Everything, moreover, succeeded with him. He was adjudicator for a supply of cider to the hospital at Neufchatel; Monsieur Guillaumin promised him some shares in the turf-pits of Gaumesnil, and he dreamt of establishing a new diligence service between Arcueil and Rouen, which no doubt would not be long in ruining the ramshackle van of the “Lion d’Or,” and that, travelling faster, at a cheaper rate, and carrying more luggage, would thus put into his hands the whole commerce of Yonville.
Charles several times asked himself by what means he should next year be able to pay back so much money. He reflected, imagined expedients9, such as applying to his father or selling something. But his father would be deaf, and he — he had nothing to sell. Then he foresaw such worries that he quickly dismissed so disagreeable a subject of meditation10 from his mind. He reproached himself with forgetting Emma, as if, all his thoughts belonging to this woman, it was robbing her of something not to be constantly thinking of her.
The winter was severe, Madame Bovary’s convalescence slow. When it was fine they wheeled her arm-chair to the window that overlooked the square, for she now had an antipathy11 to the garden, and the blinds on that side were always down. She wished the horse to be sold; what she formerly12 liked now displeased13 her. All her ideas seemed to be limited to the care of herself. She stayed in bed taking little meals, rang for the servant to inquire about her gruel14 or to chat with her. The snow on the market-roof threw a white, still light into the room; then the rain began to fall; and Emma waited daily with a mind full of eagerness for the inevitable15 return of some trifling16 events which nevertheless had no relation to her. The most important was the arrival of the “Hirondelle” in the evening. Then the landlady17 shouted out, and other voices answered, while Hippolyte’s lantern, as he fetched the boxes from the boot, was like a star in the darkness. At mid-day Charles came in; then he went out again; next she took some beef-tea, and towards five o’clock, as the day drew in, the children coming back from school, dragging their wooden shoes along the pavement, knocked the clapper of the shutters18 with their rulers one after the other.
It was at this hour that Monsieur Bournisien came to see her. He inquired after her health, gave her news, exhorted19 her to religion, in a coaxing20 little prattle21 that was not without its charm. The mere22 thought of his cassock comforted her.
One day, when at the height of her illness, she had thought herself dying, and had asked for the communion; and, while they were making the preparations in her room for the sacrament, while they were turning the night table covered with syrups23 into an altar, and while Felicite was strewing24 dahlia flowers on the floor, Emma felt some power passing over her that freed her from her pains, from all perception, from all feeling. Her body, relieved, no longer thought; another life was beginning; it seemed to her that her being, mounting toward God, would be annihilated25 in that love like a burning incense26 that melts into vapour. The bed-clothes were sprinkled with holy water, the priest drew from the holy pyx the white wafer; and it was fainting with a celestial27 joy that she put out her lips to accept the body of the Saviour28 presented to her. The curtains of the alcove29 floated gently round her like clouds, and the rays of the two tapers30 burning on the night-table seemed to shine like dazzling halos. Then she let her head fall back, fancying she heard in space the music of seraphic harps31, and perceived in an azure32 sky, on a golden throne in the midst of saints holding green palms, God the Father, resplendent with majesty33, who with a sign sent to earth angels with wings of fire to carry her away in their arms.
This splendid vision dwelt in her memory as the most beautiful thing that it was possible to dream, so that now she strove to recall her sensation. That still lasted, however, but in a less exclusive fashion and with a deeper sweetness. Her soul, tortured by pride, at length found rest in Christian34 humility35, and, tasting the joy of weakness, she saw within herself the destruction of her will, that must have left a wide entrance for the inroads of heavenly grace. There existed, then, in the place of happiness, still greater joys — another love beyond all loves, without pause and without end, one that would grow eternally! She saw amid the illusions of her hope a state of purity floating above the earth mingling36 with heaven, to which she aspired37. She wanted to become a saint. She bought chaplets and wore amulets38; she wished to have in her room, by the side of her bed, a reliquary set in emeralds that she might kiss it every evening.
The cure marvelled39 at this humour, although Emma’s religion, he thought, might, from its fervour, end by touching40 on heresy41, extravagance. But not being much versed42 in these matters, as soon as they went beyond a certain limit he wrote to Monsieur Boulard, bookseller to Monsignor, to send him “something good for a lady who was very clever.” The bookseller, with as much indifference43 as if he had been sending off hardware to niggers, packed up, pellmell, everything that was then the fashion in the pious44 book trade. There were little manuals in questions and answers, pamphlets of aggressive tone after the manner of Monsieur de Maistre, and certain novels in rose-coloured bindings and with a honied style, manufactured by troubadour seminarists or penitent45 blue-stockings. There were the “Think of it; the Man of the World at Mary’s Feet, by Monsieur de — decorated with many Orders”; “The Errors of Voltaire, for the Use of the Young,” etc.
Madame Bovary’s mind was not yet sufficiently46 clear to apply herself seriously to anything; moreover, she began this reading in too much hurry. She grew provoked at the doctrines47 of religion; the arrogance48 of the polemic49 writings displeased her by their inveteracy50 in attacking people she did not know; and the secular51 stories, relieved with religion, seemed to her written in such ignorance of the world, that they insensibly estranged52 her from the truths for whose proof she was looking. Nevertheless, she persevered53; and when the volume slipped from her hands, she fancied herself seized with the finest Catholic melancholy54 that an ethereal soul could conceive.
As for the memory of Rodolphe, she had thrust it back to the bottom of her heart, and it remained there more solemn and more motionless than a king’s mummy in a catacomb. An exhalation escaped from this embalmed55 love, that, penetrating56 through everything, perfumed with tenderness the immaculate atmosphere in which she longed to live. When she knelt on her Gothic prie-Dieu, she addressed to the Lord the same suave57 words that she had murmured formerly to her lover in the outpourings of adultery. It was to make faith come; but no delights descended58 from the heavens, and she arose with tired limbs and with a vague feeling of a gigantic dupery.
This searching after faith, she thought, was only one merit the more, and in the pride of her devoutness59 Emma compared herself to those grand ladies of long ago whose glory she, had dreamed of over a portrait of La Valliere, and who, trailing with so much majesty the lace-trimmed trains of their long gowns, retired60 into solitudes61 to shed at the feet of Christ all the tears of hearts that life had wounded.
Then she gave herself up to excessive charity. She sewed clothes for the poor, she sent wood to women in childbed; and Charles one day, on coming home, found three good-for-nothings in the kitchen seated at the table eating soup. She had her little girl, whom during her illness her husband had sent back to the nurse, brought home. She wanted to teach her to read; even when Berthe cried, she was not vexed62. She had made up her mind to resignation, to universal indulgence. Her language about everything was full of ideal expressions. She said to her child, “Is your stomach-ache better, my angel?”
Madame Bovary senior found nothing to censure63 except perhaps this mania64 of knitting jackets for orphans65 instead of mending her own house-linen; but, harassed with domestic quarrels, the good woman took pleasure in this quiet house, and she even stayed there till after Easter, to escape the sarcasms66 of old Bovary, who never failed on Good Friday to order chitterlings.
Besides the companionship of her mother-in-law, who strengthened her a little by the rectitude of her judgment67 and her grave ways, Emma almost every day had other visitors. These were Madame Langlois, Madame Caron, Madame Dubreuil, Madame Tuvache, and regularly from two to five o’clock the excellent Madame Homais, who, for her part, had never believed any of the tittle-tattle about her neighbour. The little Homais also came to see her; Justin accompanied them. He went up with them to her bedroom, and remained standing68 near the door, motionless and mute. Often even Madame Bovary; taking no heed69 of him, began her toilette. She began by taking out her comb, shaking her head with a quick movement, and when he for the first time saw all this mass of hair that fell to her knees unrolling in black ringlets, it was to him, poor child! like a sudden entrance into something new and strange, whose splendour terrified him.
Emma, no doubt, did not notice his silent attentions or his timidity. She had no suspicion that the love vanished from her life was there, palpitating by her side, beneath that coarse holland shirt, in that youthful heart open to the emanations of her beauty. Besides, she now enveloped70 all things with such indifference, she had words so affectionate with looks so haughty71, such contradictory72 ways, that one could no longer distinguish egotism from charity, or corruption73 from virtue74. One evening, for example, she was angry with the servant, who had asked to go out, and stammered75 as she tried to find some pretext76. Then suddenly —
“So you love him?” she said.
And without waiting for any answer from Felicite, who was blushing, she added, “There! run along; enjoy yourself!”
In the beginning of spring she had the garden turned up from end to end, despite Bovary’s remonstrances77. However, he was glad to see her at last manifest a wish of any kind. As she grew stronger she displayed more wilfulness78. First, she found occasion to expel Mere Rollet, the nurse, who during her convalescence had contracted the habit of coming too often to the kitchen with her two nurslings and her boarder, better off for teeth than a cannibal. Then she got rid of the Homais family, successively dismissed all the other visitors, and even frequented church less assiduously, to the great approval of the druggist, who said to her in a friendly way —
“You were going in a bit for the cassock!”
As formerly, Monsieur Bournisien dropped in every day when he came out after catechism class. He preferred staying out of doors to taking the air “in the grove,” as he called the arbour. This was the time when Charles came home. They were hot; some sweet cider was brought out, and they drank together to madame’s complete restoration.
Binet was there; that is to say, a little lower down against the terrace wall, fishing for crayfish. Bovary invited him to have a drink, and he thoroughly79 understood the uncorking of the stone bottles.
“You must,” he said, throwing a satisfied glance all round him, even to the very extremity81 of the landscape, “hold the bottle perpendicularly82 on the table, and after the strings83 are cut, press up the cork80 with little thrusts, gently, gently, as indeed they do seltzer-water at restaurants.”
But during his demonstration84 the cider often spurted85 right into their faces, and then the ecclesiastic86, with a thick laugh, never missed this joke —
“Its goodness strikes the eye!”
He was, in fact, a good fellow and one day he was not even scandalised at the chemist, who advised Charles to give madame some distraction87 by taking her to the theatre at Rouen to hear the illustrious tenor88, Lagardy. Homais, surprised at this silence, wanted to know his opinion, and the priest declared that he considered music less dangerous for morals than literature.
But the chemist took up the defence of letters. The theatre, he contended, served for railing at prejudices, and, beneath a mask of pleasure, taught virtue.
“‘Castigat ridendo mores,’16 Monsieur Bournisien! Thus consider the greater part of Voltaire’s tragedies; they are cleverly strewn with philosophical89 reflections, that made them a vast school of morals and diplomacy90 for the people.”
“I,” said Binet, “once saw a piece called the ‘Gamin de Paris,’ in which there was the character of an old general that is really hit off to a T. He sets down a young swell91 who had seduced92 a working girl, who at the ending —”
“Certainly,” continued Homais, “there is bad literature as there is bad pharmacy93, but to condemn94 in a lump the most important of the fine arts seems to me a stupidity, a Gothic idea, worthy95 of the abominable96 times that imprisoned97 Galileo.”
“I know very well,” objected the cure, “that there are good works, good authors. However, if it were only those persons of different sexes united in a bewitching apartment, decorated rouge98, those lights, those effeminate voices, all this must, in the long-run, engender99 a certain mental libertinage100, give rise to immodest thoughts and impure101 temptations. Such, at any rate, is the opinion of all the Fathers. Finally,” he added, suddenly assuming a mystic tone of voice while he rolled a pinch of snuff between his fingers, “if the Church has condemned102 the theatre, she must be right; we must submit to her decrees.”
“Why,” asked the druggist, “should she excommunicate actors? For formerly they openly took part in religious ceremonies. Yes, in the middle of the chancel they acted; they performed a kind of farce103 called ‘Mysteries,’ which often offended against the laws of decency104.”
The ecclesiastic contented105 himself with uttering a groan106, and the chemist went on —
“It’s like it is in the Bible; there there are, you know, more than one piquant107 detail, matters really libidinous108!”
And on a gesture of irritation109 from Monsieur Bournisien —
“Ah! you’ll admit that it is not a book to place in the hands of a young girl, and I should be sorry if Athalie —”
“But it is the Protestants, and not we,” cried the other impatiently, “who recommend the Bible.”
“No matter,” said Homais. “I am surprised that in our days, in this century of enlightenment, anyone should still persist in proscribing110 an intellectual relaxation111 that is inoffensive, moralising, and sometimes even hygienic; is it not, doctor?”
“No doubt,” replied the doctor carelessly, either because, sharing the same ideas, he wished to offend no one, or else because he had not any ideas.
The conversation seemed at an end when the chemist thought fit to shoot a Parthian arrow.
“I’ve known priests who put on ordinary clothes to go and see dancers kicking about.”
“Come, come!” said the cure.
“Ah! I’ve known some!” And separating the words of his sentence, Homais repeated, “I— have — known — some!”
“Well, they were wrong,” said Bournisien, resigned to anything.
“By Jove! they go in for more than that,” exclaimed the druggist.
“Sir!” replied the ecclesiastic, with such angry eyes that the druggist was intimidated112 by them.
“I only mean to say,” he replied in less brutal113 a tone, “that toleration is the surest way to draw people to religion.”
“That is true! that is true!” agreed the good fellow, sitting down again on his chair. But he stayed only a few moments.
Then, as soon as he had gone, Monsieur Homais said to the doctor —
“That’s what I call a cock-fight. I beat him, did you see, in a way! — Now take my advice. Take madame to the theatre, if it were only for once in your life, to enrage114 one of these ravens115, hang it! If anyone could take my place, I would accompany you myself. Be quick about it. Lagardy is only going to give one performance; he’s engaged to go to England at a high salary. From what I hear, he’s a regular dog; he’s rolling in money; he’s taking three mistresses and a cook along with him. All these great artists burn the candle at both ends; they require a dissolute life, that suits the imagination to some extent. But they die at the hospital, because they haven’t the sense when young to lay by. Well, a pleasant dinner! Goodbye till to-morrow.”
The idea of the theatre quickly germinated116 in Bovary’s head, for he at once communicated it to his wife, who at first refused, alleging117 the fatigue118, the worry, the expense; but, for a wonder, Charles did not give in, so sure was he that this recreation would be good for her. He saw nothing to prevent it: his mother had sent them three hundred francs which he had no longer expected; the current debts were not very large, and the falling in of Lheureux’s bills was still so far off that there was no need to think about them. Besides, imagining that she was refusing from delicacy119, he insisted the more; so that by dint120 of worrying her she at last made up her mind, and the next day at eight o’clock they set out in the “Hirondelle.”
The druggist, whom nothing whatever kept at Yonville, but who thought himself bound not to budge121 from it, sighed as he saw them go.
“Well, a pleasant journey!” he said to them; “happy mortals that you are!”
Then addressing himself to Emma, who was wearing a blue silk gown with four flounces —
“You are as lovely as a Venus. You’ll cut a figure at Rouen.”
The diligence stopped at the “Croix-Rouge” in the Place Beauvoisine. It was the inn that is in every provincial122 faubourg, with large stables and small bedrooms, where one sees in the middle of the court chickens pilfering123 the oats under the muddy gigs of the commercial travellers — a good old house, with worm-eaten balconies that creak in the wind on winter nights, always full of people, noise, and feeding, whose black tables are sticky with coffee and brandy, the thick windows made yellow by the flies, the damp napkins stained with cheap wine, and that always smells of the village, like ploughboys dressed in Sundayclothes, has a cafe on the street, and towards the countryside a kitchen-garden. Charles at once set out. He muddled124 up the stage-boxes with the gallery, the pit with the boxes; asked for explanations, did not understand them; was sent from the box-office to the acting-manager; came back to the inn, returned to the theatre, and thus several times traversed the whole length of the town from the theatre to the boulevard.
Madame Bovary bought a bonnet125, gloves, and a bouquet126. The doctor was much afraid of missing the beginning, and, without having had time to swallow a plate of soup, they presented themselves at the doors of the theatre, which were still closed.
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1
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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gruel
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| n.稀饭，粥 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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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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exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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strewing
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| v.撒在…上( strew的现在分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amulets
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| n.护身符( amulet的名词复数 ) | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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polemic
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| n.争论，论战 | |
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inveteracy
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| n.根深蒂固，积习 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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53
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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55
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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56
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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57
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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58
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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59
devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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60
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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62
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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63
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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64
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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65
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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66
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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67
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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68
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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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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70
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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72
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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73
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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74
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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75
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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77
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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78
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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79
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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80
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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81
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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perpendicularly
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| adv. 垂直地, 笔直地, 纵向地 | |
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83
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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84
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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85
spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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86
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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90
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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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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pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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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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96
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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97
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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100
libertinage
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| n.放荡，自由观点 | |
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101
impure
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| adj.不纯净的，不洁的；不道德的，下流的 | |
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102
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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104
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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105
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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106
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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107
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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108
libidinous
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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109
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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110
proscribing
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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111
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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112
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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113
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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114
enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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115
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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116
germinated
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| v.（使）发芽( germinate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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118
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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119
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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120
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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121
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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122
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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123
pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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124
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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125
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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126
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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