I fear the gentleman to whom Miss Amelia’s letters were addressed was rather an obdurate1 critic. Such a number of notes followed Lieutenant2 Osborne about the country, that he became almost ashamed of the jokes of his mess-room companions regarding them, and ordered his servant never to deliver them except at his private apartment. He was seen lighting3 his cigar with one, to the horror of Captain Dobbin, who, it is my belief, would have given a bank-note for the document.
For some time George strove to keep the liaison4 a secret. There was a woman in the case, that he admitted. “And not the first either,” said Ensign Spooney to Ensign Stubble. “That Osborne’s a devil of a fellow. There was a judge’s daughter at Demerara went almost mad about him; then there was that beautiful quadroon girl, Miss Pye, at St. Vincent’s, you know; and since he’s been home, they say he’s a regular Don Giovanni, by Jove.”
Stubble and Spooney thought that to be a “regular Don Giovanni, by Jove” was one of the finest qualities a man could possess, and Osborne’s reputation was prodigious5 amongst the young men of the regiment6. He was famous in field-sports, famous at a song, famous on parade; free with his money, which was bountifully supplied by his father. His coats were better made than any man’s in the regiment, and he had more of them. He was adored by the men. He could drink more than any officer of the whole mess, including old Heavytop, the colonel. He could spar better than Knuckles7, the private (who would have been a corporal but for his drunkenness, and who had been in the prize-ring); and was the best batter8 and bowler9, out and out, of the regimental club. He rode his own horse, Greased Lightning, and won the Garrison10 cup at Quebec races. There were other people besides Amelia who worshipped him. Stubble and Spooney thought him a sort of Apollo; Dobbin took him to be an Admirable Crichton; and Mrs. Major O’Dowd acknowledged he was an elegant young fellow, and put her in mind of Fitzjurld Fogarty, Lord Castlefogarty’s second son.
Well, Stubble and Spooney and the rest indulged in most romantic conjectures11 regarding this female correspondent of Osborne’s—opining that it was a Duchess in London who was in love with him—or that it was a General’s daughter, who was engaged to somebody else, and madly attached to him—or that it was a Member of Parliament’s lady, who proposed four horses and an elopement—or that it was some other victim of a passion delightfully13 exciting, romantic, and disgraceful to all parties, on none of which conjectures would Osborne throw the least light, leaving his young admirers and friends to invent and arrange their whole history.
And the real state of the case would never have been known at all in the regiment but for Captain Dobbin’s indiscretion. The Captain was eating his breakfast one day in the mess-room, while Cackle, the assistant-surgeon, and the two above-named worthies14 were speculating upon Osborne’s intrigue—Stubble holding out that the lady was a Duchess about Queen Charlotte’s court, and Cackle vowing15 she was an opera-singer of the worst reputation. At this idea Dobbin became so moved, that though his mouth was full of eggs and bread-and-butter at the time, and though he ought not to have spoken at all, yet he couldn’t help blurting16 out, “Cackle, you’re a stupid fool. You’re always talking nonsense and scandal. Osborne is not going to run off with a Duchess or ruin a milliner. Miss Sedley is one of the most charming young women that ever lived. He’s been engaged to her ever so long; and the man who calls her names had better not do so in my hearing.” With which, turning exceedingly red, Dobbin ceased speaking, and almost choked himself with a cup of tea. The story was over the regiment in half-an- hour; and that very evening Mrs. Major O’Dowd wrote off to her sister Glorvina at O’Dowdstown not to hurry from Dublin—young Osborne being prematurely18 engaged already.
She complimented the Lieutenant in an appropriate speech over a glass of whisky-toddy that evening, and he went home perfectly19 furious to quarrel with Dobbin (who had declined Mrs. Major O’Dowd’s party, and sat in his own room playing the flute20, and, I believe, writing poetry in a very melancholy21 manner)—to quarrel with Dobbin for betraying his secret.
“Who the deuce asked you to talk about my affairs?” Osborne shouted indignantly. “Why the devil is all the regiment to know that I am going to be married? Why is that tattling old harridan22, Peggy O’Dowd, to make free with my name at her d—d supper-table, and advertise my engagement over the three kingdoms? After all, what right have you to say I am engaged, or to meddle23 in my business at all, Dobbin?”
“It seems to me,” Captain Dobbin began.
“Seems be hanged, Dobbin,” his junior interrupted him. “I am under obligations to you, I know it, a d—d deal too well too; but I won’t be always sermonised by you because you’re five years my senior. I’m hanged if I’ll stand your airs of superiority and infernal pity and patronage24. Pity and patronage! I should like to know in what I’m your inferior?”
“Are you engaged?” Captain Dobbin interposed.
“What the devil’s that to you or any one here if I am?”
“Are you ashamed of it?” Dobbin resumed.
“What right have you to ask me that question, sir? I should like to know,” George said.
“Good God, you don’t mean to say you want to break off?” asked Dobbin, starting up.
“In other words, you ask me if I’m a man of honour,” said Osborne, fiercely; “is that what you mean? You’ve adopted such a tone regarding me lately that I’m — if I’ll bear it any more.”
“What have I done? I’ve told you you were neglecting a sweet girl, George. I’ve told you that when you go to town you ought to go to her, and not to the gambling25- houses about St. James’s.”
“You want your money back, I suppose,” said George, with a sneer26.
“Of course I do—I always did, didn’t I?” says Dobbin. “You speak like a generous fellow.”
“No, hang it, William, I beg your pardon”—here George interposed in a fit of remorse27; “you have been my friend in a hundred ways, Heaven knows. You’ve got me out of a score of scrapes. When Crawley of the Guards won that sum of money of me I should have been done but for you: I know I should. But you shouldn’t deal so hardly with me; you shouldn’t be always catechising me. I am very fond of Amelia; I adore her, and that sort of thing. Don’t look angry. She’s faultless; I know she is. But you see there’s no fun in winning a thing unless you play for it. Hang it: the regiment’s just back from the West Indies, I must have a little fling, and then when I’m married I’ll reform; I will upon my honour, now. And—I say—Dob—don’t be angry with me, and I’ll give you a hundred next month, when I know my father will stand something handsome; and I’ll ask Heavytop for leave, and I’ll go to town, and see Amelia to-morrow—there now, will that satisfy you?”
“It is impossible to be long angry with you, George,” said the good-natured Captain; “and as for the money, old boy, you know if I wanted it you’d share your last shilling with me.”
“That I would, by Jove, Dobbin,” George said, with the greatest generosity28, though by the way he never had any money to spare.
“Only I wish you had sown those wild oats of yours, George. If you could have seen poor little Miss Emmy’s face when she asked me about you the other day, you would have pitched those billiard-balls to the deuce. Go and comfort her, you rascal29. Go and write her a long letter. Do something to make her happy; a very little will.”
“I believe she’s d—d fond of me,” the Lieutenant said, with a self-satisfied air; and went off to finish the evening with some jolly fellows in the mess-room.
Amelia meanwhile, in Russell Square, was looking at the moon, which was shining upon that peaceful spot, as well as upon the square of the Chatham barracks, where Lieutenant Osborne was quartered, and thinking to herself how her hero was employed. Perhaps he is visiting the sentries30, thought she; perhaps he is bivouacking; perhaps he is attending the couch of a wounded comrade, or studying the art of war up in his own desolate31 chamber32. And her kind thoughts sped away as if they were angels and had wings, and flying down the river to Chatham and Rochester, strove to peep into the barracks where George was. . . . All things considered, I think it was as well the gates were shut, and the sentry33 allowed no one to pass; so that the poor little white-robed angel could not hear the songs those young fellows were roaring over the whisky-punch.
The day after the little conversation at Chatham barracks, young Osborne, to show that he would be as good as his word, prepared to go to town, thereby34 incurring35 Captain Dobbin’s applause. “I should have liked to make her a little present,” Osborne said to his friend in confidence, “only I am quite out of cash until my father tips up.” But Dobbin would not allow this good nature and generosity to be balked36, and so accommodated Mr. Osborne with a few pound notes, which the latter took after a little faint scruple37.
And I dare say he would have bought something very handsome for Amelia; only, getting off the coach in Fleet Street, he was attracted by a handsome shirt-pin in a jeweller’s window, which he could not resist; and having paid for that, had very little money to spare for indulging in any further exercise of kindness. Never mind: you may be sure it was not his presents Amelia wanted. When he came to Russell Square, her face lighted up as if he had been sunshine. The little cares, fears, tears, timid misgivings38, sleepless39 fancies of I don’t know how many days and nights, were forgotten, under one moment’s influence of that familiar, irresistible40 smile. He beamed on her from the drawing-room door—magnificent, with ambrosial41 whiskers, like a god. Sambo, whose face as he announced Captain Osbin (having conferred a brevet rank on that young officer) blazed with a sympathetic grin, saw the little girl start, and flush, and jump up from her watching-place in the window; and Sambo retreated: and as soon as the door was shut, she went fluttering to Lieutenant George Osborne’s heart as if it was the only natural home for her to nestle in. Oh, thou poor panting little soul! The very finest tree in the whole forest, with the straightest stem, and the strongest arms, and the thickest foliage42, wherein you choose to build and coo, may be marked, for what you know, and may be down with a crash ere long. What an old, old simile43 that is, between man and timber!
In the meanwhile, George kissed her very kindly44 on her forehead and glistening45 eyes, and was very gracious and good; and she thought his diamond shirt-pin (which she had not known him to wear before) the prettiest ornament46 ever seen.
The observant reader, who has marked our young Lieutenant’s previous behaviour, and has preserved our report of the brief conversation which he has just had with Captain Dobbin, has possibly come to certain conclusions regarding the character of Mr. Osborne. Some cynical47 Frenchman has said that there are two parties to a love-transaction: the one who loves and the other who condescends49 to be so treated. Perhaps the love is occasionally on the man’s side; perhaps on the lady’s. Perhaps some infatuated swain has ere this mistaken insensibility for modesty50, dulness for maiden51 reserve, mere52 vacuity53 for sweet bashfulness, and a goose, in a word, for a swan. Perhaps some beloved female subscriber54 has arrayed an ass12 in the splendour and glory of her imagination; admired his dulness as manly55 simplicity56; worshipped his selfishness as manly superiority; treated his stupidity as majestic57 gravity, and used him as the brilliant fairy Titania did a certain weaver58 at Athens. I think I have seen such comedies of errors going on in the world. But this is certain, that Amelia believed her lover to be one of the most gallant59 and brilliant men in the empire: and it is possible Lieutenant Osborne thought so too.
He was a little wild: how many young men are; and don’t girls like a rake better than a milksop? He hadn’t sown his wild oats as yet, but he would soon: and quit the army now that peace was proclaimed; the Corsican monster locked up at Elba; promotion60 by consequence over; and no chance left for the display of his undoubted military talents and valour: and his allowance, with Amelia’s settlement, would enable them to take a snug61 place in the country somewhere, in a good sporting neighbourhood; and he would hunt a little, and farm a little; and they would be very happy. As for remaining in the army as a married man, that was impossible. Fancy Mrs. George Osborne in lodgings62 in a county town; or, worse still, in the East or West Indies, with a society of officers, and patronized by Mrs. Major O’Dowd! Amelia died with laughing at Osborne’s stories about Mrs. Major O’Dowd. He loved her much too fondly to subject her to that horrid63 woman and her vulgarities, and the rough treatment of a soldier’s wife. He didn’t care for himself—not he; but his dear little girl should take the place in society to which, as his wife, she was entitled: and to these proposals you may be sure she acceded64, as she would to any other from the same author. Holding this kind of conversation, and building numberless castles in the air (which Amelia adorned65 with all sorts of flower-gardens, rustic66 walks, country churches, Sunday schools, and the like; while George had his mind’s eye directed to the stables, the kennel67, and the cellar), this young pair passed away a couple of hours very pleasantly; and as the Lieutenant had only that single day in town, and a great deal of most important business to transact48, it was proposed that Miss Emmy should dine with her future sisters-in-law. This invitation was accepted joyfully68. He conducted her to his sisters; where he left her talking and prattling69 in a way that astonished those ladies, who thought that George might make something of her; and he then went off to transact his business. In a word, he went out and ate ices at a pastry-cook’s shop in Charing70 Cross; tried a new coat in Pall71 Mall; dropped in at the Old Slaughters’, and called for Captain Cannon72; played eleven games at billiards73 with the Captain, of which he won eight, and returned to Russell Square half an hour late for dinner, but in very good humour.
It was not so with old Mr. Osborne. When that gentleman came from the City, and was welcomed in the drawing-room by his daughters and the elegant Miss Wirt, they saw at once by his face—which was puffy, solemn, and yellow at the best of times—and by the scowl74 and twitching75 of his black eyebrows76, that the heart within his large white waistcoat was disturbed and uneasy. When Amelia stepped forward to salute77 him, which she always did with great trembling and timidity, he gave a surly grunt78 of recognition, and dropped the little hand out of his great hirsute79 paw without any attempt to hold it there. He looked round gloomily at his eldest80 daughter; who, comprehending the meaning of his look, which asked unmistakably, “Why the devil is she here?” said at once: “George is in town, Papa; and has gone to the Horse Guards, and will be back to dinner.” “O he is, is he? I won’t have the dinner kept waiting for him, Jane”; with which this worthy81 man lapsed82 into his particular chair, and then the utter silence in his genteel, well-furnished drawing-room was only interrupted by the alarmed ticking of the great French clock. When that chronometer83, which was surmounted84 by a cheerful brass85 group of the sacrifice of Iphigenia, tolled86 five in a heavy cathedral tone, Mr. Osborne pulled the bell at his right hand-violently, and the butler rushed up. “Dinner!” roared Mr. Osborne. “Mr. George isn’t come in, sir,” interposed the man. “Damn Mr. George, sir. Am I master of the house? DINNER!~ Mr. Osborne scowled87. Amelia trembled. A telegraphic communication of eyes passed between the other three ladies. The obedient bell in the lower regions began ringing the announcement of the meal. The tolling88 over, the head of the family thrust his hands into the great tail-pockets of his great blue coat with brass buttons, and without waiting for a further announcement strode downstairs alone, scowling89 over his shoulder at the four females. “What’s the matter now, my dear?” asked one of the other, as they rose and tripped gingerly behind the sire. “I suppose the funds are falling,” whispered Miss Wirt; and so, trembling and in silence, this hushed female company followed their dark leader. They took their places in silence. He growled90 out a blessing91, which sounded as gruffly as a curse. The great silver dish-covers were removed. Amelia trembled in her place, for she was next to the awful Osborne, and alone on her side of the table —the gap being occasioned by the absence of George. “Soup?” says Mr. Osborne, clutching the ladle, fixing his eyes on her, in a sepulchral92 tone; and having helped her and the rest, did not speak for a while. “Take Miss Sedley’s plate away,” at last he said. “She can’t eat the soup—no more can I. It’s beastly. Take away the soup, Hicks, and to-morrow turn the cook out of the house, Jane.” Having concluded his observations upon the soup, Mr. Osborne made a few curt93 remarks respecting the fish, also of a savage94 and satirical tendency, and cursed Billingsgate with an emphasis quite worthy of the place. Then he lapsed into silence, and swallowed sundry95 glasses of wine, looking more and more terrible, till a brisk knock at the door told of George’s arrival when everybody began to rally. “He could not come before. General Daguilet had kept him waiting at the Horse Guards. Never mind soup or fish. Give him anything—he didn’t care what. Capital mutton—capital everything.” His good humour contrasted with his father’s severity; and he rattled96 on unceasingly during dinner, to the delight of all—of one especially, who need not be mentioned. As soon as the young ladies had discussed the orange and the glass of wine which formed the ordinary conclusion of the dismal97 banquets at Mr. Osborne’s house, the signal to make sail for the drawing-room was given, and they all arose and departed. Amelia hoped George would soon join them there. She began playing some of his favourite waltzes (then newly imported) at the great carved-legged, leather-cased grand piano in the drawing- room overhead. This little artifice98 did not bring him. He was deaf to the waltzes; they grew fainter and fainter; the discomfited99 performer left the huge instrument presently; and though her three friends performed some of the loudest and most brilliant new pieces of their répertoire, she did not hear a single note, but sate100 thinking, and boding101 evil. Old Osborne’s scowl, terrific always, had never before looked so deadly to her. His eyes followed her out of the room, as if she had been guilty of something. When they brought her coffee, she started as though it were a cup of poison which Mr. Hicks, the butler, wished to propose to her. What mystery was there lurking102? Oh, those women! They nurse and cuddle their presentiments103, and make darlings of their ugliest thoughts, as they do of their deformed104 children. The gloom on the paternal105 countenance106 had also impressed George Osborne with anxiety. With such eyebrows, and a look so decidedly bilious107, how was he to extract that money from the governor, of which George was consumedly in want? He began praising his father’s wine. That was generally a successful means of cajoling the old gentleman. “We never got such Madeira in the West Indies, sir, as yours. Colonel Heavytop took off three bottles of that you sent me down, under his belt the other day.” “Did he?” said the old gentleman. “It stands me in eight shillings a bottle.” “Will you take six guineas a dozen for it, sir?” said George, with a laugh. “There’s one of the greatest men in the kingdom wants some.” “Does he?” growled the senior. “Wish he may get it.” “When General Daguilet was at Chatham, sir, Heavytop gave him a breakfast, and asked me for some of the wine. The General liked it just as well—wanted a pipe for the Commander-in-Chief. He’s his Royal Highness’s right-hand man.” “It is devilish fine wine,” said the Eyebrows, and they looked more good-humoured; and George was going to take advantage of this complacency, and bring the supply question on the mahogany, when the father, relapsing into solemnity, though rather cordial in manner, bade him ring the bell for claret. “And we’ll see if that’s as good as the Madeira, George, to which his Royal Highness is welcome, I’m sure. And as we are drinking it, I’ll talk to you about a matter of importance.” Amelia heard the claret bell ringing as she sat nervously108 upstairs. She thought, somehow, it was a mysterious and presentimental bell. Of the presentiments which some people are always having, some surely must come right. “What I want to know, George,” the old gentleman said, after slowly smacking109 his first bumper—“what I want to know is, how you and—ah—that little thing upstairs, are carrying on?” “I think, sir, it is not hard to see,” George said, with a self-satisfied grin. “Pretty clear, sir.—What capital wine!” “What d’you mean, pretty clear, sir?” “Why, hang it, sir, don’t push me too hard. I’m a modest man. I—ah—I don’t set up to be a lady-killer; but I do own that she’s as devilish fond of me as she can be. Anybody can see that with half an eye.” “And you yourself?” “Why, sir, didn’t you order me to marry her, and ain’t I a good boy? Haven’t our Papas settled it ever so long?” “A pretty boy, indeed. Haven’t I heard of your doings, sir, with Lord Tarquin, Captain Crawley of the Guards, ~the Honourable110 Mr. Deuceace and that set. Have a care sir, have a care.” The old gentleman pronounced these aristocratic names with the greatest gusto. Whenever he met a great man he grovelled111 before him, and my-lorded him as only a free-born Briton can do. He came home and looked out his history in the Peerage: he introduced his name into his daily conversation; he bragged112 about his Lordship to his daughters. He fell down prostrate113 and basked114 in him as a Neapolitan beggar does in the sun. George was alarmed when he heard the names. He feared his father might have been informed of certain transactions at play. But the old moralist eased him by saying serenely115: “Well, well, young men will be young men. And the comfort to me is, George, that living in the best society in England, as I hope you do; as I think you do; as my means will allow you to do—”
“Thank you, sir,” says George, making his point at once. “One can’t live with these great folks for nothing; and my purse, sir, look at it”; and he held up a little token which had been netted by Amelia, and contained the very last of Dobbin’s pound notes. “You shan’t want, sir. The British merchant’s son shan’t want, sir. My guineas are as good as theirs, George, my boy; and I don’t grudge116 ’em. Call on Mr. Chopper as you go through the City to-morrow; he’ll have something for you. I don’t grudge money when I know you’re in good society, because I know that good society can never go wrong. There’s no pride in me. I was a humbly117 born man—but you have had advantages. Make a good use of ’em. Mix with the young nobility. There’s many of ’em who can’t spend a dollar to your guinea, my boy. And as for the pink bonnets118 (here from under the heavy eyebrows there came a knowing and not very pleasing leer)—why boys will be boys. Only there’s one thing I order you to avoid, which, if you do not, I’ll cut you off with a shilling, by Jove; and that’s gambling,
“Oh, of course, sir,” said George. “But to return to the other business about Amelia: why shouldn’t you marry higher than a stockbroker’s daughter, George—that’s what I want to know?” “It’s a family business, sir,”, says George, cracking filberts. “You and Mr. Sedley made the match a hundred years ago.” “I don’t deny it; but people’s positions alter, sir. I don’t deny that Sedley made my fortune, or rather put me in the way of acquiring, by my own talents and genius, that proud position, which, I may say, I occupy in the tallow trade and the City of London. I’ve shown my gratitude119 to Sedley; and he’s tried it of late, sir, as my cheque-book can show. George! I tell you in confidence I don’t like the looks of Mr. Sedley’s affairs. My chief clerk, Mr. Chopper, does not like the looks of ’em, and he’s an old file, and knows ’Change as well as any man in London. Hulker & Bullock are looking shy at him. He’s been dabbling120 on his own account I fear. They say the Jeune Amelie was his, which was taken by the Yankee privateer Molasses. And that’s flat—unless I see Amelia’s ten thousand down you don’t marry her. I’ll have no lame121 duck’s daughter in my family. Pass the wine, sir—or ring for coffee.” With which Mr. Osborne spread out the evening paper, and George knew from this signal that the colloquy122 was ended, and that his papa was about to take a nap. He hurried upstairs to Amelia in the highest spirits. What was it that made him more attentive123 to her on that night than he had been for a long time—more eager to amuse her, more tender, more brilliant in talk? Was it that his generous heart warmed to her at the prospect124 of misfortune; or that the idea of losing the dear little prize made him value it more? She lived upon the recollections of that happy evening for many days afterwards, remembering his words; his looks; the song he sang; his attitude, as he leant over her or looked at her from a distance. As it seemed to her, no night ever passed so quickly at Mr. Osborne’s house before; and for once this young person was almost provoked to be angry by the premature17 arrival of Mr. Sambo with her shawl. George came and took a tender leave of her the next morning; and then hurried off to the City, where he visited Mr. Chopper, his father’s head man, and received from that gentleman a document which he exchanged at Hulker & Bullock’s for a whole pocketful of money. As George entered the house, old John Sedley was passing out of the banker’s parlour, looking very dismal. But his godson was much too elated to mark the worthy stockbroker’s depression, or the dreary125 eyes which the kind old gentleman cast upon him. Young Bullock did not come grinning out of the parlour with him as had been his wont126 in former years. And as the swinging doors of Hulker, Bullock & Co. closed upon Mr. Sedley, Mr. Quill127, the cashier (whose benevolent128 occupation it is to hand out crisp bank-notes from a drawer and dispense129 sovereigns out of a copper130 shovel), winked131 at Mr. Driver, the clerk at the desk on his right. Mr. Driver winked again. “No go,” Mr. D. whispered.
“Not at no price,” Mr. Q. said. “Mr. George Osborne, sir, how will you take it?” George crammed132 eagerly a quantity of notes into his pockets, and paid Dobbin fifty pounds that very evening at mess. That very evening Amelia wrote him the tenderest of long letters. Her heart was overflowing133 with tenderness, but it still foreboded evil. What was the cause of Mr. Osborne’s dark looks? she asked. Had any difference arisen between him and her papa? Her poor papa returned so melancholy from the City, that all were alarmed about him at home—in fine, there were four pages of loves and fears and hopes and forebodings. “Poor little Emmy—dear little Emmy. How fond she is of me,” George said, as he perused134 the missive—“and Gad135, what a headache that mixed punch has given me!” Poor little Emmy, indeed.
收听单词发音 |
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obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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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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liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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blurting
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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20
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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21
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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22
harridan
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| n.恶妇；丑老大婆 | |
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23
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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24
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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25
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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26
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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27
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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28
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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29
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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30
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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31
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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32
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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33
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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34
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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35
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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36
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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37
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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38
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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39
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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40
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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41
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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42
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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43
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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44
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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45
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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46
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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47
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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48
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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49
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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50
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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51
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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54
subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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55
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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56
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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57
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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58
weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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59
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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60
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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61
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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62
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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63
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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64
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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65
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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66
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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67
kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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68
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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69
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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70
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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71
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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72
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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73
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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74
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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75
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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76
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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77
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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78
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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79
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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80
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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81
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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82
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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83
chronometer
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| n.精密的计时器 | |
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84
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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85
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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86
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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87
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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89
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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90
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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91
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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92
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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93
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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94
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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95
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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96
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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97
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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98
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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99
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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100
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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101
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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102
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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103
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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104
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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105
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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106
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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107
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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108
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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109
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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110
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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111
grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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112
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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114
basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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115
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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116
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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117
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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118
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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119
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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120
dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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121
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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122
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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123
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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124
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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125
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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126
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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127
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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128
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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129
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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130
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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131
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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132
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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133
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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134
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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135
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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