n.修女,尼姑 | |
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224
monks
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n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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225
impudent
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adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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226
violation
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n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
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227
contemplate
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vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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228
contemplated
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adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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229
interpretation
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n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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230
edifice
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n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿,教室) | |
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231
exalted
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adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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232
ushered
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v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233
embroidery
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n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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234
bent
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n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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235
behold
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v.看,注视,看到 | |
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236
simplicity
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n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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237
platonic
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adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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238
ecstasy
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n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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239
paternally
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adv.父亲似地;父亲一般地 | |
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240
constraint
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n.(on)约束,限制;限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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241
confession
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n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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242
placid
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adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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243
glimmer
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v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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244
reverence
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n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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245
poise
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vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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246
discreetly
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ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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247
sanctimonious
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adj.假装神圣的,假装虔诚的,假装诚实的 | |
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248
droop
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v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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249
serene
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adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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250
apathy
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n.漠不关心,无动于衷;冷淡 | |
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251
stagnation
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n. 停滞 | |
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252
wane
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n.衰微,亏缺,变弱;v.变小,亏缺,呈下弦 | |
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254
covert
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adj.隐藏的;暗地里的 | |
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255
inspection
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n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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256
forefinger
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n.食指 | |
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257
compassionate
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adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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258
loyalty
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n.忠诚,忠心 | |
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259
shrug
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v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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260
benevolent
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adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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261
toil
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vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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262
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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263
benediction
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n.祝福;恩赐 | |
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264
infancy
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n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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265
elegance
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n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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266
apparition
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n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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267
maiden
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n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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268
mouldering
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v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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269
cloister
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n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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270
sketch
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n.草图;梗概;素描;v.素描;概述 | |
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271
gratitude
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adj.感激,感谢 | |
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272
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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273
modesty
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n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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274
clinch
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v.敲弯,钉牢;确定;扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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275
amazement
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n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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276
exclamation
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n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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277
destined
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adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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278
dawdled
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v.混(时间)( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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279
brutally
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adv.残忍地,野蛮地,冷酷无情地 | |
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280
stammered
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v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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281
ebbed
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(指潮水)退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 ); 落; 减少; 衰落 | |
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282
deferred
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adj.延期的,缓召的v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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283
equanimity
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n.沉着,镇定 | |
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284
cane
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n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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285
deserted
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adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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286
wholesome
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adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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287
impetus
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n.推动,促进,刺激;推动力 | |
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288
inquiry
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n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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289
injustice
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n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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290
immortally
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不朽地,永世地,无限地 | |
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291
abode
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n.住处,住所 | |
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292
clattering
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发出咔哒声(clatter的现在分词形式) | |
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293
formerly
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adv.从前,以前 | |
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294
proximity
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n.接近,邻近 | |
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295
pendulous
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adj.下垂的;摆动的 | |
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296
filaments
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n.(电灯泡的)灯丝( filament的名词复数 );丝极;细丝;丝状物 | |
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297
brandishing
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v.挥舞( brandish的现在分词 );炫耀 | |
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298
dispelled
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v.驱散,赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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299
irritation
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n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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300
stimulated
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a.刺激的 | |
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301
prudence
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n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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302
amiable
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adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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303
jauntily
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adv.心满意足地;洋洋得意地;高兴地;活泼地 | |
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304
slippers
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n. 拖鞋 | |
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305
insistently
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ad.坚持地 | |
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306
lavish
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adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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307
virtue
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n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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308
esteem
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n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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309
bridled
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给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 ); 控制; 昂首表示轻蔑(或怨忿等); 动怒,生气 | |
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310
contented
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adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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311
candid
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adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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312
untold
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adj.数不清的,无数的 | |
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313
copious
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adj.丰富的,大量的 | |
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314
displeasing
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不愉快的,令人发火的 | |
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315
confidentially
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ad.秘密地,悄悄地 | |
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316
onset
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n.进攻,袭击,开始,突然开始 | |
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317
honourable
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adj.可敬的;荣誉的,光荣的 | |
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318
ingenuity
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n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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319
specimens
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n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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320
specialty
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n.(speciality)特性,特质;专业,专长 | |
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321
ornament
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v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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322
burlesque
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v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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323
divulge
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v.泄漏(秘密等);宣布,公布 | |
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324
cork
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n.软木,软木塞 | |
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325
alabaster
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adj.雪白的;n.雪花石膏;条纹大理石 | |
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326
satirist
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n.讽刺诗作者,讽刺家,爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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327
satire
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n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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328
unprecedented
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adj.无前例的,新奇的 | |
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329
egregiously
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adv.过份地,卓越地 | |
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330
jaunty
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adj.愉快的,满足的;adv.心满意足地,洋洋得意地;n.心满意足;洋洋得意 | |
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331
persuasive
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adj.有说服力的,能说得使人相信的 | |
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332
knuckles
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n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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333
preposterously
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adv.反常地;荒谬地;荒谬可笑地;不合理地 | |
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334
illustrated
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adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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335
cynical
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adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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336
complacent
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adj.自满的;自鸣得意的 | |
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337
caressing
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爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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338
amorous
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adj.多情的;有关爱情的 | |
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339
mustered
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v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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340
brutes
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兽( brute的名词复数 ); 畜生; 残酷无情的人; 兽性 | |
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341
delicacy
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n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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342
malicious
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adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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343
durable
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adj.持久的,耐久的 | |
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344
deluded
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v.欺骗,哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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345
doorway
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n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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346
mumbled
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含糊地说某事,叽咕,咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347
blessing
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n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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348
awakened
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v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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349
resentment
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n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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350
plaintively
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adv.悲哀地,哀怨地 | |
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351
scantiest
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adj.(大小或数量)不足的,勉强够的( scanty的最高级 ) | |
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352
averted
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防止,避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 ); 转移 | |
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353
misery
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n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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354
affected
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adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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355
kindling
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n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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356
dawdler
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n.游手好闲的人,懒人 | |
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357
grudge
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n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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358
promising
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adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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359
worthier
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应得某事物( worthy的比较级 ); 值得做某事; 可尊敬的; 有(某人或事物)的典型特征 | |
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360
pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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361
astound
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v.使震惊,使大吃一惊 | |
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362
babble
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v.含糊不清地说,胡言乱语地说,儿语 | |
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363
lodged
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v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 );暂住;埋入;(权利、权威等)归属 | |
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364
prodigies
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n.奇才,天才(尤指神童)( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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365
sneer
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v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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366
irony
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n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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367
insolent
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adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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368
renewal
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adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
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369
lustre
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n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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370
triumphant
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adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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371
celestial
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adj.天体的;天上的 | |
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372
tinged
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v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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373
exhausted
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adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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374
intervals
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n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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375
gasp
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n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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376
smothered
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(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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377
sob
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n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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378
contrived
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adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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379
delirium
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n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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380
aspiration
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n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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381
awe
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n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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382
swarm
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n.(昆虫)等一大群;vi.成群飞舞;蜂拥而入 | |
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383
cemetery
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n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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384
estrangement
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n.疏远,失和,不和 | |
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385
bequest
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n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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386
vexed
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adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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387
reprehensible
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adj.该受责备的 | |
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388
diffused
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散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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389
beguile
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vt.欺骗,消遣 | |
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390
picturesquely
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391
portend
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v.预兆,预示;给…以警告 | |
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392
exhaling
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v.呼出,发散出( exhale的现在分词 );吐出(肺中的空气、烟等),呼气 | |
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393
obsequious
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adj.谄媚的,奉承的,顺从的 | |
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394
salute
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vi.行礼,致意,问候,放礼炮;vt.向…致意,迎接,赞扬;n.招呼,敬礼,礼炮 | |
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395
poignant
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adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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