Going of an afternoon to call upon his niece, Mr. Wentworth more than once found Robert Acton sitting in her little drawing-room. This was in no degree, to Mr. Wentworth, a perturbing1 fact, for he had no sense of competing with his young kinsman2 for Eugenia’s good graces. Madame Munster’s uncle had the highest opinion of Robert Acton, who, indeed, in the family at large, was the object of a great deal of undemonstrative appreciation3. They were all proud of him, in so far as the charge of being proud may be brought against people who were, habitually4, distinctly guiltless of the misdemeanor known as “taking credit.” They never boasted of Robert Acton, nor indulged in vainglorious5 reference to him; they never quoted the clever things he had said, nor mentioned the generous things he had done. But a sort of frigidly-tender faith in his unlimited6 goodness was a part of their personal sense of right; and there can, perhaps, be no better proof of the high esteem7 in which he was held than the fact that no explicit8 judgment9 was ever passed upon his actions. He was no more praised than he was blamed; but he was tacitly felt to be an ornament10 to his circle. He was the man of the world of the family. He had been to China and brought home a collection of curiosities; he had made a fortune — or rather he had quintupled a fortune already considerable; he was distinguished11 by that combination of celibacy12, “property,” and good humor which appeals to even the most subdued13 imaginations; and it was taken for granted that he would presently place these advantages at the disposal of some well-regulated young woman of his own “set.” Mr. Wentworth was not a man to admit to himself that — his paternal14 duties apart — he liked any individual much better than all other individuals; but he thought Robert Acton extremely judicious15; and this was perhaps as near an approach as he was capable of to the eagerness of preference, which his temperament16 repudiated17 as it would have disengaged itself from something slightly unchaste. Acton was, in fact, very judicious — and something more beside; and indeed it must be claimed for Mr. Wentworth that in the more illicit18 parts of his preference there hovered19 the vague adumbration20 of a belief that his cousin’s final merit was a certain enviable capacity for whistling, rather gallantly21, at the sanctions of mere22 judgment — for showing a larger courage, a finer quality of pluck, than common occasion demanded. Mr. Wentworth would never have risked the intimation that Acton was made, in the smallest degree, of the stuff of a hero; but this is small blame to him, for Robert would certainly never have risked it himself. Acton certainly exercised great discretion23 in all things — beginning with his estimate of himself. He knew that he was by no means so much of a man of the world as he was supposed to be in local circles; but it must be added that he knew also that his natural shrewdness had a reach of which he had never quite given local circles the measure. He was addicted24 to taking the humorous view of things, and he had discovered that even in the narrowest circles such a disposition25 may find frequent opportunities. Such opportunities had formed for some time — that is, since his return from China, a year and a half before — the most active element in this gentleman’s life, which had just now a rather indolent air. He was perfectly26 willing to get married. He was very fond of books, and he had a handsome library; that is, his books were much more numerous than Mr. Wentworth’s. He was also very fond of pictures; but it must be confessed, in the fierce light of contemporary criticism, that his walls were adorned27 with several rather abortive28 masterpieces. He had got his learning — and there was more of it than commonly appeared — at Harvard College; and he took a pleasure in old associations, which made it a part of his daily contentment to live so near this institution that he often passed it in driving to Boston. He was extremely interested in the Baroness29 Munster.
She was very frank with him; or at least she intended to be. “I am sure you find it very strange that I should have settled down in this out-of-the-way part of the world!” she said to him three or four weeks after she had installed herself. “I am certain you are wondering about my motives30. They are very pure.” The Baroness by this time was an old inhabitant; the best society in Boston had called upon her, and Clifford Wentworth had taken her several times to drive in his buggy.
Robert Acton was seated near her, playing with a fan; there were always several fans lying about her drawing-room, with long ribbons of different colors attached to them, and Acton was always playing with one. “No, I don’t find it at all strange,” he said slowly, smiling. “That a clever woman should turn up in Boston, or its suburbs — that does not require so much explanation. Boston is a very nice place.”
“If you wish to make me contradict you,” said the Baroness, “vous vous y prenez mal. In certain moods there is nothing I am not capable of agreeing to. Boston is a paradise, and we are in the suburbs of Paradise.”
“Just now I am not at all in the suburbs; I am in the place itself,” rejoined Acton, who was lounging a little in his chair. He was, however, not always lounging; and when he was he was not quite so relaxed as he pretended. To a certain extent, he sought refuge from shyness in this appearance of relaxation31; and like many persons in the same circumstances he somewhat exaggerated the appearance. Beyond this, the air of being much at his ease was a cover for vigilant32 observation. He was more than interested in this clever woman, who, whatever he might say, was clever not at all after the Boston fashion; she plunged33 him into a kind of excitement, held him in vague suspense34. He was obliged to admit to himself that he had never yet seen a woman just like this — not even in China. He was ashamed, for inscrutable reasons, of the vivacity35 of his emotion, and he carried it off, superficially, by taking, still superficially, the humorous view of Madame Munster. It was not at all true that he thought it very natural of her to have made this pious36 pilgrimage. It might have been said of him in advance that he was too good a Bostonian to regard in the light of an eccentricity37 the desire of even the remotest alien to visit the New England metropolis38. This was an impulse for which, surely, no apology was needed; and Madame Munster was the fortunate possessor of several New England cousins. In fact, however, Madame Munster struck him as out of keeping with her little circle; she was at the best a very agreeable, a gracefully39 mystifying anomaly. He knew very well that it would not do to address these reflections too crudely to Mr. Wentworth; he would never have remarked to the old gentleman that he wondered what the Baroness was up to. And indeed he had no great desire to share his vague mistrust with any one. There was a personal pleasure in it; the greatest pleasure he had known at least since he had come from China. He would keep the Baroness, for better or worse, to himself; he had a feeling that he deserved to enjoy a monopoly of her, for he was certainly the person who had most adequately gauged40 her capacity for social intercourse41. Before long it became apparent to him that the Baroness was disposed to lay no tax upon such a monopoly.
One day (he was sitting there again and playing with a fan) she asked him to apologize, should the occasion present itself, to certain people in Boston for her not having returned their calls. “There are half a dozen places,” she said; “a formidable list. Charlotte Wentworth has written it out for me, in a terrifically distinct hand. There is no ambiguity42 on the subject; I know perfectly where I must go. Mr. Wentworth informs me that the carriage is always at my disposal, and Charlotte offers to go with me, in a pair of tight gloves and a very stiff petticoat. And yet for three days I have been putting it off. They must think me horribly vicious.”
“You ask me to apologize,” said Acton, “but you don’t tell me what excuse I can offer.”
“That is more,” the Baroness declared, “than I am held to. It would be like my asking you to buy me a bouquet43 and giving you the money. I have no reason except that — somehow — it ‘s too violent an effort. It is not inspiring. Would n’t that serve as an excuse, in Boston? I am told they are very sincere; they don’t tell fibs. And then Felix ought to go with me, and he is never in readiness. I don’t see him. He is always roaming about the fields and sketching44 old barns, or taking ten-mile walks, or painting some one’s portrait, or rowing on the pond, or flirting45 with Gertrude Wentworth.”
“I should think it would amuse you to go and see a few people,” said Acton. “You are having a very quiet time of it here. It ‘s a dull life for you.”
“Ah, the quiet,— the quiet!” the Baroness exclaimed. “That ‘s what I like. It ‘s rest. That ‘s what I came here for. Amusement? I have had amusement. And as for seeing people — I have already seen a great many in my life. If it did n’t sound ungracious I should say that I wish very humbly46 your people here would leave me alone!”
Acton looked at her a moment, and she looked at him. She was a woman who took being looked at remarkably47 well. “So you have come here for rest?” he asked.
“So I may say. I came for many of those reasons that are no reasons — don’t you know?— and yet that are really the best: to come away, to change, to break with everything. When once one comes away one must arrive somewhere, and I asked myself why I should n’t arrive here.”
“You certainly had time on the way!” said Acton, laughing.
Madame Munster looked at him again; and then, smiling: “And I have certainly had time, since I got here, to ask myself why I came. However, I never ask myself idle questions. Here I am, and it seems to me you ought only to thank me.”
“When you go away you will see the difficulties I shall put in your path.”
“You mean to put difficulties in my path?” she asked, rearranging the rosebud48 in her corsage.
“The greatest of all — that of having been so agreeable”—
“That I shall be unable to depart? Don’t be too sure. I have left some very agreeable people over there.”
“Ah,” said Acton, “but it was to come here, where I am!”
“I did n’t know of your existence. Excuse me for saying anything so rude; but, honestly speaking, I did not. No,” the Baroness pursued, “it was precisely49 not to see you — such people as you — that I came.”
“Such people as me?” cried Acton.
“I had a sort of longing50 to come into those natural relations which I knew I should find here. Over there I had only, as I may say, artificial relations. Don’t you see the difference?”
“The difference tells against me,” said Acton. “I suppose I am an artificial relation.”
“Conventional,” declared the Baroness; “very conventional.”
“Well, there is one way in which the relation of a lady and a gentleman may always become natural,” said Acton.
“You mean by their becoming lovers? That may be natural or not. And at any rate,” rejoined Eugenia, “nous n’en sommes pas la!”
They were not, as yet; but a little later, when she began to go with him to drive, it might almost have seemed that they were. He came for her several times, alone, in his high “wagon,” drawn51 by a pair of charming light-limbed horses. It was different, her having gone with Clifford Wentworth, who was her cousin, and so much younger. It was not to be imagined that she should have a flirtation52 with Clifford, who was a mere shame-faced boy, and whom a large section of Boston society supposed to be “engaged” to Lizzie Acton. Not, indeed, that it was to be conceived that the Baroness was a possible party to any flirtation whatever; for she was undoubtedly53 a married lady. It was generally known that her matrimonial condition was of the “morganatic” order; but in its natural aversion to suppose that this meant anything less than absolute wedlock54, the conscience of the community took refuge in the belief that it implied something even more.
Acton wished her to think highly of American scenery, and he drove her to great distances, picking out the prettiest roads and the largest points of view. If we are good when we are contented55, Eugenia’s virtues56 should now certainly have been uppermost; for she found a charm in the rapid movement through a wild country, and in a companion who from time to time made the vehicle dip, with a motion like a swallow’s flight, over roads of primitive57 construction, and who, as she felt, would do a great many things that she might ask him. Sometimes, for a couple of hours together, there were almost no houses; there were nothing but woods and rivers and lakes and horizons adorned with bright-looking mountains. It seemed to the Baroness very wild, as I have said, and lovely; but the impression added something to that sense of the enlargement of opportunity which had been born of her arrival in the New World.
One day — it was late in the afternoon — Acton pulled up his horses on the crest58 of a hill which commanded a beautiful prospect59. He let them stand a long time to rest, while he sat there and talked with Madame M; auunster. The prospect was beautiful in spite of there being nothing human within sight. There was a wilderness60 of woods, and the gleam of a distant river, and a glimpse of half the hill-tops in Massachusetts. The road had a wide, grassy61 margin62, on the further side of which there flowed a deep, clear brook63; there were wild flowers in the grass, and beside the brook lay the trunk of a fallen tree. Acton waited a while; at last a rustic64 wayfarer65 came trudging66 along the road. Acton asked him to hold the horses — a service he consented to render, as a friendly turn to a fellow-citizen. Then he invited the Baroness to descend67, and the two wandered away, across the grass, and sat down on the log beside the brook.
“I imagine it does n’t remind you of Silberstadt,” said Acton. It was the first time that he had mentioned Silberstadt to her, for particular reasons. He knew she had a husband there, and this was disagreeable to him; and, furthermore, it had been repeated to him that this husband wished to put her away — a state of affairs to which even indirect reference was to be deprecated. It was true, nevertheless, that the Baroness herself had often alluded68 to Silberstadt; and Acton had often wondered why her husband wished to get rid of her. It was a curious position for a lady — this being known as a repudiated wife; and it is worthy69 of observation that the Baroness carried it off with exceeding grace and dignity. She had made it felt, from the first, that there were two sides to the question, and that her own side, when she should choose to present it, would be replete70 with touching71 interest.
“It does not remind me of the town, of course,” she said, “of the sculptured gables and the Gothic churches, of the wonderful Schloss, with its moat and its clustering towers. But it has a little look of some other parts of the principality. One might fancy one’s self among those grand old German forests, those legendary72 mountains; the sort of country one sees from the windows at Shreckenstein.”
“What is Shreckenstein?” asked Acton.
“It is a great castle,— the summer residence of the Reigning73 Prince.”
“Have you ever lived there?”
“I have stayed there,” said the Baroness. Acton was silent; he looked a while at the uncastled landscape before him. “It is the first time you have ever asked me about Silberstadt,” she said. “I should think you would want to know about my marriage; it must seem to you very strange.”
Acton looked at her a moment. “Now you would n’t like me to say that!”
“You Americans have such odd ways!” the Baroness declared. “You never ask anything outright74; there seem to be so many things you can’t talk about.”
“We Americans are very polite,” said Acton, whose national consciousness had been complicated by a residence in foreign lands, and who yet disliked to hear Americans abused. “We don’t like to tread upon people’s toes,” he said. “But I should like very much to hear about your marriage. Now tell me how it came about.”
“The Prince fell in love with me,” replied the Baroness simply. “He pressed his suit very hard. At first he did n’t wish me to marry him; on the contrary. But on that basis I refused to listen to him. So he offered me marriage — in so far as he might. I was young, and I confess I was rather flattered. But if it were to be done again now, I certainly should not accept him.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Acton.
“Oh — several years,” said Eugenia. “You should never ask a woman for dates.”
“Why, I should think that when a woman was relating history”. . . . Acton answered. “And now he wants to break it off?”
“They want him to make a political marriage. It is his brother’s idea. His brother is very clever.”
“They must be a precious pair!” cried Robert Acton.
The Baroness gave a little philosophic75 shrug76. “Que voulez-vous? They are princes. They think they are treating me very well. Silberstadt is a perfectly despotic little state, and the Reigning Prince may annul77 the marriage by a stroke of his pen. But he has promised me, nevertheless, not to do so without my formal consent.”
“And this you have refused?”
“Hitherto. It is an indignity78, and I have wished at least to make it difficult for them. But I have a little document in my writing-desk which I have only to sign and send back to the Prince.”
“Then it will be all over?”
The Baroness lifted her hand, and dropped it again. “Of course I shall keep my title; at least, I shall be at liberty to keep it if I choose. And I suppose I shall keep it. One must have a name. And I shall keep my pension. It is very small — it is wretchedly small; but it is what I live on.”
“And you have only to sign that paper?” Acton asked.
The Baroness looked at him a moment. “Do you urge it?”
He got up slowly, and stood with his hands in his pockets. “What do you gain by not doing it?”
“I am supposed to gain this advantage — that if I delay, or temporize79, the Prince may come back to me, may make a stand against his brother. He is very fond of me, and his brother has pushed him only little by little.”
“If he were to come back to you,” said Acton, “would you — would you take him back?”
The Baroness met his eyes; she colored just a little. Then she rose. “I should have the satisfaction of saying, ‘Now it is my turn. I break with your serene80 highness!’”
They began to walk toward the carriage. “Well,” said Robert Acton, “it ‘s a curious story! How did you make his acquaintance?”
“I was staying with an old lady — an old Countess — in Dresden. She had been a friend of my father’s. My father was dead; I was very much alone. My brother was wandering about the world in a theatrical81 troupe82.”
“Your brother ought to have stayed with you,” Acton observed, “and kept you from putting your trust in princes.”
The Baroness was silent a moment, and then, “He did what he could,” she said. “He sent me money. The old Countess encouraged the Prince; she was even pressing. It seems to me,” Madame Munster added, gently, “that — under the circumstances — I behaved very well.”
Acton glanced at her, and made the observation — he had made it before — that a woman looks the prettier for having unfolded her wrongs or her sufferings. “Well,” he reflected, audibly, “I should like to see you send his serene highness — somewhere!”
Madame Munster stooped and plucked a daisy from the grass. “And not sign my renunciation?”
“Well, I don’t know — I don’t know,” said Acton.
“In one case I should have my revenge; in another case I should have my liberty.”
Acton gave a little laugh as he helped her into the carriage. “At any rate,” he said, “take good care of that paper.”
A couple of days afterward83 he asked her to come and see his house. The visit had already been proposed, but it had been put off in consequence of his mother’s illness. She was a constant invalid84, and she had passed these recent years, very patiently, in a great flowered arm-chair at her bedroom window. Lately, for some days, she had been unable to see any one; but now she was better, and she sent the Baroness a very civil message. Acton had wished their visitor to come to dinner; but Madame M; auunster preferred to begin with a simple call. She had reflected that if she should go to dinner Mr. Wentworth and his daughters would also be asked, and it had seemed to her that the peculiar85 character of the occasion would be best preserved in a tete-a-tete with her host. Why the occasion should have a peculiar character she explained to no one. As far as any one could see, it was simply very pleasant. Acton came for her and drove her to his door, an operation which was rapidly performed. His house the Baroness mentally pronounced a very good one; more articulately, she declared that it was enchanting86. It was large and square and painted brown; it stood in a well-kept shrubbery, and was approached, from the gate, by a short drive. It was, moreover, a much more modern dwelling87 than Mr. Wentworth’s, and was more redundantly88 upholstered and expensively ornamented89. The Baroness perceived that her entertainer had analyzed90 material comfort to a sufficiently91 fine point. And then he possessed92 the most delightful93 chinoiseries — trophies94 of his sojourn95 in the Celestial96 Empire: pagodas97 of ebony and cabinets of ivory; sculptured monsters, grinning and leering on chimney-pieces, in front of beautifully figured hand-screens; porcelain98 dinner-sets, gleaming behind the glass doors of mahogany buffets99; large screens, in corners, covered with tense silk and embroidered100 with mandarins and dragons. These things were scattered101 all over the house, and they gave Eugenia a pretext102 for a complete domiciliary visit. She liked it, she enjoyed it; she thought it a very nice place. It had a mixture of the homely103 and the liberal, and though it was almost a museum, the large, little-used rooms were as fresh and clean as a well-kept dairy. Lizzie Acton told her that she dusted all the pagodas and other curiosities every day with her own hands; and the Baroness answered that she was evidently a household fairy. Lizzie had not at all the look of a young lady who dusted things; she wore such pretty dresses and had such delicate fingers that it was difficult to imagine her immersed in sordid104 cares. She came to meet Madame M; auunster on her arrival, but she said nothing, or almost nothing, and the Baroness again reflected — she had had occasion to do so before — that American girls had no manners. She disliked this little American girl, and she was quite prepared to learn that she had failed to commend herself to Miss Acton. Lizzie struck her as positive and explicit almost to pertness; and the idea of her combining the apparent incongruities105 of a taste for housework and the wearing of fresh, Parisian-looking dresses suggested the possession of a dangerous energy. It was a source of irritation106 to the Baroness that in this country it should seem to matter whether a little girl were a trifle less or a trifle more of a nonentity107; for Eugenia had hitherto been conscious of no moral pressure as regards the appreciation of diminutive108 virgins109. It was perhaps an indication of Lizzie’s pertness that she very soon retired110 and left the Baroness on her brother’s hands. Acton talked a great deal about his chinoiseries; he knew a good deal about porcelain and bric-a-brac. The Baroness, in her progress through the house, made, as it were, a great many stations. She sat down everywhere, confessed to being a little tired, and asked about the various objects with a curious mixture of alertness and inattention. If there had been any one to say it to she would have declared that she was positively111 in love with her host; but she could hardly make this declaration — even in the strictest confidence — to Acton himself. It gave her, nevertheless, a pleasure that had some of the charm of unwontedness to feel, with that admirable keenness with which she was capable of feeling things, that he had a disposition without any edges; that even his humorous irony112 always expanded toward the point. One’s impression of his honesty was almost like carrying a bunch of flowers; the perfume was most agreeable, but they were occasionally an inconvenience. One could trust him, at any rate, round all the corners of the world; and, withal, he was not absolutely simple, which would have been excess; he was only relatively113 simple, which was quite enough for the Baroness.
Lizzie reappeared to say that her mother would now be happy to receive Madame Munster; and the Baroness followed her to Mrs. Acton’s apartment. Eugenia reflected, as she went, that it was not the affectation of impertinence that made her dislike this young lady, for on that ground she could easily have beaten her. It was not an aspiration114 on the girl’s part to rivalry115, but a kind of laughing, childishly-mocking indifference116 to the results of comparison. Mrs. Acton was an emaciated117, sweet-faced woman of five and fifty, sitting with pillows behind her, and looking out on a clump118 of hemlocks119. She was very modest, very timid, and very ill; she made Eugenia feel grateful that she herself was not like that — neither so ill, nor, possibly, so modest. On a chair, beside her, lay a volume of Emerson’s Essays. It was a great occasion for poor Mrs. Acton, in her helpless condition, to be confronted with a clever foreign lady, who had more manner than any lady — any dozen ladies — that she had ever seen.
“I have heard a great deal about you,” she said, softly, to the Baroness.
“From your son, eh?” Eugenia asked. “He has talked to me immensely of you. Oh, he talks of you as you would like,” the Baroness declared; “as such a son must talk of such a mother!”
Mrs. Acton sat gazing; this was part of Madame Munster’s “manner.” But Robert Acton was gazing too, in vivid consciousness that he had barely mentioned his mother to their brilliant guest. He never talked of this still maternal120 presence,— a presence refined to such delicacy121 that it had almost resolved itself, with him, simply into the subjective122 emotion of gratitude123. And Acton rarely talked of his emotions. The Baroness turned her smile toward him, and she instantly felt that she had been observed to be fibbing. She had struck a false note. But who were these people to whom such fibbing was not pleasing? If they were annoyed, the Baroness was equally so; and after the exchange of a few civil inquiries124 and low-voiced responses she took leave of Mrs. Acton. She begged Robert not to come home with her; she would get into the carriage alone; she preferred that. This was imperious, and she thought he looked disappointed. While she stood before the door with him — the carriage was turning in the gravel-walk — this thought restored her serenity125.
When she had given him her hand in farewell she looked at him a moment. “I have almost decided126 to dispatch that paper,” she said.
He knew that she alluded to the document that she had called her renunciation; and he assisted her into the carriage without saying anything. But just before the vehicle began to move he said, “Well, when you have in fact dispatched it, I hope you will let me know!”
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perturbing
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kinsman
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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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habitually
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vainglorious
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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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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explicit
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judgment
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ornament
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distinguished
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celibacy
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subdued
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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illicit
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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adumbration
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gallantly
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mere
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discretion
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addicted
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disposition
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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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27
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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29
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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30
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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31
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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32
vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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33
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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34
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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36
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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37
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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38
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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39
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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40
gauged
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| adj.校准的；标准的；量规的；量计的v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的过去式和过去分词 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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41
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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42
ambiguity
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| n.模棱两可；意义不明确 | |
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43
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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44
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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45
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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46
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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47
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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48
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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49
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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50
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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53
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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54
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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56
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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66
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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67
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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71
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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72
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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76
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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77
annul
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| v.宣告…无效，取消，废止 | |
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78
indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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79
temporize
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| v.顺应时势；拖延 | |
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80
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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81
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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83
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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84
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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85
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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87
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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88
redundantly
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| 多余地，冗余地 | |
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89
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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92
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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93
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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94
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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95
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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96
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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pagodas
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| 塔，宝塔( pagoda的名词复数 ) | |
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98
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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99
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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101
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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102
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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103
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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104
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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105
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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106
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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107
nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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108
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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109
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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110
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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111
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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112
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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113
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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114
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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115
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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116
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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117
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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118
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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119
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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120
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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121
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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122
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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123
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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124
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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125
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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126
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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