At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in their carts singing the “Marjolaine,” she awoke, and listened to the noise of the iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained the country road, was soon deadened by the soil. “They will be there to-morrow!” she said to herself.
And she followed them in thought up and down the hills, traversing villages, gliding9 along the highroads by the light of the stars. At the end of some indefinite distance there was always a confused spot, into which her dream died.
She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the map she walked about the capital. She went up the boulevards, stopping at every turning, between the lines of the streets, in front of the white squares that represented the houses. At last she would close the lids of her weary eyes, and see in the darkness the gas jets flaring10 in the wind and the steps of carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles of theatres.
She took in “La Corbeille,” a lady’s journal, and the “Sylphe des Salons11.” She devoured12, without skipping a work, all the accounts of first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut13 of a singer, in the opening of a new shop. She knew the latest fashions, the addresses of the best tailors, the days of the Bois and the Opera. In Eugene Sue she studied descriptions of furniture; she read Balzac and George Sand, seeking in them imaginary satisfaction for her own desires. Even at table she had her book by her, and turned over the pages while Charles ate and talked to her. The memory of the Viscount always returned as she read. Between him and the imaginary personages she made comparisons. But the circle of which he was the centre gradually widened round him, and the aureole that he bore, fading from his form, broadened out beyond, lighting14 up her other dreams.
Paris, more vague than the ocean, glimmered15 before Emma’s eyes in an atmosphere of vermilion. The many lives that stirred amid this tumult16 were, however, divided into parts, classed as distinct pictures. Emma perceived only two or three that hid from her all the rest, and in themselves represented all humanity. The world of ambassadors moved over polished floors in drawing rooms lined with mirrors, round oval tables covered with velvet17 and gold-fringed cloths. There were dresses with trains, deep mysteries, anguish18 hidden beneath smiles. Then came the society of the duchesses; all were pale; all got up at four o’clock; the women, poor angels, wore English point on their petticoats; and the men, unappreciated geniuses under a frivolous19 outward seeming, rode horses to death at pleasure parties, spent the summer season at Baden, and towards the forties married heiresses. In the private rooms of restaurants, where one sups after midnight by the light of wax candles, laughed the motley crowd of men of letters and actresses. They were prodigal20 as kings, full of ideal, ambitious, fantastic frenzy21. This was an existence outside that of all others, between heaven and earth, in the midst of storms, having something of the sublime22. For the rest of the world it was lost, with no particular place and as if non-existent. The nearer things were, moreover, the more her thoughts turned away from them. All her immediate23 surroundings, the wearisome country, the middle-class imbeciles, the mediocrity of existence, seemed to her exceptional, a peculiar24 chance that had caught hold of her, while beyond stretched, as far as eye could see, an immense land of joys and passions. She confused in her desire the sensualities of luxury with the delights of the heart, elegance25 of manners with delicacy26 of sentiment. Did not love, like Indian plants, need a special soil, a particular temperature? Signs by moonlight, long embraces, tears flowing over yielded hands, all the fevers of the flesh and the languors of tenderness could not be separated from the balconies of great castles full of indolence, from boudoirs with silken curtains and thick carpets, well-filled flower-stands, a bed on a raised dias, nor from the flashing of precious stones and the shoulder-knots of liveries.
The lad from the posting house who came to groom27 the mare28 every morning passed through the passage with his heavy wooden shoes; there were holes in his blouse; his feet were bare in list slippers29. And this was the groom in knee-britches with whom she had to be content! His work done, he did not come back again all day, for Charles on his return put up his horse himself, unsaddled him and put on the halter, while the servant-girl brought a bundle of straw and threw it as best she could into the manger.
To replace Nastasie (who left Tostes shedding torrents30 of tears) Emma took into her service a young girl of fourteen, an orphan31 with a sweet face. She forbade her wearing cotton caps, taught her to address her in the third person, to bring a glass of water on a plate, to knock before coming into a room, to iron, starch32, and to dress her — wanted to make a lady’s-maid of her. The new servant obeyed without a murmur33, so as not to be sent away; and as madame usually left the key in the sideboard, Felicite every evening took a small supply of sugar that she ate alone in her bed after she had said her prayers.
Sometimes in the afternoon she went to chat with the postilions.
Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing34 gown that showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated chamisette with three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle with great tassels35, and her small garnet coloured slippers had a large knot of ribbon that fell over her instep. She had bought herself a blotting36 book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris.
Charles in snow and rain trotted38 across country. He ate omelettes on farmhouse39 tables, poked40 his arm into damp beds, received the tepid41 spurt42 of blood-lettings in his face, listened to death-rattles, examined basins, turned over a good deal of dirty linen; but every evening he found a blazing fire, his dinner ready, easy-chairs, and a well-dressed woman, charming with an odour of freshness, though no one could say whence the perfume came, or if it were not her skin that made odorous her chemise.
She charmed him by numerous attentions; now it was some new way of arranging paper sconces for the candles, a flounce that she altered on her gown, or an extraordinary name for some very simple dish that the servant had spoilt, but that Charles swallowed with pleasure to the last mouthful. At Rouen she saw some ladies who wore a bunch of charms on the watch-chains; she bought some charms. She wanted for her mantelpiece two large blue glass vases, and some time after an ivory necessaire with a silver-gilt thimble. The less Charles understood these refinements43 the more they seduced44 him. They added something to the pleasure of the senses and to the comfort of his fireside. It was like a golden dust sanding all along the narrow path of his life.
He was well, looked well; his reputation was firmly established.
The country-folk loved him because he was not proud. He petted the children, never went to the public house, and, moreover, his morals inspired confidence. He was specially45 successful with catarrhs and chest complaints. Being much afraid of killing46 his patients, Charles, in fact only prescribed sedatives47, from time to time and emetic48, a footbath, or leeches49. It was not that he was afraid of surgery; he bled people copiously50 like horses, and for the taking out of teeth he had the “devil’s own wrist.”
Finally, to keep up with the times, he took in “La Ruche Medicale,” a new journal whose prospectus51 had been sent him. He read it a little after dinner, but in about five minutes the warmth of the room added to the effect of his dinner sent him to sleep; and he sat there, his chin on his two hands and his hair spreading like a mane to the foot of the lamp. Emma looked at him and shrugged52 her shoulders. Why, at least, was not her husband one of those men of taciturn passions who work at their books all night, and at last, when about sixty, the age of rheumatism53 sets in, wear a string of orders on their ill-fitting black coat? She could have wished this name of Bovary, which was hers, had been illustrious, to see it displayed at the booksellers’, repeated in the newspapers, known to all France. But Charles had no ambition.
An Yvetot doctor whom he had lately met in consultation54 had somewhat humiliated55 him at the very bedside of the patient, before the assembled relatives. When, in the evening, Charles told her this anecdote56, Emma inveighed57 loudly against his colleague. Charles was much touched. He kissed her forehead with a tear in his eyes. But she was angered with shame; she felt a wild desire to strike him; she went to open the window in the passage and breathed in the fresh air to calm herself.
“What a man! What a man!” she said in a low voice, biting her lips.
Besides, she was becoming more irritated with him. As he grew older his manner grew heavier; at dessert he cut the corks58 of the empty bottles; after eating he cleaned his teeth with his tongue; in taking soup he made a gurgling noise with every spoonful; and, as he was getting fatter, the puffed-out cheeks seemed to push the eyes, always small, up to the temples.
Sometimes Emma tucked the red borders of his under-vest unto his waistcoat, rearranged his cravat59, and threw away the dirty gloves he was going to put on; and this was not, as he fancied, for himself; it was for herself, by a diffusion60 of egotism, of nervous irritation61. Sometimes, too, she told him of what she had read, such as a passage in a novel, of a new play, or an anecdote of the “upper ten” that she had seen in a feuilleton; for, after all, Charles was something, an ever-open ear, and ever-ready approbation62. She confided63 many a thing to her greyhound. She would have done so to the logs in the fireplace or to the pendulum64 of the clock.
At the bottom of her heart, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like shipwrecked sailors, she turned despairing eyes upon the solitude65 of her life, seeking afar off some white sail in the mists of the horizon. She did not know what this chance would be, what wind would bring it her, towards what shore it would drive her, if it would be a shallop or a three-decker, laden66 with anguish or full of bliss67 to the portholes. But each morning, as she awoke, she hoped it would come that day; she listened to every sound, sprang up with a start, wondered that it did not come; then at sunset, always more saddened, she longed for the morrow.
Spring came round. With the first warm weather, when the pear trees began to blossom, she suffered from dyspnoea.
From the beginning of July she counted how many weeks there were to October, thinking that perhaps the Marquis d’Andervilliers would give another ball at Vaubyessard. But all September passed without letters or visits.
After the ennui68 of this disappointment her heart once more remained empty, and then the same series of days recommenced. So now they would thus follow one another, always the same, immovable, and bringing nothing. Other lives, however flat, had at least the chance of some event. One adventure sometimes brought with it infinite consequences and the scene changed. But nothing happened to her; God had willed it so! The future was a dark corridor, with its door at the end shut fast.
She gave up music. What was the good of playing? Who would hear her? Since she could never, in a velvet gown with short sleeves, striking with her light fingers the ivory keys of an Erard at a concert, feel the murmur of ecstasy69 envelop37 her like a breeze, it was not worth while boring herself with practicing. Her drawing cardboard and her embroidery70 she left in the cupboard. What was the good? What was the good? Sewing irritated her. “I have read everything,” she said to herself. And she sat there making the tongs71 red-hot, or looked at the rain falling.
How sad she was on Sundays when vespers sounded! She listened with dull attention to each stroke of the cracked bell. A cat slowly walking over some roof put up his back in the pale rays of the sum. The wind on the highroad blew up clouds of dust. Afar off a dog sometimes howled; and the bell, keeping time, continued its monotonous72 ringing that died away over the fields.
But the people came out from church. The women in waxed clogs73, the peasants in new blouses, the little bare-headed children skipping along in front of them, all were going home. And till nightfall, five or six men, always the same, stayed playing at corks in front of the large door of the inn.
The winter was severe. The windows every morning were covered with rime74, and the light shining through them, dim as through ground-glass, sometimes did not change the whole day long. At four o’clock the lamp had to be lighted.
On fine days she went down into the garden. The dew had left on the cabbages a silver lace with long transparent75 threads spreading from one to the other. No birds were to be heard; everything seemed asleep, the espalier covered with straw, and the vine, like a great sick serpent under the coping of the wall, along which, on drawing hear, one saw the many-footed woodlice crawling. Under the spruce by the hedgerow, the curie in the three-cornered hat reading his breviary had lost his right foot, and the very plaster, scaling off with the frost, had left white scabs on his face.
Then she went up again, shut her door, put on coals, and fainting with the heat of the hearth76, felt her boredom77 weigh more heavily than ever. She would have like to go down and talk to the servant, but a sense of shame restrained her.
Every day at the same time the schoolmaster in a black skullcap opened the shutters78 of his house, and the rural policeman, wearing his sabre over his blouse, passed by. Night and morning the post-horses, three by three, crossed the street to water at the pond. From time to time the bell of a public house door rang, and when it was windy one could hear the little brass79 basins that served as signs for the hairdresser’s shop creaking on their two rods. This shop had as decoration an old engraving80 of a fashion-plate stuck against a windowpane and the wax bust81 of a woman with yellow hair. He, too, the hairdresser, lamented82 his wasted calling, his hopeless future, and dreaming of some shop in a big town — at Rouen, for example, overlooking the harbour, near the theatre — he walked up and down all day from the mairie to the church, sombre and waiting for customers. When Madame Bovary looked up, she always saw him there, like a sentinel on duty, with his skullcap over his ears and his vest of lasting83.
Sometimes in the afternoon outside the window of her room, the head of a man appeared, a swarthy head with black whiskers, smiling slowly, with a broad, gentle smile that showed his white teeth. A waltz immediately began and on the organ, in a little drawing room, dancers the size of a finger, women in pink turbans, Tyrolians in jackets, monkeys in frock coats, gentlemen in knee-breeches, turned and turned between the sofas, the consoles, multiplied in the bits of looking glass held together at their corners by a piece of gold paper. The man turned his handle, looking to the right and left, and up at the windows. Now and again, while he shot out a long squirt of brown saliva84 against the milestone85, with his knee raised his instrument, whose hard straps86 tired his shoulder; and now, doleful and drawling, or gay and hurried, the music escaped from the box, droning through a curtain of pink taffeta under a brass claw in arabesque87. They were airs played in other places at the theatres, sung in drawing rooms, danced to at night under lighted lustres, echoes of the world that reached even to Emma. Endless sarabands ran through her head, and, like an Indian dancing girl on the flowers of a carpet, her thoughts leapt with the notes, swung from dream to dream, from sadness to sadness. When the man had caught some coppers88 in his cap, he drew down an old cover of blue cloth, hitched89 his organ on to his back, and went off with a heavy tread. She watched him going.
But it was above all the meal-times that were unbearable90 to her, in this small room on the ground floor, with its smoking stove, its creaking door, the walls that sweated, the damp flags; all the bitterness in life seemed served up on her plate, and with smoke of the boiled beef there rose from her secret soul whiffs of sickliness. Charles was a slow eater; she played with a few nuts, or, leaning on her elbow, amused herself with drawing lines along the oilcloth table cover with the point of her knife.
She now let everything in her household take care of itself, and Madame Bovary senior, when she came to spend part of Lent at Tostes, was much surprised at the change. She who was formerly91 so careful, so dainty, now passed whole days without dressing, wore grey cotton stockings, and burnt tallow candles. She kept saying they must be economical since they were not rich, adding that she was very contented92, very happy, that Tostes pleased her very much, with other speeches that closed the mouth of her mother-in-law. Besides, Emma no longer seemed inclined to follow her advice; once even, Madame Bovary having thought fit to maintain that mistresses ought to keep an eye on the religion of their servants, she had answered with so angry a look and so cold a smile that the good woman did not interfere93 again.
Emma was growing difficult, capricious. She ordered dishes for herself, then she did not touch them; one day drank only pure milk, the next cups of tea by the dozen. Often she persisted in not going out, then, stifling94, threw open the windows and put on light dresses. After she had well scolded her servant she gave her presents or sent her out to see neighbours, just as she sometimes threw beggars all the silver in her purse, although she was by no means tender-hearted or easily accessible to the feelings of others, like most country-bred people, who always retain in their souls something of the horny hardness of the paternal95 hands.
Towards the end of February old Rouault, in memory of his cure, himself brought his son-in-law a superb turkey, and stayed three days at Tostes. Charles being with his patients, Emma kept him company. He smoked in the room, spat96 on the firedogs, talked farming, calves97, cows, poultry98, and municipal council, so that when he left she closed the door on him with a feeling of satisfaction that surprised even herself. Moreover she no longer concealed99 her contempt for anything or anybody, and at times she set herself to express singular opinions, finding fault with that which others approved, and approving things perverse100 and immoral101, all of which made her husband open his eyes widely.
Would this misery102 last for ever? Would she never issue from it? Yet she was as good as all the women who were living happily. She had seen duchesses at Vaubyessard with clumsier waists and commoner ways, and she execrated103 the injustice104 of God. She leant her head against the walls to weep; she envied lives of stir; longed for masked balls, for violent pleasures, with all the wildness that she did not know, but that these must surely yield.
She grew pale and suffered from palpitations of the heart.
Charles prescribed valerian and camphor baths. Everything that was tried only seemed to irritate her the more.
On certain days she chatted with feverish105 rapidity, and this over-excitement was suddenly followed by a state of torpor106, in which she remained without speaking, without moving. What then revived her was pouring a bottle of eau-de-cologne over her arms.
As she was constantly complaining about Tostes, Charles fancied that her illness was no doubt due to some local cause, and fixing on this idea, began to think seriously of setting up elsewhere.
From that moment she drank vinegar, contracted a sharp little cough, and completely lost her appetite.
It cost Charles much to give up Tostes after living there four years and “when he was beginning to get on there.” Yet if it must be! He took her to Rouen to see his old master. It was a nervous complaint: change of air was needed.
After looking about him on this side and on that, Charles learnt that in the Neufchatel arrondissement there was a considerable market town called Yonville-l’Abbaye, whose doctor, a Polish refugee, had decamped a week before. Then he wrote to the chemist of the place to ask the number of the population, the distance from the nearest doctor, what his predecessor107 had made a year, and so forth108; and the answer being satisfactory, he made up his mind to move towards the spring, if Emma’s health did not improve.
One day when, in view of her departure, she was tidying a drawer, something pricked109 her finger. It was a wire of her wedding bouquet110. The orange blossoms were yellow with dust and the silver bordered satin ribbons frayed111 at the edges. She threw it into the fire. It flared112 up more quickly than dry straw. Then it was, like a red bush in the cinders113, slowly devoured. She watched it burn.
The little pasteboard berries burst, the wire twisted, the gold lace melted; and the shriveled paper corollas, fluttering like black butterflies at the back of the stove, at least flew up the chimney.
When they left Tostes at the month of March, Madame Bovary was pregnant.
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1
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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12
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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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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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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starch
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| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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41
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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43
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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44
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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45
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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46
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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47
sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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48
emetic
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| n.催吐剂；adj.催吐的 | |
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49
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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50
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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51
prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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52
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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54
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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55
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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56
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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57
inveighed
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| v.猛烈抨击，痛骂，谩骂( inveigh的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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59
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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60
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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61
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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62
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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63
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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64
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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65
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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67
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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68
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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69
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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70
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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71
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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72
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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73
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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74
rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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76
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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77
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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79
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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80
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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81
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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84
saliva
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| n.唾液，口水 | |
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85
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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86
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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87
arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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88
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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89
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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90
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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91
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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92
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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93
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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94
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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95
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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96
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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97
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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98
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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99
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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100
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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101
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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102
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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103
execrated
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| v.憎恶( execrate的过去式和过去分词 )；厌恶；诅咒；咒骂 | |
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104
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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105
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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106
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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107
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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108
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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109
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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110
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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111
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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113
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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