Before noon of the next day I was ascending1 the stairs of the new house in which the Duc had his hermitage. There was an air of secrecy2 in the broad publicity3 of the carpeted stairs that led to his flat; a hush4 in the atmosphere; in the street itself, a glorified5 cul de sac that ran into the bustling6 life of the Italiens. It had the sudden sluggishness7 of a back-water. One seemed to have grown suddenly deaf in the midst of the rattle8.
There was an incredible suggestion of silence—the silence of a private detective—in the mien9 of the servant who ushered10 me into a room. He was the English servant of the theatre—the English servant that foreigners affect. The room had a splendour of its own, not a cheaply vulgar splendour, but the vulgarity of the most lavish11 plush and purple kind. The air was heavy, killed by the scent12 of exotic flowers, darkened by curtains that suggested the voluminous velvet13 backgrounds of certain old portraits. The Duc de Mersch had carried with him into this place of retirement14 the taste of the New Palace, that show-place of his that was the stupefaction of swarms15 of honest tourists.
I remembered soon enough that the man was a philanthropist, that he might be an excellent man of heart and indifferent of taste. He must be. But I was prone16 to be influenced by things of this sort, and felt depressed17 at the thought that so much of royal excellence18 should weigh so heavily in the wrong scale of the balance of the applied19 arts. I turned my back on the room and gazed at the blazing white decorations of the opposite house-fronts.
A door behind me must have opened, for I heard the sounds of a concluding tirade20 in a high-pitched voice.
“Et quant à un duc de farce21, je ne m’en fiche pas mal, moi,” it said in an accent curiously22 compounded of the foreign and the coulisse. A muttered male remonstrance23 ensued, and then, with disconcerting clearness:
“Gr-r-rangeur—Eschingan—eh bien—il entend. Et moi, j’entends, moi aussi. Tu veux me jouer contre elle. La Grangeur—pah! Consoles-toi avec elle, mon vieux. Je ne veux plus de toi. Tu m’as donné de tes sales rentes Groenlandoises, et je n’ai pas pu les vendre. Ah, vieux farceur, tu vas voir ce que j’en vais faire.”
A glorious creature—a really glorious creature—came out of an adjoining room. She was as frail24, as swaying as a garden lily. Her great blue eyes turned irefully upon me, her bowed lips parted, her nostrils25 quivered.
“Et quant à vous, M. Grangeur Eschingan,” she began, “je vais vous donner mon idée à moi . . . ”
I did not understand the situation in the least, but I appreciated the awkwardness of it. The world seemed to be standing26 on its head. I was overcome; but I felt for the person in the next room. I did not know what to do. Suddenly I found myself saying:
“I am extremely sorry, madam, but I don’t understand French.” An expression of more intense vexation passed into her face—her beautiful face. I fancy she wished—wished intensely—to give me the benefit of her “idée à elle.” She made a quick, violent gesture of disgusted contempt, and turned toward the half-open door from which she had come. She began again to dilate27 upon the little weaknesses of the person behind, when silently and swiftly it closed. We heard the lock click. With extraordinary quickness she had her mouth at the keyhole: “Peeg, peeg,” she enunciated28. Then she stood to her full height, her face became calm, her manner stately. She glided29 half way across the room, paused, looked at me, and pointed30 toward the unmoving door.
“Peeg, peeg,” she explained, mysteriously. I think she was warning me against the wiles31 of the person behind the door. I gazed into her great eyes. “I understand,” I said, gravely. She glided from the room. For me the incident supplied a welcome touch of comedy. I had leisure for thought. The door remained closed. It made the Duc a more real person for me. I had regarded him as a rather tiresome32 person in whom a pompous33 philanthropism took the place of human feelings. It amused me to be called Le Grangeur. It amused me, and I stood in need of amusement. Without it I might never have written the article on the Duc. I had started out that morning in a state of nervous irritation34. I had wanted more than ever to have done with the thing, with the Hour, with journalism35, with everything. But this little new experience buoyed36 me up, set my mind working in less morbid37 lines. I began to wonder whether de Mersch would funk, or whether he would take my non-comprehension of the woman’s tirades38 as a thing assured.
The door at which I had entered, by which she had left, opened.
He must have impressed me in some way or other that evening at the Churchills. He seemed a very stereotyped39 image in my memory. He spoke40 just as he had spoken, moved his hands just as I expected him to move them. He called for no modification41 of my views of his person. As a rule one classes a man so-and-so at first meeting, modifies the classification at each subsequent one, and so on. He seemed to be all affability, of an adipose42 turn. He had the air of the man of the world among men of the world; but none of the unconscious reserve of manner that one expects to find in the temporarily great. He had in its place a kind of sub-sulkiness, as if he regretted the pedestal from which he had descended43.
In his slow commercial English he apologised for having kept me waiting; he had been taking the air of this fine morning, he said. He mumbled44 the words with his eyes on my waistcoat, with an air that accorded rather ill with the semblance45 of portentous46 probity47 that his beard conferred on him. But he set an eye-glass in his left eye immediately afterward48, and looked straight at me as if in challenge. With a smiling “Don’t mention,” I tried to demonstrate that I met him half way.
“You want to interview me,” he said, blandly49. “I am only too pleased. I suppose it is about my Arctic schemes that you wish to know. I will do what I can to inform you. You perhaps remember what I said when I had the pleasure of meeting you at the house of the Right Honourable50 Mr. Churchill. It has been the dream of my life to leave behind me a happy and contented51 State—as much as laws and organisation52 can make one. This is what I should most like the English to know of me.” He was a dull talker. I supposed that philanthropists and state founders54 kept their best faculties55 for their higher pursuits. I imagined the low, receding56 forehead and the pink-nailed, fleshy hands to belong to a new Solon, a latter-day ?neas. I tried to work myself into the properly enthusiastic frame of mind. After all, it was a great work that he had undertaken. I was too much given to dwell upon intellectual gifts. These the Duc seemed to lack. I credited him with having let them be merged57 in his one noble idea.
He furnished me with statistics. They had laid down so many miles of railways, used so many engines of British construction. They had taught the natives to use and to value sewing-machines and European costumes. So many hundred of English younger sons had gone to make their fortunes and, incidentally, to enlighten the Esquimaux—so many hundreds of French, of Germans, Greeks, Russians. All these lived and moved in harmony, employed, happy, free labourers, protected by the most rigid58 laws. Man-eating, fetich-worship, slavery had been abolished, stamped out. The great international society for the preservation59 of Polar freedom watched over all, suggested new laws, modified the old. The country was unhealthy, but not to men of clean lives—hominibus bon? voluntatis. It asked for no others.
“I have had to endure much misrepresentation. I have been called names,” the Duc said.
The figure of the lady danced before my eyes, lithe60, supple—a statue endued61 with the motion of a serpent. I seemed to see her sculptured white hand pointing to the closed door.
“Ah, yes,” I said, “but one knows the people that call you names.”
“Well, then,” he answered, “it is your task to make them know the truth. Your nation has so much power. If it will only realise.”
“I will do my best,” I said.
I saw the apotheosis62 of the Press—a Press that makes a State Founder53 suppliant63 to a man like myself. For he had the tone of a deprecating petitioner64. I stood between himself and a people, the arbiter65 of the peoples, of the kings of the future. I was nothing, nobody; yet here I stood in communion with one of those who change the face of continents. He had need of me, of the power that was behind me. It was strange to be alone in that room with that man—to be there just as I might be in my own little room alone with any other man.
I was not unduly66 elated, you must understand. It was nothing to me. I was just a person elected by some suffrage67 of accidents. Even in my own eyes I was merely a symbol—the sign visible of incomprehensible power.
“I will do my best,” I said.
“Ah, yes, do,” he said, “Mr. Churchill told me how nicely you can do such things.”
I said that it was very kind of Mr. Churchill. The tension of the conversation was relaxed. The Duc asked if I had yet seen my aunt.
“I had forgotten her,” I said.
“Oh, you must see her,” he said; “she is a most remarkable69 lady. She is one of my relaxations70. All Paris talks about her, I can assure you.”
“I had no idea,” I said.
“Oh, cultivate her,” he said; “you will be amused.”
“I will,” I said, as I took my leave.
I went straight home to my little room above the roofs. I began at once to write my article, working at high pressure, almost hysterically71. I remember that place and that time so well. In moments of emotion one gazes fixedly72 at things, hardly conscious of them. Afterward one remembers.
I can still see the narrow room, the bare, brown, discoloured walls, the incongruous marble clock on the mantel-piece, the single rickety chair that swayed beneath me. I could almost draw the tortuous73 pattern of the faded cloth that hid the round table at which I sat. The ink was thick, pale, and sticky; the pen spluttered. I wrote furiously, anxious to be done with it. Once I went and leaned over the balcony, trying to hit on a word that would not come. Miles down below, little people crawled over the cobbled street, little carts rattled74, little workmen let down casks into a cellar. It was all very grey, small, and clear.
Through the open window of an opposite garret I could see a sculptor75 working at a colossal76 clay model. In his white blouse he seemed big, out of all proportion to the rest of the world. Level with my eyes there were flat lead roofs and chimneys. On one of these was scrawled77, in big, irregular, blue-painted letters: “A bas Coignet.”
Great clouds began to loom78 into view over the house-tops, rounded, toppling masses of grey, lit up with sullen79 orange against the pale limpid80 blue of the sky. I stood and looked at all these objects. I had come out here to think—thoughts had deserted81 me. I could only look.
The clouds moved imperceptibly, fatefully onward82, a streak83 of lightning tore them apart. They whirled like tortured smoke and grew suddenly black. Large spots of rain with jagged edges began to fall on the lead floor of my balcony.
I turned into the twilight84 of my room and began to write. I can still feel the tearing of my pen-point on the coarse paper. It was a hindrance85 to thought, but my flow of words ignored it, gained impetus86 from it, as a stream does at the breaking of a dam.
I was writing a p?an to a great coloniser. That sort of thing was in the air then. I was drawn87 into it, carried away by my subject. Perhaps I let it do so because it was so little familiar to my lines of thought. It was fresh ground and I revelled88 in it. I committed myself to that kind of emotional, lyrical outburst that one dislikes so much on rereading. I was half conscious of the fact, but I ignored it.
The thunderstorm was over, and there was a moist sparkling freshness in the air when I hurried with my copy to the Hour office in the Avenue de l’Opéra. I wished to be rid of it, to render impossible all chance of revision on the morrow.
I wanted, too, to feel elated; I expected it. It was a right. At the office I found the foreign correspondent, a little cosmopolitan89 Jew whose eyebrows90 began their growth on the bridge of his nose. He was effusive91 and familiar, as the rest of his kind.
“Hullo, Granger,” was his greeting. I was used to regarding myself as fallen from a high estate, but I was not yet so humble92 in spirit as to relish93 being called Granger by a stranger of his stamp. I tried to freeze him politely.
“Read your stuff in the Hour,” was his rejoinder; “jolly good I call it. Been doing old Red–Beard? Let’s have a look. Yes, yes. That’s the way—that’s the real thing—I call it. Must have bored you to death . . . old de Mersch I mean. I ought to have had the job, you know. My business, interviewing people in Paris. But I don’t mind. Much rather you did it than I. You do it a heap better.”
I murmured thanks. There was a pathos94 about the sleek95 little man—a pathos that is always present in the type. He seemed to be trying to assume a deprecating equality.
“Where are you going to-night?” he asked, with sudden effusiveness96. I was taken aback. One is not used to being asked these questions after five minutes’ acquaintance. I said that I had no plans.
“Look here,” he said, brightening up, “come and have dinner with me at Breguet’s, and look in at the Opera afterward. We’ll have a real nice chat.”
I was too tired to frame an adequate excuse. Besides, the little man was as eager as a child for a new toy. We went to Breguet’s and had a really excellent dinner.
“Always come here,” he said; “one meets a lot of swells98. It runs away with a deal of money—but I don’t care to do things on the cheap, not for the Hour, you know. You can always be certain when I say that I have a thing from a senator that he is a senator, and not an old woman in a paper kiosque. Most of them do that sort of thing, you know.”
“I always wondered,” I said, mildly.
“That’s de Sourdam I nodded to as we came in, and that old chap there is Pluyvis—the Affaire man, you know. I must have a word with him in a minute, if you’ll excuse me.”
He began to ask affectionately after the health of the excellent Fox, asked if I saw him often, and so on and so on. I divined with amusement that was pleasurable that the little man had his own little axe68 to grind, and thought I might take a turn at the grindstone if he managed me well. So he nodded to de Sourdam of the Austrian embassy and had his word with Pluyvis, and rejoiced to have impressed me—I could see him bubble with happiness and purr. He proposed that we should stroll as far as the paper kiosque that he patronised habitually—it was kept by a fellow-Israelite—a snuffy little old woman.
I understood that in the joy of his heart he was for expanding, for wasting a few minutes on a stroll.
“Haven’t stretched my legs for months,” he explained.
We strolled there through the summer twilight. It was so pleasant to saunter through the young summer night. There were so many little things to catch the eyes, so many of the little things down near the earth; expressions on faces of the passers, the set of a collar, the quaint97 foreign tightness of waist of a good bourgeoise who walked arm in arm with her perspiring99 spouse100. The gilding101 on the statue of Joan of Arc had a pleasant littleness of Philistinism, the arcades102 of the Rue103 de Rivoli broke up the grey light pleasantly too. I remembered a little shop—a little Greek affair with a windowful of pinch-beck—where I had been given a false five-franc piece years and years ago. The same villainous old Levantine stood in the doorway104, perhaps the fez that he wore was the same fez. The little old woman that we strolled to was bent105 nearly double. Her nose touched her wares106 as often as not, her mittened107 hands sought quiveringly the papers that the correspondent asked for. I liked him the better for his solicitude108 for this forlorn piece of flotsam of his own race.
“Always come here,” he exclaimed; “one gets into habits. Very honest woman, too, you can be certain of getting your change. If you’re a stranger you can’t be sure that they won’t give you Italian silver, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” I answered. I knew, too, that he wished me to purchase something. I followed the course of her groping hands, caught sight of the Revue Rouge109, and remembered that it contained something about Greenland. I helped myself to it, paid for it, and received my just change. I felt that I had satisfied the little man, and felt satisfied with myself.
“I want to see Radet’s article on Greenland,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he explained, once more exhibiting himself in the capacity of the man who knows, “Radet gives it to them. Rather a lark110, I call it, though you mustn’t let old de Mersch know you read him. Radet got sick of Cochin, and tried Greenland. He’s getting touched by the Whites you know. They say that the priests don’t like the way the Système’s playing into the hands of the Protestants and the English Government. So they set Radet on to write it down. He’s going in for mysticism and all that sort of thing—just like all these French jokers are doing. Got deuced thick with that lot in the F. St. Germain—some relation of yours, ain’t they? Rather a lark that lot, quite the thing just now, everyone goes there; old de Mersch too. Have frightful111 rows sometimes, such a mixed lot, you see.” The good little man rattled amiably112 along beside me.
“Seems quite funny to be buying books,” he said. “I haven’t read a thing I’ve bought, not for years.”
We reached the Opera in time for the end of the first act—it was A?da, I think. My little friend had a free pass all over the house. I had not been in it for years. In the old days I had always seen the stage from a great height, craning over people’s heads in a sultry twilight; now I saw it on a level, seated at my ease. I had only the power of the Press to thank for the change.
“Come here as often as I can,” my companion said; “can’t do without music when it’s to be had.” Indeed he had the love of his race for it. It seemed to soften113 him, to change his nature, as he sat silent by my side.
But the closing notes of each scene found him out in the cool of the corridors, talking, and being talked to by anyone that would vouchsafe114 him a word.
“Pick up a lot here,” he explained.
After the finale we leaned over one of the side balconies to watch the crowd streaming down the marble staircases. It is a scene that I never tire of. There is something so fantastically tawdry in the coloured marble of the architecture. It is for all the world like a triumph of ornamental115 soap work; one expects to smell the odours. And the torrent116 of humanity pouring liquidly aslant117 through the mirror-like light, and the spaciousness118. . . . Yes, it is fantastic, somehow; ironical119, too.
I was watching the devious120 passage of a rather drunken, gigantic, florid Englishman, wondering, I think, how he would reach his bed.
“That must be a relation of yours,” the correspondent said, pointing. My glance followed the line indicated by his pale finger. I made out the glorious beard of the Duc de Mersch, on his arm was an old lady to whom he seemed to pay deferential121 attention. His head was bent on one side; he was smiling frankly122. A little behind them, on the stairway, there was a space. Perhaps I was mistaken; perhaps there was no space—I don’t know. I was only conscious of a figure, an indescribably clear-cut woman’s figure, gliding123 down the way. It had a coldness, a self-possession, a motion of its own. In that clear, transparent124, shimmering125 light, every little fold of the dress, every little shadow of the white arms, the white shoulders, came up to me. The face turned up to meet mine. I remember so well the light shining down on the face, not a shadow anywhere, not a shadow beneath the eyebrows, the nostrils, the waves of hair. It was a vision of light, theatening, sinister126.
She smiled, her lips parted.
“You come to me tomorrow,” she said. Did I hear the words, did her lips merely form them? She was far, far down below me; the air was alive with the rustling127 of feet, of garments, of laughter, full of sounds that made themselves heard, full of sounds that would not be caught.
“You come to me . . . tomorrow.”
The old lady on the Duc de Mersch’s arm was obviously my aunt. I did not see why I should not go to them tomorrow. It struck me suddenly and rather pleasantly that this was, after all, my family. This old lady actually was a connection more close than anyone else in the world. As for the girl, to all intents and, in everyone else’s eyes, she was my sister. I cannot say I disliked having her for my sister, either. I stood looking down upon them and felt less alone than I had done for many years.
A minute scuffle of the shortest duration was taking place beside me. There were a couple of men at my elbow. I don’t in the least know what they were—perhaps marquises, perhaps railway employees—one never can tell over there. One of them was tall and blond, with a heavy, bow-shaped red moustache—Irish in type; the other of no particular height, excellently groomed128, dark, and exemplary. I knew he was exemplary from some detail of costume that I can’t remember—his gloves or a strip of silk down the sides of his trousers—something of the sort. The blond was saying something that I did not catch. I heard the words “de Mersch” and “Anglaise,” and saw the dark man turn his attention to the little group below. Then I caught my own name mispronounced and somewhat of a stumbling-block to a high-pitched contemptuous intonation129. The little correspondent, who was on my other arm, started visibly and moved swiftly behind my back.
“Messieurs,” he said in an urgent whisper, and drew them to a little distance. I saw him say something, saw them pivot130 to look at me, shrug131 their shoulders and walk away. I didn’t in the least grasp the significance of the scene—not then.
“What’s the matter?” I asked my returning friend; “were they talking about me?” He answered nervously132.
“Oh, it was about your aunt’s Salon133, you know. They might have been going to say something awkward . . . one never knows.”
“They really do talk about it then?” I said. “I’ve a good mind to attend one of their exhibitions.”
“Why, of course,” he said, “you ought. I really think you ought.”
“I’ll go tomorrow,” I answered.
收听单词发音 |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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tirades
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| 激烈的长篇指责或演说( tirade的名词复数 ) | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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40
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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41
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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42
adipose
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| adj.脂肪质的，脂肪多的；n.（储于脂肪组织中的）动物脂肪；肥胖 | |
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43
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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44
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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46
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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47
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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48
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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49
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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50
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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51
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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52
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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53
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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54
founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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55
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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56
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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57
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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58
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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59
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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60
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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61
endued
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| v.授予，赋予（特性、才能等）( endue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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63
suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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64
petitioner
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| n.请愿人 | |
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65
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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66
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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67
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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68
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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69
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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70
relaxations
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| n.消遣( relaxation的名词复数 )；松懈；松弛；放松 | |
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71
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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72
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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73
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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74
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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75
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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76
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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77
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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79
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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81
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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82
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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83
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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84
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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85
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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86
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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87
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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88
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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89
cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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90
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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91
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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92
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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93
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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94
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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95
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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96
effusiveness
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| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
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97
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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98
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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99
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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100
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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101
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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102
arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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103
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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104
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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105
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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106
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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107
mittened
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| v.（使）变得潮湿，变得湿润( moisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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109
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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110
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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111
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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112
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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113
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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114
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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115
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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116
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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117
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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118
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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119
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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120
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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121
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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122
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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123
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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124
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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125
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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126
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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127
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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128
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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129
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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130
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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131
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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132
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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133
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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