Jack1 was grateful for Edith's intervention2. He comprehended that she had stepped forward as a shield to him in the gossip about Carmen. He showed his appreciation3 in certain lover-like attentions and in a gayety of manner, but it was not in his nature to feel the sacrifice she had made or its full magnanimity; he was relieved, and in a manner absolved4. Another sort of woman might have made him very uncomfortable. Instead of being rebuked5 he had a new sense of freedom.
"Not one woman in a thousand would have done it," was the comment of Major Fairfax when he heard of the drive in the Park. "Gad7! most of 'em would have cut Carmen dead and put Jack in Coventry, and then there would have been the devil to pay. It takes quality, though; she's such a woman as Jack's mother. If there were not one of them now and then society would deliquesce." And the Major knew, for his principal experience had been with a deliquescent society.
Whether Carmen admired Mrs. Delancy or thought her weak it is impossible to say, but she understood the advances made and responded to them, for they fell in perfectly8 with her social plans. She even had the face to eulogize Mrs. Delancy to Jack, her breadth of view, her lack of prejudice, and she had even dared to say, "My dear friend, she is too good for us," and Jack had not protested, but with a laugh had accepted the implication of his position on a lower moral level. Perhaps he did not see exactly what it meant, this being on confidential9 terms about his wife with another woman; all he cared for at the moment was that the comradeship of Miss Tavish and Carmen was agreeable to him. They were no restraint upon him. So long as they remained in town the exchange of civilities was kept up. Carmen and Miss Tavish were often at his house, and there was something reassuring10 to Jack in the openness with which affairs went on.
Early in June Edith went down to their rented cottage on the south Long Island shore. In her delicate health the doctor had recommended the seaside, and this locality as quiet and restful, and not too far from the whirl of the city. The place had a charm of its own, the charm, namely, of a wide sky, illimitable, flashing, changing sea, rolling in from the far tropical South with its message of romance to the barren Northern shore, and the pure sand dunes11, the product of the whippings of tempests and wild weather. The cottage was in fact an old farmhouse12, not an impertinent, gay, painted piece of architecture set on the sand like a tent for a month, but a solid, ugly, fascinating habitation, with barns and outhouses, and shrubs13, and an old garden--a place with a salty air friendly to delicate spring blossoms and summer fruits and foliage14. If it was a farmhouse, the sea was an important part of the farm, and the low-ceiled rooms suggested cabins; it required little imagination to fancy that an East-Indian ship had some time come ashore15 and settled in the sand, that it had been remodeled and roofed over, and its sides pierced with casement16 windows, over which roses had climbed in order to bind17 the wanderer to the soil. It had been painted by the sun and the wind and the salt air, so that its color depended upon the day, and it was sometimes dull and almost black, or blue-black, under a lowering sky, and again a golden brown, especially at sunset, and Edith, feeling its character rather than its appearance to ordinary eyes, had named it the Golden House. Nature is such a beautiful painter of wood.
With Edith went one of her Baltimore cousins, a young kindergarten teacher of fine intelligence and sympathetic manner, who brought to her work a long tradition of gentle breeding and gayety and simplicity--qualities which all children are sure to recognize. What a hopeful thing it is, by-the-way, in the world, that all conditions of people know a lady at sight! Jack found the place delightful18. He liked its quaintness19, the primitiveness20 of the farmer-fisherman neighbors, he liked the sea. And then he could run up to the city any morning and back at night. He spent the summer with Edith at the Golden House. This was his theory. When he went to town in the morning he expected to return at night. But often he telegraphed in the afternoon that he was detained by business; he had to see Henderson, or Mavick was over from Washington. Occasionally, but not often, he missed the train. He had too keen a sense of the ridiculous to miss the train often. When he was detained over for two or three days, or the better part of the week, he wrote Edith dashing, hurried letters, speaking of ever so many places he had been to and ever so many people he had seen--yes, Carmen and Miss Tavish and everybody who was in town, and he did not say too much about the hot city and its discomforts21.
Henderson's affairs kept him in town, Miss Tavish still postponed22 Bar Harbor, and Carmen willingly remained. She knew the comfort of a big New York house when the season is over, when no social duties are required, and one is at leisure to lounge about in cool costumes, to read or dream, to open the windows at night for the salt breeze from the bay, to take little excursions by boat or rail, to dine al fresco23 in the garden of some semi-foreign hotel, to taste the unconventional pleasures of the town, as if one were in some foreign city. She used to say that New York in matting and hollands was almost as nice as Buda-Pesth. These were really summer nights, operatic sorts of nights, with music floating in the air, gay groups in the streets, a stage imitation of nature in the squares with the thick foliage and the heavy shadows cast on the asphalt by the electric lights, the brilliant shops, the nonsense of the summer theatres, where no one expected anything, and no one was disappointed, the general air of enjoyment24, and the suggestion of intrigue25. Sometimes, when Mavick was over, a party was made up for the East Side, to see the foreign costumes, the picturesque26 street markets, the dime27 museums, and the serious, tragical28 theatres of the people. The East Side was left pretty much to itself, now that the winter philanthropists had gone away, and was enjoying its summer nights and its irresponsible poverty.
They even looked in at Father Damon's chapel29, the dimly lighted fragrant30 refuge from the world and from sin. Why not? They were interested in the morals of the region. Had not Miss Tavish danced for one of the guilds31; and had not Carmen given Father Damon a handsome check in support of his mission? It was so satisfactory to go into such a place and see the penitents32 kneeling here and there, the little group of very plainly dressed sinners attracted by Father Damon's spiritual face and unselfish enthusiasm. Carmen said she felt like kneeling at one of the little boxes and confessing--the sins of her neighbors. And then the four--Carmen, Miss Tavish, Mavick, and Jack--had a little supper at Wherry's, which they enjoyed all the more for the good action of visiting the East Side--a little supper which lasted very late, and was more and more enjoyed as it went on, and was, in fact, so gay that when the ladies were set down at their houses, Jack insisted on dragging Mavick off to the Beefsteak Club and having something manly33 to drink; and while they drank he analyzed34 the comparative attractions of Carmen and Miss Tavish; he liked that kind of women, no nonsense in them; and presently he wandered a little and lost the cue of his analysis, and, seizing Mavick by the arm, and regarding him earnestly, in a burst of confidence declared that, notwithstanding all appearances, Edith was the dearest girl in the world.
It was at this supper that the famous society was formed, which the newspapers ridiculed35, and which deceived so many excellent people in New York because it seemed to be in harmony with the philanthropic endeavor of the time, but which was only an expression of the Mephistophelian spirit of Carmen--the Society for Supplying Two Suspenders to Those who have only One.
By the end of June there was no more doubt about the heat of the town than about its odors. The fashionable residence part was dismantled36 and deserted37. At least miles and miles of houses seemed to be closed. Few carriages were seen in this quarter, the throngs38 of fashion had disappeared, comparatively few women were about, and those that appeared in the Sunday promenade40 were evidently sight-seers and idlers from other quarters; the throng39 of devotees was gone from the churches, and indeed in many of them services were suspended till a more convenient season. The hotels, to be sure, were full of travelers, and the club-houses had more habitues than usual, and were more needed by the members whose families had gone into the country.
Notwithstanding the silence and vacation aspect of up-town, the public conveyances41 were still thronged42, and a census43 would have shown no such diminution44 of population as seemed. Indeed, while nobody was in town, except accidentally, the greater portion of it presented a more animated45 appearance than usual, especially at night, on account of the open windows, the groups on door-steps and curb-stones, and the restless throng in the streets-buyers and sellers and idlers. To most this outdoor life was a great enjoyment, and to them the unclean streets with the odors and exhalations of decay were homelike and congenial. Nor did they seem surprised that a new country should so completely reproduce the evil smells and nastiness of the old civilization. It was all familiar and picturesque. Work still went on in the crowded tenement46-houses, and sickness simply changed its character, death showing an increased friendliness47 to young children. Some impression was of course made by the agents of various charities, the guilds and settlements bravely strove at their posts, some of the churches kept their flags flying on the borders of the industrial districts, the Good Samaritans of the Fresh-air Fund were active, the public dispensaries did a thriving business, and the little band of self-sacrificing doctors, most of them women, went their rounds among the poor, the sick, and the friendless.
Among them Ruth Leigh was one who never took a vacation. There was no time for it. The greater the heat, the more noisome48 the town, the more people became ill from decaying food and bad air and bad habits, the more people were hungry from improvidence49 or lack of work, the more were her daily visits a necessity; and though she was weary of her monotonous50 work, and heart-sick at its small result in such a mass, there never came a day when she could quit it. She made no reputation in her profession by this course; perhaps she awoke little gratitude51 from those she served, and certainly had not so much of their confidence as the quacks52 who imposed upon them and took their money; and she was not heartened much by hope of anything better in this world or any other; and as for pay, if there was enough of that to clothe her decently, she apparently53 did not spend it on herself.
It was, in short, wholly inexplicable54 that this little woman should simply go about doing good, without any ulterior purpose whatever, not even notoriety. Did she love these people? She did not ever say anything about that. In the Knights55 of Labor56 circle, and in the little clubs for the study of social questions, which she could only get leisure to attend infrequently, she was not at all demonstrative about any religion of humanity. Perhaps she simply felt that she was a part of these people, and that whether they rejected her or received her, there was nothing for her to do but to give herself to them. She would probably have been surprised if Father Damon had told her that she was in this following a great example, and there might have been a tang of agnostic bitterness in her reply. When she thought of it the condition seemed to her hopeless, and the attitude of what was called civilization towards it so remorseless and indifferent, and that of Christianity so pharisaical. If she ever lost her temper, it was when she let her mind run in this nihilistic channel, in bitterness against the whole social organization, and the total outcome of civilization so far as the mass of humanity is concerned.
One day Father Damon climbed up to the top of a wretched tenement in Baxter Street in search of a German girl, an impulsive58 and pretty girl of fifteen, whom he had missed for several days at the chapel services. He had been in the room before. It was not one of the worst, for though small and containing a cook-stove, a large bed, and a chest of drawers, there was an attempt to make it tidy. In a dark closet opening out from it was another large bed. As he knocked and opened the door, he saw that Gretchen was not at home. Her father sat in a rocking-chair by an open window, on the sill of which stood a pot of carnations59, the Easter gift of St. George's, a wax-faced, hollow-eyed man of gentle manners, who looked round wearily at the priest. The mother was washing clothes in a tub in one corner; in another corner was a half-finished garment from a slop-shop. The woman alternated the needle at night and the tub in the daytime. Seated on the bed, with a thin, sick child in her arms, was Dr. Leigh. As she looked up a perfectly radiant smile illuminated60 her usually plain face, an unworldly expression of such purity and happiness that she seemed actually beautiful to the priest, who stopped, hesitating, upon the threshold.
"Oh, you needn't be afraid to come in, Father Damon," she cried out; "it isn't contagious61--only rash."
Father Damon, who would as readily have walked through a pestilence62 as in a flower-garden, only smiled at this banter63, and replied, after speaking to the sick man, and returning in German the greeting of the woman, who had turned from the tub, "I've no doubt you are disappointed that it isn't contagious!" And then, to the mother: "Where is Gretchen? She doesn't come to the chapel."
"Nein," replied the woman, in a mixture of German and English, "it don't come any more in dot place; it be in a shtore now; it be good girl."
"What, all day?"
"Yaas, by six o'clock, and abends so spate64. Not much it get, but my man can't earn nothing any more." And the woman, as she looked at him, wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron65.
"But, on Sunday?" Father Damon asked, still further.
"Vell, it be so tired, and goed up by de Park with Dick Loosing and dem oder girls."
"Don't you think it better, Father Damon," Dr. Leigh interposed, "that Gretchen should have fresh air and some recreation on Sunday?"
"Und such bootiful tings by de Museum," added the mother.
"Perhaps," said he, with something like a frown on his face, and then changed the subject to the sick child. He did not care to argue the matter when Dr. Leigh was present, but he resolved to come again and explain to the mother that her daughter needed some restraining power other than her own impulse, and that without religious guidance she was pretty certain to drift into frivolous66 and vulgar if not positively67 bad ways. The father was a free-thinker; but Father Damon thought he had some hold on the mother, who was of the Lutheran communion, but had followed her husband so far as to become indifferent to anything but their daily struggle for life. Yet she had a mother's instinct about the danger to her daughter, and had been pleased to have her go to Father Damon's chapel.
And, besides, he could not bring himself in that presence to seem to rebuke6 Ruth Leigh. Was she not practically doing what his Lord did--going about healing the sick, sympathizing with the poor and the discouraged, taking upon herself the burden of the disconsolate68, literally69, without thought of self, sharing, as it were, the misery70 and sin of this awful city? And today, for the first time, he seemed to have seen the woman in her--or was it the saint? and he recalled that wonderful illumination of her plain face that made her actually beautiful as she looked up from the little waif of humanity she held in her arms. It had startled him, and struck a new chord in his heart, and planted a new pang71 there that she had no belief in a future life.
It did not occur to him that the sudden joy in her face might have been evoked72 by seeing him, for it was a long time since she had seen him. Nor did he think that the pang at his heart had another cause than religious anxiety. Ah, priest and worldly saint, how subtle and enduring are the primal73 instincts of human nature!
"Yes," he said, as they walked away, in reply to her inquiry74 as to his absence, "I have been in retreat a couple of weeks."
"I suppose," she said, softly, "you needed the rest; though," and she looked at him professionally, "if you will allow me to say it, it seems to me that you have not rested enough."
"I needed strength"--and it was the priest that spoke75--"in meditation76 and prayer to draw upon resources not my own."
"And in fasting, too, I dare say," she added, with a little smile.
"And why not?" he asked.
"Pardon me," she said; "I don't pretend to know what you need. I need to eat, though Heaven knows it's hard enough to keep up an appetite down here. But it is physical endurance you need for the work here. Do you think fasting strengthens you to go through your work night and day?"
"I know I couldn't do it on my own strength." And Dr. Leigh recalled times when she had seen him officiating in the chapel apparently sustained by nothing but zeal77 and pure spirit, and wondered that he did not faint and fall. And faint and fall he did, she was sure, when the service was over.
"Well, it may be necessary to you, but not as an example to these people. I see enough involuntary fasting."
"We look at these people from different points of view, I fear." And after a moment he said: "But, doctor, I wanted to ask you about Gretchen. You see her?"
"Occasionally. She works too many hours, but she seems to be getting on very well, and brings her mother all she earns."
"Do you think she is able to stand alone?"
Dr. Leigh winced78 a little at this searching question, for no one knew better than she the vulgarizing influence of street life and chance associations upon a young girl, and the temptations. She was even forced to admit the value in the way of restraint, as a sort of police force, of the church and priestly influence, especially upon girls at the susceptible79 age. But she knew that Father Damon meant something more than this, and so she answered:
"But people have got to stand alone. She might as well begin."
"But she is so young."
"Yes, I know. She is in the way of temptation, but so long as she works industriously80, and loves her mother, and feels the obligation, which the poor very easily feel, of doing her share for the family, she is not in so much moral danger as other girls of her age who lead idle and self-indulgent lives. The working-girls of the city learn to protect themselves."
"And you think this is enough, without any sort of religion--that this East Side can go on without any spiritual life?"
Ruth Leigh made a gesture of impatience81. In view of the actual struggle for existence she saw around her, this talk seemed like cant82. And she said:
"I don't know that anything can go on. Let me ask you a question, Father Damon. Do you think there is any more spirituality, any more of the essentials of what you call Christianity, in the society of the other side than there is on the East Side?"
"It is a deep question, this of spirituality," replied Father Damon, who was in the depths of his proselyting action a democrat83 and in sympathy with the people, and rated quite at its full value the conventional fashion in religion. "I shouldn't like to judge, but there is a great body of Christian57 men and women in this city who are doing noble work."
"Yes," replied the little doctor, bitterly, "trying to save themselves. How many are trying to save others--others except the distant and foreign sinners?"
"You surely cannot ignore," replied the father, still speaking mildly, "the immense amount of charitable work done by the churches!"
"Yes, I know; charity, charity, the condescension84 of the rich to the poor. What we want are understanding, fellowship, and we get alms! If there is so much spirituality as you say, and Christianity is what you say it is today, how happens it that this side is left in filth85 and misery and physical wretchedness? You know what it is, and you know the luxury elsewhere. And you think to bridge over the chasm86 between classes with flowers, in pots, yes, and Bible-readers and fashionable visitors and little aid societies--little palliatives for an awful state of things. Why, look at it! Last winter the city authorities hauled off the snow and the refuse from the fashionable avenues, and dumped it down in the already blockaded and filthy87 side streets, and left us to struggle with the increased pneumonia88 and diphtheria, and general unsanitary conditions. And you wonder that the little nihilist groups and labor organizations and associations of agnostics, as you call them, meeting to study political economy and philosophy, say that the existing state of things has got to be overturned violently, if those who have the power and the money continue indifferent."
"I do not wonder," replied Father Damon, sadly. "The world is evil, and I should be as despairing as you are if I did not know there was another life and another world. I couldn't bear it. Nobody could."
"And all you've got to offer, then, to this mass of wretchedness, poverty, ignorance, at close quarters with hunger and disease, is to grin and bear it, in hope of a reward somewhere else!"
"I think you don't quite--"
The doctor looked up and saw a look of pain on the priest's face.
"Oh," she hastened to say, almost as impetuously as she had spoken before, "I don't mean you--I don't mean you. I know what you do. Pardon me for speaking so. I get so discouraged sometimes." They stood still a moment, looking up and down the hot, crowded, odorful street they were in, with its flaunting89 rags of poverty and inefficiency90. "I see so little result of what I can do, and there is so little help."
"I know," said the father, as they moved along. "I don't see how you can bear it alone."
This touched a sore spot, and aroused Ruth Leigh's combativeness91. It seemed to her to approach the verge92 of cant again. But she knew the father's absolute sincerity93; she felt she had already said too much; and she only murmured, as if to herself, "If we could only know." And then, after a moment, she asked, "Do you, Father Damon, see any sign of anything better here?"
"Yes, today." And he spoke very slowly and hesitatingly. "If you will excuse the personality of it. When I entered that room today, and saw you with that sick child in your arms, and comprehended what it all meant, I had a great wave of hope, and I knew, just then, that there is coming virtue94 enough in the world to redeem95 it."
Ruth was confounded. Her heart seemed to stand still, and then the hot blood flowed into her face in a crimson96 flood. "Ah," escaped from her lips, and she walked on more swiftly, not daring to look up. This from him! This recognition from the ascetic97 father! If one of her dispensary comrades had said it, would she have been so moved?
And afterwards, when she had parted from him, and gone to her little room, the hot flush again came to her neck and brow, and she saw his pale, spiritual face, and could hear the unwonted tenderness of his voice. Yes, Father Damon had said it of her.
收听单词发音 |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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quaintness
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| n.离奇有趣，古怪的事物 | |
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primitiveness
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| 原始，原始性 | |
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discomforts
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| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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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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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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penitents
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| n.后悔者( penitent的名词复数 )；忏悔者 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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conveyances
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| n.传送( conveyance的名词复数 )；运送；表达；运输工具 | |
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42
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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quacks
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| abbr.quacksalvers 庸医，骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 )；江湖郎中；（鸭子的）呱呱声v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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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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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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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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industriously
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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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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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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combativeness
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| n.好战 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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