“Are you to be at Lady Clonbrony’s gala next week?” said Lady Langdale to Mrs. Dareville, whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the crush-room of the opera-house.
“Oh, yes! every body’s to be there, I hear,” replied Mrs. Dareville. “Your ladyship, of course?”
“Why, I don’t know; if I possibly can. Lady Clonbrony makes it such a point with me, that I believe I must look in upon her for a few minutes. They are going to a prodigious1 expense on this occasion. Soho tells me the reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the most magnificent style.”
“At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing on,” said colonel Heathcock. “Up to any thing.”
“Who are they?— these Clonbronies, that one hears of so much of late?” said her grace of Torcaster. “Irish absentees, I know. But how do they support all this enormous expense?” “The son will have a prodigiously2 fine estate when some Mr. Quin dies,” said Mrs. Dareville.
“Yes, every body who comes from Ireland will have a fine estate when somebody dies,” said her grace. “But what have they at present?”
“Twenty thousand a year, they say,” replied Mrs. Dareville.
“Ten thousand, I believe,” cried Lady Langdale.
“Ten thousand, have they?— possibly,” said her grace. “I know nothing about them — have no acquaintance among the Irish. Torcaster knows something of Lady Clonbrony; she has fastened herself by some means upon him; but I charge him not to commit me. Positively3, I could not for any body, and much less for that sort of person, extend the circle of my acquaintance.”
“Now that is so cruel of your grace,” said Mrs. Dareville, laughing, “when poor Lady Clonbrony works so hard, and pays so high to get into certain circles.”
“If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, breathe, like an Englishwoman, you would pity her,” said Lady Langdale.
“Yes, and you cawnt conceive the peens she teekes to talk of the teebles and cheers, and to thank Q, and with so much teeste to speak pure English,” said Mrs. Dareville.
“Pure cockney, you mean,” said Lady Langdale.
“But does Lady Clonbrony expect to pass for English?” said the duchess.
“Oh, yes! because she is not quite Irish bred and born— only bred, not born,” said Mrs. Dareville. “And she could not be five minutes in your grace’s company, before she would tell you that she was Henglish, born in Hoxfordshire.”
“She must be a vastly amusing personage — I should like to meet her if one could see and hear her incog.,” said the duchess. “And Lord Clonbrony, what is he?”
“Nothing, nobody,” said Mrs. Dareville: “one never even hears of him.”
“A tribe of daughters, too, I suppose?”
“No, no,” said Lady Langdale; “daughters would be past all endurance.”
“There’s a cousin, though, a Miss Nugent,” said Mrs. Dareville, “that Lady Clonbrony has with her.”
“Best part of her, too,” said Colonel Heathcock —“d —— d fine girl!— never saw her look better than at the opera to-night!”
“Fine complexion4! as Lady Clonbrony says, when she means a high colour,” said Lady Langdale.
“Miss Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Has she any fortune, colonel?”
“‘Pon honour, don’t know,” said the colonel.
“There’s a son, somewhere, is not there?” said Lady Langdale.
“Don’t know, ‘pon honour,” replied the colonel.
“Yes — at Cambridge — not of age yet,” said Mrs. Dareville. “Bless me! here is Lady Clonbrony come back. I thought she was gone half an hour ago!”
“Mamma,” whispered one of Lady Langdale’s daughters, leaning between her mother and Mrs. Dareville, “who is that gentleman that passed us just now?”
“Which way?”
“Towards the door.— There now, mamma, you can see him. He is speaking to Lady Clonbrony — to Miss Nugent — now Lady Clonbrony is introducing him to Miss Broadhurst.”
“I see him now,” said Lady Langdale, examining him through her glass; “a very gentlemanlike looking young man indeed.”
“Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,” said her grace.
“Heathcock!” said Lady Langdale, “who is Miss Broadhurst talking to?”
“Eh! now really —‘pon honour — don’t know,” replied Heathcock.
“And yet he certainly looks like somebody one should know,” pursued Lady Langdale, “though I don’t recollect5 seeing him any where before.”
“Really now!” was all the satisfaction she could gain from the insensible, immovable colonel. However, her ladyship, after sending a whisper along the line, gained the desired information, that the young gentleman was Lord Colambre, son, only son, of Lord and Lady Clonbrony — that he was just come from Cambridge — that he was not yet of age — that he would be of age within a year; that he would then, after the death of somebody, come into possession of a fine estate by the mother’s side; “and therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,” said she, turning round to the daughter who had first pointed6 him out, “you understand we should never talk about other people’s affairs.”
“No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, Lord Colambre did not hear what you and Mrs. Dareville were saying!”
“How could he, child?— He was quite at the other end of the world.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am — he was at my elbow, close behind us; but I never thought about him till I heard somebody say ‘my lord —’”
“Good heavens!— I hope he didn’t hear.”
“But, for my part, I said nothing,” cried Lady Langdale.
“And for my part, I said nothing but what every body knows,” cried Mrs. Dareville.
“And for my part, I am guilty only of hearing,” said the duchess. “Do, pray, Colonel Heathcock, have the goodness to see what my people are about, and what chance we have of getting away to-night.”
“The Duchess of Torcaster’s carriage stops the way!”— a joyful7 sound to Colonel Heathcock and to her grace, and not less agreeable, at this instant, to Lady Langdale, who, the moment she was disembarrassed of the duchess, pressed through the crowd to Lady Clonbrony, and addressing her with smiles and complacency, was charmed to have a little moment to speak to her — could not sooner get through the crowd — would certainly do herself the honour to be at her ladyship’s gala. While Lady Langdale spoke8, she never seemed to see or think of any body but Lady Clonbrony, though, all the time, she was intent upon every motion of Lord Colambre; and whilst she was obliged to listen with a face of sympathy to a long complaint of Lady Clonbrony’s, about Mr. Soho’s want of taste in ottomans, she was vexed10 to perceive that his lordship showed no desire to be introduced to her or to her daughters; but, on the contrary, was standing11 talking to Miss Nugent. His mother, at the end of her speech, looked round for “Colambre”— called him twice before he heard — introduced him to Lady Langdale, and to Lady Cat’rine, and Lady Anne ——, and to Mrs. Dareville; to all of whom he bowed with an air of proud coldness, which gave them reason to regret that their remarks upon his mother and his family had not been made sotto voce.
“Lady Langdale’s carriage stops the way!” Lord Colambre made no offer of his services, notwithstanding a look from his mother. Incapable12 of the meanness of voluntarily listening to a conversation not intended for him to hear, he had, however, been compelled, by the pressure of the crowd, to remain a few minutes stationary13, where he could not avoid hearing the remarks of the fashionable friends: disdaining14 dissimulation15, he made no attempt to conceal16 his displeasure. Perhaps his vexation was increased by his consciousness that there was some mixture of truth in their sarcasms17. He was sensible that his mother, in some points — her manners, for instance — was obvious to ridicule18 and satire19. In Lady Clonbrony’s address there was a mixture of constraint20, affectation, and indecision, unusual in a person of her birth, rank, and knowledge of the world. A natural and unnatural21 manner seemed struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable22 that she articulated — a naturally free, familiar, good-natured, precipitate23, Irish manner, had been schooled, and schooled late in life, into a sober, cold, still, stiff deportment, which she mistook for English. A strong Hibernian accent she had, with infinite difficulty, changed into an English tone. Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordinary precision of her London phraseology betrayed her not to be a Londoner, as the man who strove to pass for an Athenian was detected by his Attic24 dialect. Not aware of her real danger, Lady Clonbrony was, on the opposite side, in continual apprehension25 every time she opened her lips, lest some treacherous26 a or e, some strong r, some puzzling aspirate or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, interrogative, or expostulatory, should betray her to be an Irishwoman. Mrs. Dareville had, in her mimicry27, perhaps, a little exaggerated, as to the teebles and cheers, but still the general likeness28 of the representation of Lady Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex9 her son. He had now, for the first time, an opportunity of judging of the estimation in which his mother and his family were held by certain leaders of the ton, of whom, in her letters, she had spoken so much, and into whose society, or rather into whose parties, she had been admitted. He saw that the renegado cowardice29 with which she denied, abjured30, and reviled31 her own country, gained nothing but ridicule and contempt. He loved his mother; and, whilst he endeavoured to conceal her faults and foibles as much as possible from his own heart, he could not endure those who dragged them to light and ridicule. The next morning, the first thing that occurred to Lord Colambre’s remembrance, when he awoke, was the sound of the contemptuous emphasis which had been laid on the words IRISH ABSENTEES!— This led to recollections of his native country, to comparisons of past and present scenes, to future plans of life. Young and careless as he seemed, Lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection. Of naturally quick and strong capacity, ardent32 affections, impetuous temper, the early years of his childhood passed at his father’s castle in Ireland, where, from the lowest servant to the well-dressed dependent of the family, every body had conspired33 to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter, to worship, this darling of their lord. Yet he was not spoiled — not rendered selfish; for in the midst of this flattery and servility, some strokes of genuine generous affection had gone home to his little heart: and though unqualified submission34 had increased the natural impetuosity of his temper, and though visions of his future grandeur35 had touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he acquired any fixed36 habits of insolence37 or tyranny, he was carried far away from all that were bound or willing to submit to his commands, far away from all signs of hereditary38 grandeur — plunged39 into one of our great public schools — into a new world. Forced to struggle, mind and body, with his equals, his rivals, the little lord became a spirited school-boy, and in time, a man. Fortunately for him, science and literature happened to be the fashion among a set of clever young men with whom he was at Cambridge. His ambition for intellectual superiority was raised, his views were enlarged, his tastes and his manners formed. The sobriety of English good sense mixed most advantageously with Irish vivacity40: English prudence41 governed, but did not extinguish, his Irish enthusiasm. But, in fact, English and Irish had not been invidiously contrasted in his mind: he had been so long resident in England, and so intimately connected with Englishmen, that he was not obvious to any of the commonplace ridicule thrown upon Hibernians; and he had lived with men who were too well informed and liberal to misjudge or depreciate42 a sister country. He had found, from experience, that, however reserved the English may be in manner, they are warm at heart; that, however averse43 they may be from forming new acquaintance, their esteem44 and confidence once gained, they make the most solid friends. He had formed friendships in England; he was fully45 sensible of the superior comforts, refinement46, and information, of English society; but his own country was endeared to him by early association, and a sense of duty and patriotism47 attached him to Ireland.—“And shall I too be an absentee?” was a question which resulted from these reflections — a question which he was not yet prepared to answer decidedly.
In the mean time, the first business of the morning was to execute a commission for a Cambridge friend. Mr. Berryl had bought from Mr. Mordicai, a famous London coachmaker, a curricle, warranted sound, for which he had paid a sound price, upon express condition that Mr. Mordicai should be answerable for all repairs of the curricle for six months. In three, both the carriage and body were found to be good for nothing — the curricle had been returned to Mordicai — nothing had since been heard of it, or from him; and Lord Colambre had undertaken to pay him and it a visit, and to make all proper inquiries48. Accordingly, he went to the coachmaker’s; and, obtaining no satisfaction from the underlings, desired to see the head of the house. He was answered that Mr. Mordicai was not at home. His lordship had never seen Mr. Mordicai; but just then he saw, walking across the yard, a man who looked something like a Bond-street coxcomb49, but not the least like a gentleman, who called, in the tone of a master, for “Mr. Mordicai’s barouche!”— It appeared; and he was stepping into it, when Lord Colambre took the liberty of stopping him; and, pointing to the wreck50 of Mr. Berryl’s curricle, now standing in the yard, began a statement of his friend’s grievances51, and an appeal to common justice and conscience, which he, unknowing the nature of the man with whom he had to deal, imagined must be irresistible52. Mr. Mordicai stood without moving a muscle of his dark wooden face — indeed, in his face there appeared to be no muscles, or none which could move; so that, though he had what are generally called handsome features, there was, altogether, something unnatural and shocking in his countenance53. When, at last, his eyes turned and his lips opened, this seemed to be done by machinery54, and not by the will of a living creature, or from the impulse of a rational soul. Lord Colambre was so much struck with this strange physiognomy, that he actually forgot much he had to say of springs and wheels — But it was no matter — Whatever he had said, it would have come to the same thing; and Mordicai would have answered as he now did; “Sir, it was my partner made that bargain, not myself; and I don’t hold myself bound by it, for he is the sleeping partner only, and not empowered to act in the way of business. Had Mr. Berryl bargained with me, I should have told him that he should have looked to these things before his carriage went out of our yard.”
The indignation of Lord Colambre kindled55 at these words — but in vain: to all that indignation could by word or look urge against Mordicai, he replied, “May be so, sir: the law is open to your friend — the law is open to all men, who can pay for it.”
Lord Colambre turned in despair from the callous56 coachmaker, and listened to one of his more compassionate-looking workmen, who was reviewing the disabled curricle; and, whilst he was waiting to know the sum of his friend’s misfortune, a fat, jolly, Falstaff-looking personage came into the yard, and accosted57 Mordicai with a degree of familiarity which, from a gentleman, appeared to Lord Colambre to be almost impossible.
“How are you, Mordicai, my good fellow?” cried he, speaking with a strong Irish accent.
“Who is this?” whispered Lord Colambre to the foreman, who was examining the curricle.
“Sir Terence O’Fay, sir — There must be entire new wheels.”
“Now tell me, my tight fellow,” continued Sir Terence, holding Mordicai fast, “when, in the name of all the saints, good or bad, in the calendar, do you reckon to let us sport the suicide?”
“Will you be so good, sir, to finish making out this estimate for me?” interrupted Lord Colambre.
Mordicai forcibly drew his mouth into what he meant for a smile, and answered, “As soon as possible, Sir Terence.” Sir Terence, in a tone of jocose58, wheedling59 expostulation, entreated60 him to have the carriage finished out of hand: “Ah, now! Mordy, my precious! let us have it by the birthday, and come and dine with us o’ Monday at the Hibernian Hotel — there’s a rare one — will you?”
Mordicai accepted the invitation, and promised faithfully that the suicide should be finished by the birthday. Sir Terence shook hands upon this promise, and, after telling a good story, which made one of the workmen in the yard — an Irishman — grin with delight, walked off. Mordicai, first waiting till the knight61 was out of hearing, called aloud, “You grinning rascal62! mind, at your peril63, and don’t let that there carriage be touched, d’ye see, till farther orders.”
One of Mr. Mordicai’s clerks, with a huge long feathered pen behind his ear, observed that Mr. Mordicai was right in that caution, for that, to the best of his comprehension, Sir Terence O’Fay, and his principal too, were over head and ears in debt.
Mordicai coolly answered, that he was well aware of that, but that the estate could afford to dip farther; that, for his part, he was under no apprehension; he knew how to look sharp, and to bite before he was bit: that he knew Sir Terence and his principal were leagued together to give the creditors64 the go by; but that, clever as they were both at that work, he trusted he was their match.
“Immediately, sir — Sixty-nine pound four, and the perch66 — Let us see — Mr. Mordicai, ask him, ask Paddy, about Sir Terence,” said the foreman, pointing back over his shoulder to the Irish workman, who was at this moment pretending to be wondrous67 hard at work. However, when Mr. Mordicai defied him to tell him any thing he did not know, Paddy, parting with an untasted bit of tobacco, began and recounted some of Sir Terence O’Fay’s exploits in evading68 duns, replevying cattle, fighting sheriffs, bribing69 subs, managing cants, tricking custodees, in language so strange, and with a countenance and gestures so full of enjoyment70 of the jest, that, whilst Mordicai stood for a moment aghast with astonishment71, Lord Colambre could not help laughing, partly at, and partly with, his countryman. All the yard were in a roar of laughter, though they did not understand half of what they heard; but their risible72 muscles were acted upon mechanically, or maliciously73, merely by the sound of the Irish brogue.
Mordicai, waiting till the laugh was over, dryly observed, that “the law is executed in another guess sort of way in England from what it is in Ireland;” therefore, for his part, he desired nothing better than to set his wits fairly against such sharks— that there was a pleasure in doing up a debtor74, which none but a creditor65 could know.
“In a moment, sir; if you’ll have a moment’s patience, sir, if you please,” said the slow foreman to Lord Colambre; “I must go down the pounds once more, and then I’ll let you have it.”
“I’ll tell you what, Smithfield,” continued Mr. Mordicai, coming close beside his foreman, and speaking very low, but with a voice trembling with anger, for he was piqued75 by his foreman’s doubts of his capacity to cope with Sir Terence O’Fay; “I’ll tell you what, Smithfield, I’ll be cursed if I don’t get every inch of them into my power — you know how.”
“You are the best judge, sir,” replied the foreman; “but I would not undertake Sir Terence; and the question is, whether the estate will answer the tote of the debts, and whether you know them all for certain —”
“I do, sir, I tell you: there’s Green — there’s Blancham — there’s Gray — there’s Soho”— naming several more —“and, to my knowledge, Lord Clonbrony —”
“Stop, sir,” cried Lord Colambre, in a voice which made Mordicai and every body present start;—“I am his son —”
“The devil!” said Mordicai.
“God bless every bone in his body, then, he’s an Irishman!” cried Paddy; “and there was the rason my heart warmed to him from the first minute he come into the yard, though I did not know it till now.”
“What, sir! are you my Lord Colambre?” said Mr. Mordicai, recovering, but not clearly recovering, his intellects: “I beg pardon, but I did not know you was Lord Colambre — I thought you told me you was the friend of Mr. Berryl.”
“I do not see the incompatibility76 of the assertion, sir,” replied Lord Colambre, taking from the bewildered foreman’s unresisting hand the account which he had been so long furnishing.
“Give me leave, my lord,” said Mordicai —“I beg your pardon, my lord; perhaps we can compromise that business for your friend Mr. Berryl; since he is your lordship’s friend, perhaps we can contrive77 to compromise and split the difference.”
To compromise, and split the difference, Mordicai thought were favourite phrases, and approved Hibernian modes of doing business, which would conciliate this young Irish nobleman, and dissipate the proud tempest, which had gathered, and now swelled78 in his breast.
“No, sir, no!” cried Lord Colambre, holding firm the paper: “I want no favour from you. I will accept of none for my friend or for myself.”
“Favour! No, my lord, I should not presume to offer — But I should wish, if you’ll allow me, to do your friend justice.”
Lord Colambre, recollecting79 that he had no right, in his pride, to fling away his friend’s money, let Mr. Mordicai look at the account; and his impetuous temper in a few moments recovered by good sense, he considered, that, as his person was utterly80 unknown to Mr. Mordicai, no offence could have been intended to him, and that, perhaps, in what had been said of his father’s debts and distress81, there might be more truth than he was aware of. Prudently82, therefore, controlling his feelings, and commanding himself, he suffered Mr. Mordicai to show him into a parlour to settle his friend’s business. In a few minutes the account was reduced to a reasonable form, and, in consideration of the partner’s having made the bargain, by which Mr. Mordicai felt himself influenced in honour, though not bound in law, he undertook to have the curricle made better than new again, for Mr. Berryl, for twenty guineas. Then came awkward apologies to Lord Colambre, which he ill endured. “Between ourselves, my lord,” continued Mordicai —
But the familiarity of the phrase. “Between ourselves”— this implication of equality — Lord Colambre could not admit: he moved hastily towards the door, and departed.
收听单词发音 |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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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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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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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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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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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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standing
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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disdaining
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| 鄙视( disdain的现在分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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precipitate
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attic
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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treacherous
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mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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likeness
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cowardice
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abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ardent
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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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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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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49
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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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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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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bribing
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| 贿赂 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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risible
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| adj.能笑的；可笑的 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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81
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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