It does not signify much whether the family of girls happen to be rich or poor, unless indeed that early and sharp poverty causes a precocity9 which deepens girls' characters betimes, and by making them sooner women, robs them of a certain
[2]
amount of the thoughtlessness, fearlessness, and impracticability of girlhood. But girlhood, like many another natural condition, dies hard; and its sweet, bright illusions, its wisdom and its folly10, survive tolerably severe pinches of adversity.
The younger members of such a sisterhood are politely supposed to be kept in safe ignorance of the great event which is befalling one of the seniors. It is thought at once a delicate and prudent11 precaution to prevent the veil which hides the future, with its casualties, from being lifted prematurely12 and abruptly13, where juvenile14 minds are concerned, lest they become unhinged and unfit for the salutary discipline of schoolroom lessons, and the mild pleasure of schoolroom treats. The flower in the bud ought to be kept with its petals15 folded, in its innocent absence of self-consciousness, to the last moment.
But there is an electric sympathy in the air which defeats precautions. There is a freemasonry of dawning womanhood which starts into life everywhere. How do the young people pick up with such surprising quickness and acuteness the looks and whispers meant to pass over their heads, the merry glances, nervous shrugs16, quick blushes, and indignant pouts17, which have suddenly grown strangely prevalent in the blooming circle? The bystanders are understood to be engrossed18 with
[3]
their music-lessons, their drawing-classes, their rudimentary Latin and Greek—if anybody is going in for the higher education of women—their pets, their games of lawn-tennis, their girl companions with whom these other girls are for ever making appointments to walk, to practise part-singing, to work or read together, to get up drawing-room tableaux19 or plays.
The general consciousness is not, in certain lights, favourable20 to a lover's pretensions21. For human nature is perverse22, and there is such a thing as esprit-de-corps running to excess. There may be a due amount of girlish pride in knowing that one of the sisters has inspired a grand passion. There may be a tremulous respect for the fact that she has passed the Rubicon, that, in place of girlish trifling23, she has an affair which has to do with the happiness or misery24 of a fellow creature, not to say with her own happiness or misery, on her burdened mind. Why, if she does not take care, she may be plunged25 at once, first into the whirl of choosing her trousseau and the fascinating trial of being the principal figure at a wedding, and then involved in the tremendous responsibilities of housekeeping, butchers' bills, grocers' bills, cooks' delinquencies, with the heavy obligations—not only of ordering dinners for two, but of occasionally entertaining a room full of company, single-handed!
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And this is only one side of the shield; there is a reverse side, at least equally prominent and alarming. The second side upholds maidenly26 claims, finds nothing good enough to match with them, and is tempted27 to scout28 and flout29, laugh and mock at the rival claims of the lover upon trial. This is true even in the most innocent of dove-cots, where satire30 is still as playful and harmless as summer lightning.
"The idea of Tom Robinson's thinking of one of us!" cried Annie Millar. "What could possess him to imagine that we should ever get over the shop—granted that it is a Brobdingnagian shop, an imposing31 mart of linen-drapery, haberdashery, silk-mercery enough to serve the whole county?"
"To be sure it is only Dora, not you, Annie," burst in eighteen years' old Rose, who had just left school, and was fain to drop the pretence32 of being too young to notice the most interesting event in the world to a family of girls.
"Why do you say that, Rose? Dora may not be so pretty as Annie—I don't know, and I don't care—it is all a matter of taste; but she is as much one of us, father's daughter, brought up like the rest of us in the Old Doctor's House."
The speaker was May, between sixteen and seventeen. She was the tallest of the four sisters—let them call her "Little May" as long as they
[5]
liked. She had so far forgotten herself as to follow Rose's lead.
"Hold your tongues, you two monkeys; what should you know about it?" Annie, who had a tendency to sit upon her younger sisters, tried to silence them. She had reached the advanced age of twenty-two, and by virtue33 of being the eldest34, had been considered grown up for the last four years, when Rose and May were chits of fourteen and a little over twelve. Of course this gave Annie a vast advantage in womanly dignity and knowledge of the world. But at the present moment she was herself so interested in the discussion that she could not make up her mind to drop it till Rose and May were out of the way.
"I must say"—Annie started the subject again—"that I think it great presumption35 in Tom Robinson, though he is not so ugly as that comes to, and he's really well enough bred in spite of 'Robinson's.'"
"He is a college-bred man." Dora ventured shyly to put in a word for the dignity of her suitor, and for her own dignity as so far involved in his. "And so were his father and grandfather before him, father says."
"But the Robinsons had the silk-mill and the woollen-factory then as well as the big shop," corrected Annie. "And Tom might have gone
[6]
into the Church or into some other profession if he had chosen, when things might have been a little different. Still, if you are pleased, Dora," with a peal36 of derisive37 laughter, "if you do not object to the—shop."
"Of course I object," cried Dora, tingling38 with mortification39 and shame. "That is, I should object to his having a shop, if I had ever thought of him for a single moment in that light. I cannot imagine what put me into his head—in that sense. Indeed I cannot believe it yet. I am sure it is just some nonsense on the part of the rest of you to tease me."
"No, no," Annie hastened to contradict her. "It is sober reality. He has said something to father; you know he has, mother owned it."
"He has been meeting us and throwing himself in our way everywhere," broke in the irrepressible Rose and May.
"He has been coming and coming here," resumed Annie, "where, as we don't happen to have a brother, there is not even another young man to form an excuse for his coming. We cannot so much as pretend, when people remark on his visits, that he has come ever since we remember, and is as familiar with us as we are with ourselves. No doubt, in a little town like this, everybody who has the least claim to be a gentleman or a lady, knows every other gentleman or lady—after a
[7]
fashion. But naturally father and mother were not intimate with the late Mr. and Mrs. Robinson; and we—that is, Tom and we girls—are not so near each other in age as to have been brought together by our respective nurses. We did not pick daisies in company, or else pull each other's hair, and slap each other's faces, according to our varying moods. Tom Robinson is four or five years older than I, not to speak of Dora."
"He stopped us this very morning," Rose again joined in the chorus, "when May and I were going with the Hewetts to gather primroses40 in Parson's Meadow. He asked if our sisters—that was you, Dora, with Annie thrown into the bargain—thought of going on the river this afternoon."
"He might be an inch or two taller, I don't suppose he is above five feet six or seven," suggested Annie, maliciously41 recalling a detail in the description of Dora's future husband, that be he who or what he might, he should certainly not be under six feet in height. Dora, who was herself considerably42 below the middle size, would never yield her freedom to a man who had to admit a lower scale of inches.
"And his hair might be a little less—chestnut43, shall we say, Dora?" put in Rose with exasperating44 sprightliness45, referring to a former well-known prejudice of Dora's against "Judas-tinted hair."
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"Would you call his nose Roman or Grecian?" asked May naïvely, of a very nondescript feature.
"And he has so little to say for himself," recommenced Annie, "though when he does speak there is no great fault to be found with what he says; still it would be dreadfully dull and tiresome to have to do all the speaking for a silent partner."
"Oh, hold your tongues, you wretched girls," cried Dora, standing47 at bay, stamping one small foot in a slipper48 with a preposterously49 large rosette. "What does it signify? The man, like his words, is well enough—better than any of us, I dare say," speaking indignantly; "but what does it matter, when I could never look at him, never dream of him, as anything more than a mere50 acquaintance? I don't wish for a lover or a husband—at least not yet," with a gasp51; "I don't wish to leave home, and go away from all of you, though you are so unkind and teasing—not for a long, long time, till I am quite a middle-aged52 woman. I don't see why I should be plagued about it when Annie here, who is two years older than I am, and ever so much prettier, as everybody knows, has escaped such persecution53."
"My dear," said Annie demurely54, "it is because you have the opportunity of presenting me with a pair of green garters. If it should occur again, and you choose to avail yourself of it, I mean to
[9]
accept the garters with the best grace in the world. Isn't that good of me when you have been coolly telling me that I have been overlooked as the eldest, and the belle55 of the family—flattering my conceit56 with one breath and taking it down with another? But it is not a case of Leah and Rachel. We are not in the East, and in the West the elder sister does not necessarily take precedence in marriage. You are quite welcome to marry first, Dora; you are all welcome to marry before me, girls," with a sweeping57 curtsey to her audience all round. "I am perfectly58 resigned to your leaving your poor worthy59 elder sister to end her days as a solitary60 spinster, a meek61 and useful maiden-aunt."
The Millars were the daughters of Dr. Millar of Redcross, an old-fashioned country town in the Midlands. They were happy in having a good father and mother still spared to them. The girls were what is called "a fine family," in a stronger sense than that in which Jane Austen has used the term. Their ages ranged from twenty-two to midway between sixteen and seventeen. They were all good-looking girls, with a family likeness62. Annie, the eldest, was very pretty, with delicate, regular features, a soft warm brunette colour, dark eyes, and a small brown head and graceful63 throat, like the head and throat of a greyhound.
Dora, the first wooed, was, at a hasty glance, a
[10]
mere shadow of Annie. She was pale, though it was a healthy paleness. Her hair was lighter64 in tint46, her eyes, too, were considerably lighter—granted that they were clear as crystal. It was difficult to think of Dora as preferred before Annie, if one did not take into account that there are people who will turn away from June roses to gather a cluster of honeysuckle, or pick a sweet pea—people to whom there is an ineffable65 charm in simple maidenliness and sweetness. Dora's modest unhesitating acceptance of the second part in the family and social circle, and her perfect content to play it, would be a crowning attraction in such people's eyes. So would her gentle girlish diffidence, which moved her rather to meet and reflect the tastes and opinions of others than to exercise her own, though she was by no means without individual capacity and character.
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Rose was the least handsome of the family at this stage of her existence. The family features in her had taken a slightly bizarre cast, and she had a bad habit of wrinkling her smooth low forehead and crumpling66 up her sharpish nose, in a manner which accentuated67 the peculiarity68. But Annie, who was an authority on the subject of looks, maintained, behind Rose's back, that there was something piquante and recherchée about Rose's face and figure. Not one of the Millars was tall—not even May, though she came nearest to it; but Rose's slight pliant69 figure had a natural grace and elegance70 which its quick, careless movements did not dispel71. When she held herself up, uncreased her forehead and nose, showed to advantage her very fine, true chestnut hair, and was full of animation—as to do Rose justice she generally was—giving fair play to her dimples and little white teeth, Annie said Rose had a style of her own which did no discredit72 to the family reputation for more than a fair share of beauty. In addition to Annie's high spirit and ready tongue, Rose had a decided73 turn for art, which her father had taken pride in cultivating.
"Little May" was like Annie, and promised to be as pretty; but she was a rose in the bud still, with the unfilled out outlines and crude angularities of a girl not done growing. She was very much of a child in many things, and she had Dora's soft clinging nature, yet under it all she was the born scholar of the family, with a simple aptitude74 and taste for learning which surprised and delighted her father still more than Rose's achievements in pastilles and water-colours pleased him. It was seeing May at her books, when she was a very different May from the girl who ran about with Rose, and was kept in her proper place by Annie, which revived in Doctor Millar the old regret that Providence75
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had not blessed him with a son. He could not exactly make a son of May, since from her early childhood she was a little sensitive woman all over, but he did what he could. He had her taught Latin, Greek, and mathematics just to afford her the chance of being a scholar. He never told himself, and nobody else did, in the meantime, what she was to do with her scholarship when she was a little older. Whether it was merely to grace her womanhood, or whether the youngest of the family, her father and mother's last pet, was to summon up courage, tear herself away from familiar and dear surroundings, and carry her gifts and acquirements out into the world, in order to win for them the best distinction of usefulness.
Dora's lightly held suitor was the head of "Robinson's." "Robinson's" was a great and time-honoured institution in Redcross, while it and its masters were somewhat of anomalies. The first Robinson whom the town troubled to remember was as good as anybody in it, the proprietor76 of a silk-mill, and latterly of a wool-factory in the neighbourhood. As a mere convenient adjunct to the mill and the factory he had started a shop in the town, and kept it going by means of a manager. Even in that light it was a handsome old shop. The walls were lined with polished oak, so was the low ceiling, and there was an oak staircase
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leading from one storey to another which a connoisseur77 in staircases might have coveted78. "Robinson's" was a positive feature in Redcross, and if it had been anything else than a good shop of its kind would have been greatly admired. The son of the founder79 of the shop was also reckoned, to begin with, as good as his professional neighbours. He was college-bred, like his father, as Dora in her jealousy80 for the dignity of her first lover had stated. This was "all to begin with." Whether because it was advisable, or from mere grovelling81 instincts, he dropped in turn both the mill and the factory, neither of which did more than pay its way, and retained the shop, which was understood to be a lucrative82 concern. He did worse; though Redcross continued to acknowledge him—somewhat dubiously83 to be sure—as a gentleman, because of the fine presence which Tom had not inherited, and the perfect good breeding which had descended84 to the son. In spite of the magnanimity which forgave frostily the second Robinson for so far forgetting himself as to take the management of his great shop into his own hands, walk up and down and receive customers, and be seen working at his books in the glass office if he did not go behind the counter, he went and married for his second wife a farmer's daughter. She was an honest, sensible, comely85 young woman, but she had
[14]
no pretensions to be a lady, and no more inclination86 to enter the society of the Redcross upper class than the upper class had a mind to receive her as an equal. Charles Robinson's first wife had been all very well, though she was penniless. She had been a curate's daughter, educated to fill the post of governess in high families. She had died young, without children, and he had filled her place with the farmer's daughter, who was the mother of Tom. Thenceforth the Robinson's house, a good, old-fashioned house, though not so handsome as the shop in an adjacent street, was effaced87, nominally88, from the visiting-lists of those who had visiting-lists in Redcross. The family were ostracised, and left to their own devices, receiving their sentence, in the case of the farmer's daughter and her husband, with apparent equanimity89.
But there was an exception made in favour of Tom. He went to the Grammar School along with the other better-class boys in the town and neighbourhood, and was accepted as their companion and playfellow. He was sent to college according to the traditions of his family, just as Cyril Carey, of Carey's Bank, and Ned Hewett, of the Rectory, were sent according to the traditions of theirs. Presumably the three young men were on one footing at Cambridge, unless, indeed, Tom had the advantage. He was slightly the elder of
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the three, and he took his degree with a fair amount of honour; while, sad to say, for the credit of Redcross, neither Cyril nor Ned made their last pass. It was confidently believed that Tom Robinson would cut the shop, so far as any active management of it was concerned, and enter either a gallant90 or a learned profession. If he had ever entertained the intention, it was put a stop to in the first place by the death of his father, followed within three months by that of his mother, shortly after Tom had completed his course at the university. He stayed at home for a time, to put his house in order it was supposed. Then all at once, in the most cold-blooded fashion, he told those who asked him that "Robinson's" was a good business, which he did not see himself justified91 in throwing up in these hard times. He was not such a conceited92 ass7 as to believe he must necessarily succeed in the crowded ranks of the professions, for none of which had he any particular bent93, while he had, he added, with a certain manliness94 and doggedness for a pacific fellow like Robinson, a considerable interest in the great old shop. It had been in the family for three generations; he had known it from childhood; many of his father's old trusted servants still served in it. In short, he meant to keep it in his own hands, and not to let it go to sticks and staves, possibly, in the hands of others. He did
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not, for his part, see any mark of gentle breeding and fine feeling in devolving his responsibilities on others, and only reserving that tie to the shop which had to do with pecuniary95 profits. As for his university training and academic degree, if they did not benefit him in all circumstances they were not much worth. The town of Redcross was caught in a trap. The gentle-folks of the place had already received him as a man and a brother, and they could not refuse to know him any longer because he stuck to the paternal96 shop, though they might exercise their discretion97 in looking coldly on him in future. For that matter, there was another opinion among the older professional men—the Rector, whose tithes98 were only quarter paid; Dr. Millar, whose paying patients were no longer able to call him in on all occasions; Carey, the banker, whose private bank, it was whispered darkly, was struggling in deep waters; Colonel Russell, who had come home from India on half-pay and his savings99, which every year he found more inadequate100 for the expenses of an increasing family. All these gray-headed men, growing haggard and careworn101, agreed that in the present depressed102 state of the commercial world, young Robinson was showing himself a sensible fellow and ought to be commended for his decision. They declared that they were the more inclined to take him up because of
[17]
it. It was their wives, where they had wives, and especially their daughters, with the young men who had not known the brunt of the battle, and felt inclined to clutch their professional dignities and privileges, that were of a different mind. Girls like the Millars turned up their saucy103 little noses at the shop. They thought it was mean-spirited and vulgar-minded, "low" of Tom Robinson to sit down with such a calling. They held it audacious of him to lift his eyes to Dora, and to follow his eyes with his voice, silent fellow though he was generally, in asking her from her father.
Certainly it did not help to redeem104 Tom Robinson's drawbacks in the judgment105 of a rash young world that he lacked his late father's fine presence. Though gentleman-like enough, he was insignificant106 in person, and he had little to say for himself. Probably it would have struck his critics as little short of profane107 to make the comparison, otherwise there is a great example that might have stood him and all men not giants and glib108 of tongue in good stead. It is written of an apostle, and he not the least of the apostles, that he might have been termed in bodily presence mean, and in speech contemptible109. But boys and girls are not wont110 to take up such examples and ponder their meaning in foolish young hearts.
The Millars, as one of the girls had said, were
[18]
brought up in the Old Doctor's House at Redcross. It would seem that professions and trades were hereditary111 in the old-fashioned, stationary112 town. Dr. Millar's father had not only been a doctor before him, he had been the doctor in Redcross, with a practice extending from an aristocratic county to a parish-poor class of patients. His pretty sister Penny, whom Annie was not unlike, had married into the county, General Beauchamp of Wayland's younger son. The marriage, with all its consequences, was a thing of the long past, leaving little trace in the present. For young Beauchamp, though he was a squire's son, had not been able to get on at the bar, and had emigrated with his wife while emigration was still comparatively untried in Australia, where it was to be hoped his county extraction had served him in the Bush at least as well as Tom Robinson's university education would avail him in the shop. It had all happened an age before the young Millars could remember, still the tradition of a marriage of a member of a former generation of the Millars into the squirearchy had its effect on her collateral113 descendants. It did not signify that the reigning114 Beauchamps of Waylands had almost ceased to remember the ancient alliance in their dealings with their doctor. That dim and distant distinction established the superior position of
[19]
the Millars in their native town, to the girls' entire satisfaction. Dora to marry Robinson, of "Robinson's," a farthing candle of a man, when her Grand-aunt Penny had married a Beauchamp of Waylands, by all accounts the handsomest, most dashing member of the Hunt in his day, was a descent not to be thought of for a moment.
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1
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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affronting
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| v.勇敢地面对( affront的现在分词 )；相遇 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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precocity
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| n.早熟，早成 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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prematurely
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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shrugs
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| n.耸肩（以表示冷淡，怀疑等）( shrug的名词复数 ) | |
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pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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engrossed
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tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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trifling
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misery
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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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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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flout
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| v./n.嘲弄，愚弄，轻视 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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42
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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43
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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44
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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46
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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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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48
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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49
preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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52
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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53
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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54
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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55
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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56
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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57
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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58
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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62
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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66
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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75
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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82
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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83
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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84
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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85
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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86
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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88
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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89
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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90
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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92
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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95
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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96
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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97
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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98
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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99
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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100
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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101
careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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102
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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103
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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104
redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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105
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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106
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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107
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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108
glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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109
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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110
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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111
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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112
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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113
collateral
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| adj.平行的；旁系的；n.担保品 | |
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114
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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