Mr James Auberly.
With a very stiff cravat1, and a dreadfully stiff back, and a painfully stiff aspect, Mr James Auberly sat by the side of a couch and nursed his sick child.
Stiff and starched2 and stern though he was, Mr Auberly, had a soft point in his nature, and this point had been reached at last, for through all the stiffness and starch3 there shone on his countenance4 an expression of deep anxiety as he gazed at Loo’s emaciated5 form.
Mr Auberly performed the duties of a nurse awkwardly enough, not being accustomed to such work, but he did them with care and with an evident effort to please, which made a deep impression on the child’s heart.
“Dear papa,” she said, after he had given her a drink and arranged her coverings. “I want you to do me a favour.” She said this timidly, for she knew from past experience that her father was not fond of granting favours, but since her illness he had been so kind to her that she felt emboldened6 to make her request.
“I will do it, dear,” said the stiff man, bending, morally as well as physically7, as he had never bent8 before—for the prospect9 of Loo’s death had been presented to him by the physicians. “I will do it, dear, if I can, and if the request be reasonable.”
“Oh, then, do forgive Fred, and let him be an artist!” cried Loo, eagerly stretching out one of her thin hands.
“Hush, darling,” said Mr Auberly, with a look of distress10; “you must not excite yourself so. I have forgiven Fred long ago, and he has become an artist in spite of my objections.”
“Yes, but let him come home, I mean, and be happy with us again as he used to be, and go to the office with you,” said Loo.
Mr Auberly replied somewhat coldly to this that Fred was welcome to return home if he chose, but that his place in the office had been filled up. Besides, it was impossible for him to be both a painter and a man of business, he said, and added that Loo had better not talk about such things, because she did not understand them. All he could say was that he was willing to receive Fred, if Fred was willing to return. He did not say, however, that he was willing to restore Fred to his former position in regard to his fortune, and as Loo knew nothing about her brother having been disinherited, she felt that she must be satisfied with this cold concession11.
“Can you not ask some other favour, such as I could grant?” said Mr Auberly, with a smile, which was not nearly so grim as it used to be before “the fire.” (The family always talked of the burning of Mr Auberly’s house as “the fire,” to the utter repudiation12 of all other fires—the great one of monumental fame included.)
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed suddenly, “I have another favour to ask. How stupid of me to forget it. I want you very much to go and see a fairy that lives—”
“A fairy, Loo!” said Mr Auberly, while a shade of anxiety crossed his face. “You—you are rather weak just now; I must make you be quiet, and try to sleep, if you talk nonsense, dear.”
“It’s not nonsense,” said Loo, again stretching out the thin hand, which her father grasped, replaced under the coverings, and held there; “it’s quite true, papa,” she continued energetically! “it is a fairy I want you to go and see—she’s a pantomime fairy, and lives somewhere near London Bridge, and she’s been very ill, and is so poor that they say she’s dying for want of good food.”
“Who told you about her, Loo?”
“Willie Willders,” she replied, “he has been to see her and her father the clown a good many times.”
Mr Auberly, frowned, for the name of Willie Willders did not sound pleasantly in his ears.
“Do go to see her, pray, dear papa,” pleaded Loo with much earnestness, “and give her some money. You know that darling mamma said, just before she was taken away,” (the poor child persistently14 refused to use the expression “when she died”), “she wanted you to take me sometimes to see poor people when they were sick, and I’ve often thought of that since—especially when I have come to the verse in my Bible which tells me to ‘consider the poor,’ and I have often—oh, so very often—longed to go, but you were always so busy, dear papa, that you never had time, you know,” (the stiff man winced16 a little at this) “but you seem to have more time now, papa, and although I’m too weak to go with you, I thought I would ask you to go to see this poor fairy, and tell her I will go to see her some day—if—if God makes me strong again.”
The stiff man winced still more at this, but it was only a momentary17 wince15, such as a man gives when he gets a sudden and severe twinge of toothache. It instantly passed away. Still, as in the case of toothache, it left behind an uneasy impression that there might be something very sharp and difficult to bear looming18 in the not distant future.
Mr Auberly had covered his face with his hand, and leant his elbow on the head of the couch. Looking up quickly with a smile—still tinged19 with grimness, for evil habits and their results are not to be got rid of in a day—he said:
“Well, Loo, I will go to see this fairy if it will please you; but somewhere near London Bridge is not a very definite address.”
“Oh, but Willie Willders knows it,” said Loo.
“But where is Willie Willders?” objected her father.
“Perhaps at home; perhaps at Mr Tippet’s place.”
“Well, we shall soon find out,” said Mr Auberly, rising and ringing the bell.
Hopkins answered the summons.
Stiff, thin, tall, sedate20, powdered, superfine Hopkins, how different from the personage we saw but lately plunging21 like a maniac22 at the fire-bell! Could it have been thee, Hopkins? Is it possible that anything so spruce, dignified23, almost stately, could have fallen so very low? We fear it is too true, for human nature not unfrequently furnishes instances of tremendous contrast, just as material nature sometimes furnishes the spectacle of the serene24 summer sky being engulfed25 in the black thunderstorm!
“Hopkins!” said Mr Auberly, handing him a slip of paper, “go to this address and ask for the boy William Willders; if he is there, bring him here immediately; if not, find out where he is, search for him, and bring him here without delay. Take a cab.”
Hopkins folded the paper delicately with both his little fingers projecting very much, as though they wished it to be distinctly understood that they had no connection whatever with the others, and would not on any account assist the low-born and hard-working forefingers27 and thumbs in such menial employment. Hopkins’s nose appeared to be affected28 with something of the same spirit. Then Hopkins bowed—that is to say, he broke across suddenly at the middle, causing his stiff upper man to form an obtuse29 angle with his rigid30 legs for one moment, recovered his perpendicular—and retired31.
Oh! Hopkins, how difficult to believe that thy back was once as round as a hoop32, and thy legs bent at acute angles whilst thou didst lay violent hands on—well, well; let bygones be bygones, and let us all, in kindness to thee, learn the song which says—
“Teach, O teach me to forget.”
Hailing a cab with the air of six emperors rolled into one, Hopkins drove to Mr Tippet’s residence, where he learned that Willie had gone home, so he followed him up, and soon found himself at Notting Hill before the door of Mrs Willders’ humble33 abode34. The door was opened by Willie himself, who stared in some surprise at the stately visitor.
“Is William Willders at ’ome?” said Hopkins.
“I rather think he is,” replied Willie, with a grin; “who shall I say calls on him—eh? You’d better send up your card.”
Hopkins frowned, but, being a good-natured man, he immediately smiled, and said he would walk in.
“I think,” said Willie, interposing his small person in the way, “that you’d as well stop where you are, for there’s a invalid35 in the drawing-room, and all the other rooms is engaged ’cept the kitchen, which of course I could not show you into. Couldn’t you deliver your message? I could manage to carry it if it ain’t too heavy.”
In a state of uncertainty36 as to how far this was consistent with his dignity, Hopkins hesitated for a moment, but at length delivered his message, with which Willie returned to the parlour.
Here, on the little sofa, lay the tall form of Frank Willders, arrayed in an old dressing-gown, and with one of his legs bandaged up and motionless. His face was pale, and he was suffering great pain, but a free-and-easy smile was on his lips, for beside him sat a lady and a young girl, the latter of whom was afflicted37 with strong sympathy, but appeared afraid to show it. Mrs Willders, with a stocking and knitting-wires in her hands, sat on a chair at the head of the bed, looking anxious, but hopeful and mild. An open Bible which lay on a small table at her side, showed how she had been engaged before the visitors entered.
“My good sir,” said the lady, with much earnestness of voice and manner, “I assure you it grieves me to the heart to see you lying in this state, and I’m quite sure it grieves Emma too, and all your friends. When I think of the risks you run and the way you dash up these dreadful fire—fire—things—what-d’ye-call-ums. What do you call them?”
“Fire-escapes, ma’am,” answered Frank, with a smile.
“Ah, fire-escapes (how you ever come down them alive is a mystery to me, I’m sure!) But as I was saying, it makes one shudder38 to think of; and—and—how does your leg feel now?” said Miss Tippet, forgetting what she had intended to say.
“Pretty well,” replied Frank; “the doctor tells me it has broken without splintering, and that I’ll be all right in a few weeks, and fit for duty again.”
“Fit for duty, young man!” exclaimed Miss Tippet; “do you mean to say that you will return to your dreadful profession when you recover? Have you not received warning enough?”
“Why, madam,” said Frank, “some one must look after the fires, you know, else London would be in ashes in a few months; and I like the work.”
“Like the work!” cried Miss Tippet, in amazement39; “like to be almost smoked to death, and burned alive, and tumbled off roofs, and get upset off what’s-its-names, and fall down fire—fire—things, and break all your legs and arms!”
“Well—no, I don’t like all that,” said Frank, laughing; “but I like the vigour40 and energy that are called forth41 in the work, and I like the object of the work, which is to save life and property. Why,” exclaimed Frank enthusiastically, “it has all the danger and excitement of a soldier’s life without the bloody42 work, and with better ends in view.”
“Nay43, nay, Frank,” said the peaceful Mrs Willders, “you must not say ‘better ends,’ because it is a great and glorious thing to defend one’s native land.”
“A very just observation,” said Miss Tippet, nodding approval.
“Why, mother, who would have expected to hear you standing44 up for the red-coats in this fashion?” said Frank.
“I stand up for the blue-jackets too,” observed Mrs Willders meekly45; “they fight for their country as well.”
“True, mother,” rejoined Frank; “but I did not refer to ultimate ends, I only thought of the immediate26 results in connection with those engaged. The warrior46 fights, and, in so doing, destroys life and property. The fireman fights, and in doing so protects and preserves both.”
“Hear! hear!” interrupted Willie; “but the copy-book says ‘Comparisons are odiows!’ don’t it? Mother, here’s a fathom47 and two inches or so of humanity as wants me to go with him to Mr Auberly. I s’pose Frank can get along without me for a little while—eh?”
“Certainly, my son; why does he want you?”
“Don’t know. P’raps he’s goin’ to offer to make me his secretary. But you don’t seem at all alarmed at the prospect of my being carried off by a flunkey.”
“You’ll come back, dearie, I doubt not.”
“Don’t you? Oh, very well; then I’ll just look after myself. If I don’t return, I’ll advertise myself in the Times. Good-bye.”
Willie returned to the door and announced that he was ready to go.
“But where is William?” asked Hopkins.
“Mister William Willders stands before you,” said the boy, placing his hand on his heart and making a bow. “Come now, Long-legs,” he added, seizing Hopkins by the arm and pushing him downstairs and into the cab. Leaping in after him he shut the door with a bang. “Now then, cabby, all right, Beverly Square, full split; sixpence extra if you do it within the half!”
“See that house?” asked Willie, so suddenly as to startle Hopkins, who was quite overwhelmed by the vigour and energy of his young companion.
“Eh! which! the one with the porch before the door?”
“No, no, stoopid! the old red-brick house with the limbs of a vine all over the front of it, and the skeleton of a Virginia creeper on the wall.”
“Yes, I see it,” said Hopkins, looking out.
“Ah, a friend o’ mine lives there. I’m on wisitin’ terms there, I am. Now then, mind your eye, pump-handle,” cried Willie; “the turn’s rather sharp—hallo!”
As they swung round into the Bayswater Road the cab came in contact with a butcher’s cart, which, being the lighter49 vehicle, was nearly upset. No serious damage resulted, however, and soon after they drew up at the door of the house next Mr Auberly’s; for that gentleman still occupied the residence of his friend.
“Master Willders,” said Hopkins, ushering50 him into the presence of Mr Auberly, who still sat at the head of the couch.
Willie nodded to Loo and then to her father.
“Boy,” said the latter, beckoning51 Willie to approach, “my daughter wishes me to go and visit a poor family near London Bridge. She tells me you know their name and address.”
“The fairy, you know,” said Loo, explaining.
“Ah, the Cattleys,” answered Willie.
“Yes,” resumed Mr Auberly. “Will you conduct me to their abode?”
In some surprise Willie said that he would be happy to do so, and then asked Loo how she did.
While Mr Auberly was getting ready, Willie was permitted to converse52 with Loo and Mrs Rose, who was summoned to attend her young mistress. Presently Mr Auberly returned, bade Mrs Rose be very careful of the invalid, and then set off with Willie.
At first the boy felt somewhat awed53 by the remarkably54 upright figure that stalked in silence at his side, but as they continued to thread their way through the streets he ventured to attempt a little conversation.
“Weather’s improvin’, sir,” said Willie, looking up. “It is,” replied Mr Auberly, looking down in surprise at the boldness of his small guide.
“Good for the country, sir,” observed Willie.
We may add that Willie knew just as little (or as much), and had only ventured the remark because he had often heard it made in every possible variety of weather, and thought that it would be a safe observation, replete56, for all he knew to the contrary, with hidden wisdom.
There was silence after this for some time.
“D’you know Mr Tippet well, sir?” inquired Willie suddenly.
“Ye—yes; oh yes, I know him pretty well.”
“Ah, he’s a first-rater,” observed Willie, with a look of enthusiasm; “you’ve no notion what a trump57 he is. Did you hear ever of his noo machine for makin’ artificial butter?”
“No,” said Mr Auberly, somewhat impatiently.
“Ah, it’s a wonderful invention, that is, sir.”
“Boy,” said Mr Auberly, “will you be so good as to walk behind me?”
“Oh, cer’nly, sir,” said Willie, with a profound bow, as he fell to the rear.
They walked on in silence until they came to the vicinity of the Monument, when Mr Auberly turned round and asked Willie which way they were to go now.
“Right back again,” said Willie.
“How, boy; what do you mean?”
“We’ve overshot the mark about half a mile, sir. But, please, I thought you must be wishin’ to go somewhere else first, as you led the way.”
“Lead the way, now, boy,” said Mr Auberly, with a stern look.
Willie obeyed, and in a few minutes they were groping in the dark regions underground which Mr Cattley and his family inhabited. With some difficulty they found the door, and stood in the presence of “the fairy.”
Thin though the fairy had been when Willie saw her last, she might have been called fat compared with the condition in which they now found her. She appeared like a mere58 shadow, with a delicate skin thrown over it. A bad transparency would have been more substantial in appearance. She lay alone on her lonely pallet with a farthing candle beside her, which cast a light sufficient only to make darkness visible. Being near the poor invalid, it caused her large dark eyes to glitter in an awful manner.
Willie at once forgot his companion, and running up to the fairy, seized her hand, and asked her how she did.
“Pretty well, Willie. It’s kind of you to come and see me so often.”
“Not a bit, Ziza; you know I like it; besides, I’ve only come to-day to show a gentleman the way.”
He pointed59 to Mr Auberly, who had stopped short in the doorway60, but who now advanced and sat down beside the invalid, and put to her several formal questions in a very stately and stiff manner, with a great assumption of patronage61. But it was evident that he was not accustomed to the duty of visiting the sick, and, like little boys and girls when they sit down to write a letter, was very much at a loss what to say! He began by asking the fairy about her complaint, and exhausted62 every point that entered into his imagination in reference to that. Then he questioned her as to her circumstances; after which he told her that he had been sent to see her by his daughter Louisa, who was herself very ill, owing to the effects of a fire in his own house.
At this point the child became interested, and came to his relief by asking a great many eager and earnest questions about Loo. She knew about the fire in Beverly Square and its incidents, Willie having often related them to her during his visits; and she knew Mr Auberly by name, and was interested in him, but his frigid63 manner had repelled64 her, until he spoke65 of Loo having sent him to see her.
“Oh, I’ve been so sorry about Miss Loo, sir,” said Ziza, raising her large eyes full in Mr Auberly’s face; “I’ve heard of her, you know, from Willie, and when I’ve been lying all alone here for hours and hours together, I have wondered how she spent her time, and if there were kind people about her to keep up her spirits. It’s so strange that she and I should have been both hurt by a fire, an’ both of us so different every way. I do hope she’ll get better, sir.”
Mr Auberly became suddenly much interested in the fairy, for just as “love begets67 love,” so does interest beget66 interest. His feelings having been roused, his tongue was loosed, and forthwith he enjoyed a delightful68 conversation with the intelligent child; not that there was any remarkable69 change as to the matter of what was spoken, but there was a vast change in the manner of speaking it.
Willie also chimed in now and then, and volunteered his opinions in a way that would have called forth a sharp rebuke70 from his patron half an hour before; but he was permitted to speak, even encouraged, now, for Mr Auberly was being tickled71 pleasantly; he was having his feelings and affections roused in a way that he had never thought of or tried before; he was gathering72 golden experiences that he had never stooped to touch before, although the mine had been under his feet all his life, and his path had been strewn with neglected nuggets from the cradle—fortunately not, as yet, to the grave! Ziza’s Bible lay on the counterpane close to her wasted little hand. While she was talking of Loo, with deep sympathy beaming out of her eyes and trembling in her tones, Mr Auberly laid his hand inadvertently on it. She observed the action, and said—
“Are you going to read and pray with me, sir?”
Mr Auberly was taken very much aback indeed by this question.
“Well—no,” said he, “that is—if—fact, I have not brought my prayer-book with me; but—but—I will read to you if you wish it.”
Sympathy was gone now; the fairy felt that, and, not clearly understanding why, wondered at it. She thanked her visitor, however, and shut her eyes, while Mr Auberly opened the Bible and cleared his voice. His confusion was only momentary; still the idea that he could be confused at all by two mere children in such a wretched cellar so nettled73 the worthy74 man, that he not only recovered his self-possession, but read a chapter with all the solemn dignity of tone and manner that he would have assumed had he been officiating in Saint Paul’s or Westminster Abbey. This was such a successful essay, and overawed his little congregation so terribly, that for a moment he thought of concluding with the benediction75; but, being uncertain whether he could go correctly through it, he wisely refrained.
Thereafter he rose, and bade the fairy good-night.
“Your father does not return till late, I suppose?” he said, while he held her hand.
“No; it is morning generally before he gets away. The pantomimes are hurting him, I fear, for he’s not so active as he once was, and he says he feels the falls very bad.”
“Poor man! It’s very sad; but I suppose it’s the usual way with that class of men. Well, goodnight again.”
“Good-night, sir!” responded the fairy, with a bright smile, “and thank you very much for your visit. Good-night, Willie.”
Willie said good-night in such a sulky tone, and followed Mr Auberly to the door with such a reckless swagger, that the fairy gazed after him in unutterable surprise. After shutting the door with a bang, he suddenly opened it again, and said in a loud voice—
“I say, I’ll get my wages day arter to-morrow. I’ll bring you a couple o’ bobs then. It’s all I can afford just now, for cigars are dear. If you’re hard up for wittles in the meantime, just grin and bear it; you’ll not die, you know, you’ll only get thinner. I have heard that a bit o’ boiled shoe-leather ain’t a bad thing to keep one easy till relief comes.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mr Auberly in the distance, and bustling76 back as lie spoke; “I quite forgot; how stupid of me! I was directed by my daughter to give you this.”
He took a ten-pound note from his purse, and put it into the fairy’s hand.
“This is from Louisa,” he continued, “and I may add that it is the savings77 from her pocket-money. I did not wish the dear child to part with it, and said I would give it to you from myself; but she was so urgent, and seemed so distressed78 when I refused my consent, that I gave in; so you have to thank my daughter, not me.”
Mr Auberly smiled and nodded as he turned to go, and there was really very little grimness in the smile on this occasion—very little indeed! Willie also nodded with great violence and frequency; he likewise winked79 with one eye, and otherwise sought to indicate that there were within him sundry80 deep and not easily expressed thoughts and feelings, which were, upon the whole, of a satisfactory nature.
As for the fairy, she never once smiled or thanked Mr Auberly, but simply stared at him with her lustrous81 eyes open to their very widest, and she continued to stare at the door, as though she saw him through it, for some time after they were gone. Then she turned suddenly to the wall, thanked God, and burst into tears—glad tears, such as only those can weep who have unexpectedly found relief when their extremity82 was greatest.
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1
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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15
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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forefingers
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| n.食指( forefinger的名词复数 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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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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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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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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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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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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ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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81
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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82
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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