In real life the opera or the theatre is only the prologue1 to the evening. Our little party supped at Delgardo's. The play then begins. New York is quite awake by that time, and ready to amuse itself. After the public duty, the public attitudinizing, after assisting at the artificial comedy and tragedy which imitate life under a mask, and suggest without satisfying, comes the actual experience. My gentle girl--God bless your sweet face and pure heart!--who looked down from the sky-parlor2 at the Metropolitan3 upon the legendary4 splendor5 of the stage, and the alluring6 beauty and wealth of the boxes, and went home to create in dreams the dearest romance in a maiden7's life, you did not know that for many the romance of the night just began when the curtain fell.
The streets were as light as day. At no other hour were the pavements so thronged8, was there such a crush of carriages, such a blockade of cars, such running, and shouting, greetings and decorous laughter, such a swirl10 of pleasurable excitement. Never were the fashionable cafes and restaurants so crowded and brilliant. It is not a carnival11 time; it is just the flow and ebb12 of a night's pleasure, an electric night which has all of the morning except its peace, a night of the gayest opportunity and unlimited13 possibility.
At each little table was a drama in progress, light or serious--all the more serious for being light at the moment and unconsidered. Morgan, who was so well informed in the gossip of society and so little involved in it--some men have this faculty14, which makes them much more entertaining than the daily newspaper--knew the histories of half the people in the room. There were an Italian marquis and his wife supping together like lovers, so strong is the force of habit that makes this public life necessary even when the domestic life is established. There is a man who shot himself rather seriously on the doorsteps of the beauty who rejected him, and in a year married the handsome and more wealthy woman who sits opposite him in that convivial15 party. There is a Russian princess, a fair woman with cool observant eyes, making herself agreeable to a mixed company in three languages. In this brilliant light is it not wonderful how dazzlingly beautiful the women are--brunettes in yellow and diamonds, blondes in elaborately simple toilets, with only a bunch of roses for ornament16, in the flush of the midnight hour, in a radiant glow that even the excitement and the lifted glass cannot heighten? That pretty girl yonder--is she wife or widow?--slight and fresh and fair, they say has an ambition to extend her notoriety by going upon the stage; the young lady with her, who does not seem to fear a public place, may be helping17 her on the road. The two young gentlemen, their attendants, have the air of taking life more seriously than the girls, but regard with respectful interest the mounting vivacity18 of their companions, which rises and sparkles like the bubbles in the slender glasses which they raise to their lips with the dainty grace of practice. The staid family parties who are supping at adjoining tables notice this group with curiosity, and express their opinion by elevated eyebrows19.
Margaret leaned back in her chair and regarded the whole in a musing20' frame of mind. I think she apprehended21 nothing of it except the light, the color, the beauty, the movement of gayety. For her the notes of the orchestra sounded through it all--the voices of the singers, the hum of the house; it was all a spectacle and a play. Why should she not enjoy it? There was something in the nature of the girl that responded to this form of pleasure--the legitimate22 pleasure the senses take in being gratified. "It is so different," she said to me, "from the pleasure one has in an evening by the fire. Do you know, even Mr. Morgan seems worldly here."
It was a deeper matter than she thought, this about worldliness, which had been raised in Margaret's mind. Have we all double natures, and do we simply conform to whatever surrounds us? Is there any difference in kind between the country worldliness and the city worldliness? I do not suppose that Margaret formulated23 any of these ideas in words. Her knowledge of the city had hitherto been superficial. It was a place for shopping, for a day in a picture exhibition, for an evening in the theatre, no more a part of her existence than a novel or a book of travels: of the life of the town she knew nothing. That night in her room she became aware for the first time of another world, restless, fascinating, striving, full of opportunities. What must London be?
If we could only note the first coming into the mind of a thought that changes life and re-forms character--supposing that every act and every new departure has this subtle beginning--we might be less the sport of circumstances than we seem to be. Unnoted, the desire so swiftly follows the thought and juggles25 with the will.
The next day Mr. Henderson left his card and a basket of roses. Mr. Lyon called. It was a constrained26 visit. Margaret was cordially civil, and I fancied that Mr. Lyon would have been more content if she had been less so. If he were a lover, there was little to please him in the exchange of the commonplaces of the day.
"Yes," he was saying to my wife, "perhaps I shall have to change my mind about the simplicity27 of your American life. It is much the same in New York and London. It is only a question of more or less sophistication."
"Mr. Henderson tells us," said my wife, "that you knew the Eschelles in London."
"Yes. Miss Eschelle almost had a career there last season."
"Why almost?"
"Well--you will pardon me--one needs for success in these days to be not only very clever, but equally daring. It is every day more difficult to make a sensation."
"I thought her, across the house," Margaret said, "very pretty and attractive. I did not know you were so satirical, Mr. Lyon. Do you mean that one must be more daring, as you call it, in London than in New York?"
"I hope it will not hurt your national pride, Miss Debree, if I say that there is always the greater competition in the larger market."
"Oh, my pride," Margaret answered, "does not lie in that direction."
"And to do her justice, I don't think Miss Eschelle's does, either. She appears to be more interested now in New York than in London."
He laughed as he said this, and Margaret laughed also, and then stopped suddenly, thinking of the roses that came that morning. Could she be comparing the Londoner with the handsome American who sat by her side at the opera last night? She was half annoyed with herself at the thought.
"And are not you also interested in New York, Mr. Lyon?" my wife asked.
"Yes, moderately so, if you will permit me to say it." It was an effort on his part to keep up the conversation, Margaret was so wholly unresponsive; and afterwards, knowing how affairs stood with them, I could understand his well-bred misery28. The hardest thing in the world is to suffer decorously and make no sign in the midst of a society which insists on stoicism, no matter how badly one is hurt. The Society for First Aid to the Injured hardens its heart in these cases. "I have never seen another place," he continued, "where the women are so busy in improving themselves. Societies, clubs, parlor lectures, readings, recitations, musicales, classes--it fatigues29 one to keep in sight of them. Every afternoon, every evening, something. I doubt if men are capable of such incessant30 energy, Mrs. Fairchild."
"And you find they have no time to be agreeable?"
"Quite the contrary. There is nothing they are not interesting in, nothing about which they cannot talk, and talk intensely. They absorb everything, and have the gift of acquiring intelligence without, as one of them told me, having to waste time in reading. Yes, it is a most interesting city."
The coming in of Mr. Morgan gave another turn to the talk. He had been to see a rural American play, an exhibition of country life and character, constructed in absolute disregard of any traditions of the stage.
"I don't suppose," Mr. Morgan said, "a foreigner would understand it; it would be impossible in Paris, incomprehensible in London."
"Yes, I saw it," said Mr. Lyon, thus appealed to. "It was very odd, and seemed to amuse the audience immensely. I suppose one must be familiar with American farm life to see the points of it. I confess that while I sat there, in an audience so keenly in sympathy with the play--almost a part of it, one might say--I doubted if I understood your people as well as I thought I did when I had been here a week only. Perhaps this is the beginning of an American drama."
"Some people say that it is."
"But it is so local!"
"Anything that is true must be true to local conditions, to begin with. The only question is, is it true to human nature? What puzzled me in this American play was its raising the old question of nature and art. You've seen Coquelin? Well, that is acting31, as artificial as a sonnet32, the perfection of training, skill in an art. You never doubt that he is performing in a play for the entertainment of an audience. You have the same enjoyment33 of it that you have of a picture--a picture, I mean, full of character and sentiment, not a photograph. But I don't think of Denman Thompson as an actor trained to perfection in a dramatic school, but as a New Hampshire farmer. I don't admire his skill; I admire him. There is plenty that is artificial, vulgarly conventional, in his play, plenty of imitation of the rustic34 that shows it is imitation, but he is the natural man. If he is a stage illusion, he does not seem so to me." "Probably to an American audience only he does not," Mr. Lyon remarked.
"Well, that is getting to be a tolerably large audience."
"I doubt if you will change the laws of art," said Mr. Lyon, rising to go.
"We shall hope to see you again at our house," my wife said.
"You are very good. I should like it; but my time is running out."
"If you cannot come, you may leave your adieus with Miss Debree, who is staying some time in the city," my wife said, evidently to Margaret's annoyance35. But she could do no less than give him her city address, though the information was not accompanied by any invitation in her manner.
Margaret was to stay some time with two maiden ladies, old friends of her mother, the Misses Arbuser. The Arbusers were people of consequence in their day, with a certain social prestige; in fact, the excellent ladies were two generations removed from successful mercantile life, which in the remote prospective36 took on an old-family solidity. Nowhere else in the city could Margaret have come closer in contact with a certain phase of New York life in which women are the chief actors--a phase which may be a transition, and may be only a craze. It is not so much a condescension37 of society to literature as it is a discovery that literature and art, in the persons of those who produce both, may be sources of amusement, or perhaps, to be just, of the enlargement of the horizon and the improvement of the mind. The society mind was never before so hospitable38 to new ideas and new sensations. Charities, boards of managers, missions, hospitals, news-rooms, and lodging-houses for the illiterate39 and the homeless--these are not sufficient, even with balls, dancing classes, and teas, for the superfluous40 energies of this restless, improving generation; there must be also radical41 clubs, reading classes, study classes, ethical42, historical, scientific, literary lectures, the reading of papers by ladies of distinction and gentlemen of special attainments--an unremitting pursuit of culture and information. Curiosity is awake. The extreme of social refinement43 and a mild Bohemianism almost touch. It passes beyond the affectation of knowing persons who write books and write for the press, artists in paint and artists in music. "You cannot be sure in the most exclusive circle"--it was Carmen Eschelle who said this--"that you will not meet an author or even a journalist." Not all the women, however, adore letters or affect enthusiasm at drawing-room lectures; there are some bright and cynical44 ones who do not, who write papers themselves, and have an air of being behind the scenes.
Margaret had thought that she was fully45 occupied in the country, with her teaching, her reading, her literature and historical clubs, but she had never known before what it was to be busy and not have time for anything, always in pursuit of some new thing, and getting a fragment here and there; life was a good deal like reading the dictionary and remembering none of the words. And it was all so cosmopolitan46 and all-embracingly sympathetic. One day it was a paper by a Servian countess on the social life of the Servians, absorbingly interesting both in itself and because it was a countess who read it; and this was followed by the singing of an Icelandic tenor47 and a Swedish soprano, and a recital48 on the violin by a slight, red-haired, middle-aged49 woman from London. All the talents seem to be afloat and at the service of the strenuous50 ones who are cultivating themselves.
The first function at which Margaret assisted in the long drawing-rooms of the Arbusers was a serious one--one that combined the charm of culture with the temptations of benevolence51. The rooms were crowded with the fashion of the town, with a sprinkling of clergymen and of thin philanthropic gentlemen in advanced years. It was a four-o'clock, and the assembly had the cheerfulness of a reception, only that the display of toilets was felt to be sanctified by a purpose. The performance opened with a tremendous prelude52 on the piano by Herr Bloomgarten, who had been Liszt's favorite pupil; indeed, it was whispered that Liszt had said that, old as he was, he never heard Bloomgarten without learning something. There was a good deal of subdued53 conversation while the pianist was in his extreme agony of execution, and a hush54 of extreme admiration55--it was divine, divine, ravishing--when he had finished. The speaker was a learned female pundit56 from India, and her object was to interest the women of America in the condition of their unfortunate Hindoo sisters. It appeared that thousands and tens of thousands of them were doomed57 to early and lifelong widowhood, owing to the operation of cruel caste laws, which condemned58 even girls betrothed59 to deceased Brahmins to perpetual celibacy60. This fate could only be alleviated61 by the education and elevation62 of women. And money was needed for schools, especially for medical schools, which would break down the walls of prejudice and enfranchise63 the sex. The appeal was so charmingly made that every one was moved by it, especially the maiden ladies present, who might be supposed to enter into the feelings of their dusky sisters beyond the seas. The speaker said, with a touch of humor that always intensifies64 a serious discourse65, that she had been told that in one of the New England States there was a superfluity of unmarried women; but this was an entirely66 different affair; it was a matter of choice with these highly educated and accomplished67 women. And the day had come when woman could make her choice! At this there was a great clapping of hands. It was one thing to be free to lead a life of single self-culture, and quite another to be compelled to lead a single fife without self-culture. The address was a great success, and much enthusiasm spread abroad for the cause of the unmarried women of India.
In the audience were Mrs. Eschelle and her daughter. Margaret and Carmen were made acquainted, and were drawn68 together by curiosity, and perhaps by a secret feeling of repulsion. Carmen was all candor69 and sweetness, and absorbingly interested in the women of India, she said. With Margaret's permission she would come and see her, for she believed they had common friends.
It would seem that there could not be much sympathy between natures so opposed, persons who looked at life from such different points of view, but undeniably Carmen had a certain attraction for Margaret. The New Englander, whose climate is at once his enemy and his tonic70, always longs for the tropics, which to him are a region of romance, as Italy is to the German. In his nature, also, there is something easily awakened71 to the allurements72 of a sensuous73 existence, and to a desire for a freer experience of life than custom has allowed him. Carmen, who showed to Margaret only her best side--she would have been wise to exhibit no other to Henderson, but women of her nature are apt to cheapen themselves with men--seemed an embodiment of that graceful74 gayety and fascinating worldliness which make the world agreeable.
One morning, a few days after the Indian function, Margaret was alone in her own cozy75 sitting-room76. Nothing was wanting that luxury could suggest to make it in harmony with a beautiful woman, nothing that did not flatter and please, or nurse, perhaps, a personal sense of beauty, and impart that glow of satisfaction which comes when the senses are adroitly77 ministered to. Margaret had been in a mood that morning to pay extreme attention to her toilet. The result was the perfection of simplicity, of freshness, of maiden purity, enhanced by the touch of art. As she surveyed herself in the pier-glass, and noted24 the refined lines of the morning-gown which draped but did not conceal78 the more exquisite79 lines of her figure, and adjusted a rose in her bosom80, she did not feel like a Puritan, and, although she may not have noted the fact, she did not look like one. It was not a look of vanity that she threw into the mirror, or of special self-consciousness; in her toilet she had obeyed only her instinct (that infallible guide in a woman of refinement), and if she was conscious of any emotion, it was of the stirring within her of the deepest womanly nature.
In fact, she was restless. She flung herself into an easy-chair before the fire, and took up a novel. It was a novel with a religious problem. In vain she tried to be interested in it. At home she would have absorbed it eagerly; they would have discussed it; the doubts and suggestions in it would have assumed the deepest personal importance. It might have made an era in her thoughtful country life. Here it did not so appeal to her; it seemed unreal and shadowy in a life that had so much more of action than of reflection in it. It was a life fascinating and exciting, and profoundly unsatisfactory. Yet, after all, it was more really life than that placid81 vegetation in the country. She felt that in the whirl of only a few days of it--operas, receptions, teas, readings, dances, dinners, where everybody sparkled with a bewildering brilliancy, and yet from which one brought away nothing but a sense of strain; such gallantry, such compliments, such an easy tossing about of every topic under heaven; such an air of knowing everything, and not caring about anything very much; so much mutual82 admiration and personal satisfaction! She liked it, and perhaps was restless because she liked it. To be admired, to be deferred83 to--was there any harm in that? Only, if one suffers admiration today, it becomes a necessity tomorrow. She began to feel the influence of that life which will not let one stand still for a moment. If it is not the opera, it is a charity; if it is not a lover, it is some endowed cot in a hospital. There must be something going on every day, every hour.
Yes, she was restless, and could not read. She thought of Mr. Henderson. He had called formally. She had seen him, here and there, again and again. He had sought her out in all companies; his face had broken into a smile when he met her; he had talked with her lightly, gayly; she remembered the sound of his voice; she had learned to know his figure in a room among a hundred; and she blushed as she remembered that she had once or twice followed him with her eyes in a throng9. He was, to be sure, nothing to her; but he was friendly; he was certainly entertaining; he was a part, somehow, of this easy-flowing life.
Miss Eschelle was announced. Margaret begged that she would come upstairs without ceremony. The mutual taking-in of the pretty street costume and the pretty morning toilet was the work of a moment--the photographer has invented no machine that equals a woman's eyes for such a purpose.
"How delightful84 it is! how altogether charming!" and Margaret felt that she was included with the room in this admiration. "I told mamma that I was coming to see you this morning, even if I missed the Nestors' luncheon85. I like to please myself sometimes. Mamma says I'm frivolous86, but do you know"--the girls were comfortably seated by the fire, and Carmen turned her sweet face and candid87 eyes to her companion--"I get dreadfully tired of all this going round and round. No, I don't even go to the Indigent88 Mothers' Home; it's part of the same thing, but I haven't any gift that way. Ah, you were reading--that novel."
"Yes; I was trying to read it; I intend to read it."
"Oh, we have had it! It's a little past now, but it has been all the rage. Everybody has read it; that is, I don't know that anybody has read it, but everybody has been talking about it. Of course somebody must have read it, to set the thing agoing. And it has been discussed to death. I sometimes feel as if I had changed my religion half a dozen times in a fortnight. But I haven't heard anything about it for a week. We have taken up the Hindoo widows now, you know." And the girl laughed, as if she knew she were talking nonsense.
"And you do not read much in the city?" Margaret asked, with an answering smile.
"Yes; in the summer. That is, some do. There is a reading set. I don't know that they read much, but there is a reading set. You know, Miss Debree, that when a book is published--really published, as Mr. Henderson says--you don't need to read it. Somehow it gets into the air and becomes common property. Everybody hears the whole thing. You can talk about it from a notice. Of course there are some novels that one must read in order to understand human nature. Do you read French?"
"Yes; but not many French novels; I cannot."
"Nor can I," said Carmen, with a sincere face. "They are too realistic for me." She was at the moment running over in her mind a "situation" in a paper-covered novel turned down on her nightstand. "Mr. Henderson says that everybody condemns89 the French novels, and that people praise the novels they don't read."
"You know Mr. Henderson very well?"
"Yes; we've known him a long time. He is the only man I'm afraid of."
"Afraid of?"
"Well, you know he is a sort of Club man; that style of man provokes your curiosity, for you never can tell how much such men know. It makes you a little uneasy."
Carmen was looking into the fire, as if abstractedly reflecting upon the nature of men in general, but she did not fail to notice a slight expression of pain on Margaret's face.
"But there is your Mr. Lyon--"
Margaret laughed. "You do me too much honor. I think you discovered him first."
"Well, our Mr. Lyon." Carmen was still looking into the fire. "He is such a good young man!"
Margaret did not exactly fancy this sort of commendation, and she replied, with somewhat the tone of defending him, "We all have the highest regard for Mr. Lyon."
"Yes, and he is quite gone on Brandon, I assure you. He intends to do a great deal of good in the world. I think he spends half his time in New York studying, he calls it, our charitable institutions. Mamma reproaches me that I don't take more interest in philanthropy. That is her worldly side. Everybody has a worldly side. I'm as worldly as I can be"--this with a look of innocence90 that denied the self-accusation--"but I haven't any call to marry into Exeter Hall and that sort of thing. That is what she means--dear mamma. Are you High-Church or evangelical?" she asked, after a moment, turning to Margaret?
Margaret explained that she was neither.
"Well, I am High-Church, and Mr. Lyon is evangelical-Church evangelical. There couldn't be any happiness, you know, without harmony in religious belief."
"I should think not," said Margaret, now quite recovering herself. "It must be a matter of great anxiety to you here."
Carmen was quick to note the change of tone, and her face beamed with merriment as she rose.
"What nonsense I've been talking! I did not intend to go into such deep things. You must not mind what I said about Mr.--(a little pause to read Margaret's face)--Mr. Lyon. We esteem91 him as much as you do. How charming you are looking this morning! I wish I had your secret of not letting this life tell on one." And she was gone in a shower of compliments and smiles and caressing92 ways. She had found out what she came to find out. Mr. Henderson needs watching, she said to herself.
The interview, as Margaret thought it over, was amusing, but it did not raise her spirits. Was everybody worldly and shallow? Was this the sort of woman whom Mr. Henderson fancied? Was Mr. Henderson the sort of man to whom such a woman would be attracted?
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prologue
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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splendor
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alluring
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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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thronged
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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carnival
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ebb
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unlimited
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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convivial
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ornament
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helping
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vivacity
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eyebrows
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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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apprehended
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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formulated
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noted
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juggles
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constrained
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simplicity
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misery
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fatigues
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incessant
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acting
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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enjoyment
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rustic
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annoyance
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prospective
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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pundit
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| n.博学之人；权威 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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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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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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enfranchise
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| v.给予选举权，解放 | |
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intensifies
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| n.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的名词复数 )v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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candor
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| n.坦白，率真 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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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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allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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indigent
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的 | |
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condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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