“Nice way to fix things, all right. What do you say we go down to Jack4 Elder’s and have a game of five hundred this afternoon?”
She remembered her father’s Christmas fantasies: the sacred old rag doll at the top of the tree, the score of cheap presents, the punch and carols, the roast chestnuts5 by the fire, and the gravity with which the judge opened the children’s scrawly6 notes and took cognizance of demands for sled-rides, for opinions upon the existence of Santa Claus. She remembered him reading out a long indictment7 of himself for being a sentimentalist, against the peace and dignity of the State of Minnesota. She remembered his thin legs twinkling before their sled ——
She muttered unsteadily, “Must run up and put on my shoes — slippers8 so cold.” In the not very romantic solitude9 of the locked bathroom she sat on the slippery edge of the tub and wept.
II
Kennicott had five hobbies: medicine, land-investment, Carol, motoring, and hunting. It is not certain in what order he preferred them. Solid though his enthusiasms were in the matter of medicine — his admiration10 of this city surgeon, his condemnation11 of that for tricky12 ways of persuading country practitioners13 to bring in surgical14 patients, his indignation about fee-splitting, his pride in a new X-ray apparatus15 — none of these beatified him as did motoring.
He nursed his two-year-old Buick even in winter, when it was stored in the stable-garage behind the house. He filled the grease-cups, varnished16 a fender, removed from beneath the back seat the debris17 of gloves, copper18 washers, crumpled19 maps, dust, and greasy20 rags. Winter noons he wandered out and stared owlishly at the car. He became excited over a fabulous21 “trip we might take next summer.” He galloped22 to the station, brought home railway maps, and traced motor-routes from Gopher Prairie to Winnipeg or Des Moines or Grand Marais, thinking aloud and expecting her to be effusive23 about such academic questions as “Now I wonder if we could stop at Baraboo and break the jump from La Crosse to Chicago?”
To him motoring was a faith not to be questioned, a high- church cult24, with electric sparks for candles, and piston-rings possessing the sanctity of altar-vessels. His liturgy25 was composed of intoned and metrical road-comments: “They say there’s a pretty good hike from Duluth to International Falls.”
Hunting was equally a devotion, full of metaphysical concepts veiled from Carol. All winter he read sporting- catalogues, and thought about remarkable26 past shots: “ ‘Member that time when I got two ducks on a long chance, just at sunset?” At least once a month he drew his favorite repeating shotgun, his “pump gun,” from its wrapper of greased canton flannel27; he oiled the trigger, and spent silent ecstatic moments aiming at the ceiling. Sunday mornings Carol heard him trudging28 up to the attic29 and there, an hour later, she found him turning over boots, wooden duck-decoys, lunch- boxes, or reflectively squinting30 at old shells, rubbing their brass31 caps with his sleeve and shaking his head as he thought about their uselessness.
He kept the loading-tools he had used as a boy: a capper for shot-gun shells, a mold for lead bullets. When once, in a housewifely frenzy32 for getting rid of things, she raged, “Why don’t you give these away?” he solemnly defended them, “Well, you can’t tell; they might come in handy some day.”
She flushed. She wondered if he was thinking of the child they would have when, as he put it, they were “sure they could afford one.”
Mysteriously aching, nebulously sad, she slipped away, half- convinced but only half-convinced that it was horrible and unnatural33, this postponement34 of release of mother-affection, this sacrifice to her opinionation and to his cautious desire for prosperity.
“But it would be worse if he were like Sam Clark — insisted on having children,” she considered; then, “If Will were the Prince, wouldn’t I DEMAND his child?”
Kennicott’s land-deals were both financial advancement35 and favorite game. Driving through the country, he noticed which farms had good crops; he heard the news about the restless farmer who was “thinking about selling out here and pulling his freight for Alberta.” He asked the veterinarian about the value of different breeds of stock; he inquired of Lyman Cass whether or not Einar Gyseldson really had had a yield of forty bushels of wheat to the acre. He was always consulting Julius Flickerbaugh, who handled more real estate than law, and more law than justice. He studied township maps, and read notices of auctions36.
Thus he was able to buy a quarter-section of land for one hundred and fifty dollars an acre, and to sell it in a year or two, after installing a cement floor in the barn and running water in the house, for one hundred and eighty or even two hundred.
He spoke37 of these details to Sam Clark. . .rather often.
In all his games, cars and guns and land, he expected Carol to take an interest. But he did not give her the facts which might have created interest. He talked only of the obvious and tedious aspects; never of his aspirations38 in finance, nor of the mechanical principles of motors.
This month of romance she was eager to understand his hobbies. She shivered in the garage while he spent half an hour in deciding whether to put alcohol or patent non-freezing liquid into the radiator39, or to drain out the water entirely40. “Or no, then I wouldn’t want to take her out if it turned warm — still, of course, I could fill the radiator again — wouldn’t take so awful long — just take a few pails of water — still, if it turned cold on me again before I drained it —— Course there’s some people that put in kerosene41, but they say it rots the hose- connections and —— Where did I put that lug-wrench?”
It was at this point that she gave up being a motorist and retired42 to the house.
In their new intimacy43 he was more communicative about his practise; he informed her, with the invariable warning not to tell, that Mrs. Sunderquist had another baby coming, that the “hired girl at Howland’s was in trouble.” But when she asked technical questions he did not know how to answer; when she inquired, “Exactly what is the method of taking out the tonsils?” he yawned, “Tonsilectomy? Why you just —— If there’s pus, you operate. Just take ’em out. Seen the newspaper? What the devil did Bea do with it?”
She did not try again.
III
They had gone to the “movies.” The movies were almost as vital to Kennicott and the other solid citizens of Gopher Prairie as land-speculation44 and guns and automobiles45.
The feature film portrayed47 a brave young Yankee who conquered a South American republic. He turned the natives from their barbarous habits of singing and laughing to the vigorous sanity48, the Pep and Punch and Go, of the North; he taught them to work in factories, to wear Klassy Kollege Klothes, and to shout, “Oh, you baby doll, watch me gather in the mazuma.” He changed nature itself. A mountain which had borne nothing but lilies and cedars49 and loafing clouds was by his Hustle50 so inspirited that it broke out in long wooden sheds, and piles of iron ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron ore to be converted into steamers to carry iron ore.
The intellectual tension induced by the master film was relieved by a livelier, more lyric51 and less philosophical52 drama: Mack Schnarken and the Bathing Suit Babes in a comedy of manners entitled “Right on the Coco.” Mr. Schnarken was at various high moments a cook, a life-guard, a burlesque53 actor, and a sculptor54. There was a hotel hallway up which policemen charged, only to be stunned55 by plaster busts56 hurled57 upon them from the innumerous doors. If the plot lacked lucidity58, the dual59 motif60 of legs and pie was clear and sure. Bathing and modeling were equally sound occasions for legs; the wedding- scene was but an approach to the thunderous climax61 when Mr. Schnarken slipped a piece of custard pie into the clergyman’s rear pocket.
The audience in the Rosebud62 Movie Palace squealed63 and wiped their eyes; they scrambled64 under the seats for overshoes, mittens65, and mufflers, while the screen announced that next week Mr. Schnarken might be seen in a new, riproaring, extra-special superfeature of the Clean Comedy Corporation entitled, “Under Mollie’s Bed.”
“I’m glad,” said Carol to Kennicott as they stooped before the northwest gale66 which was torturing the barren street, “that this is a moral country. We don’t allow any of these beastly frank novels.”
“Yump. Vice67 Society and Postal68 Department won’t stand for them. The American people don’t like filth69.”
“Yes. It’s fine. I’m glad we have such dainty romances as ‘Right on the Coco’ instead.”
“Say what in heck do you think you’re trying to do? Kid me?”
He was silent. She awaited his anger. She meditated70 upon his gutter71 patois72, the Boeotian dialect characteristic of Gopher Prairie. He laughed puzzlingly. When they came into the glow of the house he laughed again. He condescended73:
“I’ve got to hand it to you. You’re consistent, all right. I’d of thought that after getting this look-in at a lot of good decent farmers, you’d get over this high-art stuff, but you hang right on.”
“Well ——” To herself: “He takes advantage of my trying to be good.”
“Tell you, Carrie: There’s just three classes of people: folks that haven’t got any ideas at all; and cranks that kick about everything; and Regular Guys, the fellows with stick- tuitiveness, that boost and get the world’s work done.”
“Then I’m probably a crank.” She smiled negligently74.
“No. I won’t admit it. You do like to talk, but at a show-down you’d prefer Sam Clark to any damn long-haired artist.”
“Oh — well ——”
“Oh well!” mockingly. “My, we’re just going to change everything, aren’t we! Going to tell fellows that have been making movies for ten years how to direct ’em; and tell architects how to build towns; and make the magazines publish nothing but a lot of highbrow stories about old maids, and about wives that don’t know what they want. Oh, we’re a terror! . . . Come on now, Carrie; come out of it; wake up! You’ve got a fine nerve, kicking about a movie because it shows a few legs! Why, you’re always touting75 these Greek dancers, or whatever they are, that don’t even wear a shimmy!”
“But, dear, the trouble with that film — it wasn’t that it got in so many legs, but that it giggled76 coyly and promised to show more of them, and then didn’t keep the promise. It was Peeping Tom’s idea of humor.”
“I don’t get you. Look here now ——”
She lay awake, while he rumbled77 with sleep
“I must go on. My ‘crank ideas;’ he calls them. I thought that adoring him, watching him operate, would be enough. It isn’t. Not after the first thrill.
“I don’t want to hurt him. But I must go on.
“It isn’t enough, to stand by while he fills an automobile46 radiator and chucks me bits of information.
“If I stood by and admired him long enough, I would be content. I would become a ‘nice little woman.’ The Village Virus. Already —— I’m not reading anything. I haven’t touched the piano for a week. I’m letting the days drown in worship of ‘a good deal, ten plunks more per acre.’ I won’t! I won’t succumb78!
“How? I’ve failed at everything: the Thanatopsis, parties, pioneers, city hall, Guy and Vida. But —— It doesn’t MATTER! I’m not trying to ‘reform the town’ now. I’m not trying to organize Browning Clubs, and sit in clean white kids yearning79 up at lecturers with ribbony eyeglasses. I am trying to save my soul.
“Will Kennicott, asleep there, trusting me, thinking he holds me. And I’m leaving him. All of me left him when he laughed at me. It wasn’t enough for him that I admired him; I must change myself and grow like him. He takes advantage. No more. It’s finished. I will go on.”
IV
Her violin lay on top of the upright piano. She picked it up. Since she had last touched it the dried strings80 had snapped, and upon it lay a gold and crimson81 cigar-band.
V
She longed to see Guy Pollock, for the confirming of the brethren in the faith. But Kennicott’s dominance was heavy upon her. She could not determine whether she was checked by fear or him, or by inertia82 — by dislike of the emotional labor83 of the “scenes” which would be involved in asserting independence. She was like the revolutionist at fifty: not afraid of death, but bored by the probability of bad steaks and bad breaths and sitting up all night on windy barricades84.
The second evening after the movies she impulsively85 summoned Vida Sherwin and Guy to the house for pop-corn and cider. In the living-room Vida and Kennicott debated “the value of manual training in grades below the eighth,” while Carol sat beside Guy at the dining table, buttering pop-corn. She was quickened by the speculation in his eyes. She murmured:
“Guy, do you want to help me?”
“My dear! How?”
“I don’t know!”
He waited.
“I think I want you to help me find out what has made the darkness of the women. Gray darkness and shadowy trees. We’re all in it, ten million women, young married women with good prosperous husbands, and business women in linen86 collars, and grandmothers that gad87 out to teas, and wives of under- paid miners, and farmwives who really like to make butter and go to church. What is it we want — and need? Will Kennicott there would say that we need lots of children and hard work. But it isn’t that. There’s the same discontent in women with eight children and one more coming — always one more coming! And you find it in stenographers and wives who scrub, just as much as in girl college-graduates who wonder how they can escape their kind parents. What do we want?”
“Essentially, I think, you are like myself, Carol; you want to go back to an age of tranquillity88 and charming manners. You want to enthrone good taste again.”
“Just good taste? Fastidious people? Oh — no! I believe all of us want the same things — we’re all together, the industrial workers and the women and the farmers and the negro race and the Asiatic colonies, and even a few of the Respectables. It’s all the same revolt, in all the classes that have waited and taken advice. I think perhaps we want a more conscious life. We’re tired of drudging and sleeping and dying. We’re tired of seeing just a few people able to be individualists. We’re tired of always deferring89 hope till the next generation. We’re tired of hearing the politicians and priests and cautious reformers (and the husbands!) coax90 us, ‘Be calm! Be patient! Wait! We have the plans for a Utopia already made; just give us a bit more time and we’ll produce it; trust us; we’re wiser than you.’ For ten thousand years they’ve said that. We want our Utopia NOW— and we’re going to try our hands at it. All we want is — everything for all of us! For every housewife and every longshoreman and every Hindu nationalist and every teacher. We want everything. We shatn’t get it. So we shatn’t ever be content ——”
She wondered why he was wincing91. He broke in:
“See here, my dear, I certainly hope you don’t class yourself with a lot of trouble-making labor-leaders! Democracy is all right theoretically, and I’ll admit there are industrial injustices93, but I’d rather have them than see the world reduced to a dead level of mediocrity. I refuse to believe that you have anything in common with a lot of laboring94 men rowing for bigger wages so that they can buy wretched flivvers and hideous95 player-pianos and ——”
At this second, in Buenos Ayres, a newspaper editor broke his routine of being bored by exchanges to assert, “Any injustice92 is better than seeing the world reduced to a gray level of scientific dullness.” At this second a clerk standing96 at the bar of a New York saloon stopped milling his secret fear of his nagging97 office-manager long enough to growl98 at the chauffeur99 beside him, “Aw, you socialists100 make me sick! I’m an individualist. I ain’t going to be nagged101 by no bureaus and take orders off labor-leaders. And mean to say a hobo’s as good as you and me?”
At this second Carol realized that for all Guy’s love of dead elegances102 his timidity was as depressing to her as the bulkiness of Sam Clark. She realized that he was not a mystery, as she had excitedly believed; not a romantic messenger from the World Outside on whom she could count for escape. He belonged to Gopher Prairie, absolutely. She was snatched back from a dream of far countries, and found herself on Main Street.
He was completing his protest, “You don’t want to be mixed up in all this orgy of meaningless discontent?”
She soothed103 him. “No, I don’t. I’m not heroic. I’m scared by all the fighting that’s going on in the world. I want nobility and adventure, but perhaps I want still more to curl on the hearth104 with some one I love.”
“Would you ——”
He did not finish it. He picked up a handful of pop-corn, let it run through his fingers, looked at her wistfully.
With the loneliness of one who has put away a possible love Carol saw that he was a stranger. She saw that he had never been anything but a frame on which she had hung shining garments. If she had let him diffidently make love to her, it was not because she cared, but because she did not care, because it did not matter.
She smiled at him with the exasperating105 tactfulness of a woman checking a flirtation106; a smile like an airy pat on the arm. She sighed, “You’re a dear to let me tell you my imaginary troubles.” She bounced up, and trilled, “Shall we take the pop-corn in to them now?”
Guy looked after her desolately107.
While she teased Vida and Kennicott she was repeating, “I must go on.”
VI
Miles Bjornstam, the pariah108 “Red Swede,” had brought his circular saw and portable gasoline engine to the house, to cut the cords of poplar for the kitchen range. Kennicott had given the order; Carol knew nothing of it till she heard the ringing of the saw, and glanced out to see Bjornstam, in black leather jacket and enormous ragged109 purple mittens, pressing sticks against the whirling blade, and flinging the stove- lengths to one side. The red irritable110 motor kept up a red irritable “tip-tip-tip-tip-tip-tip.” The whine111 of the saw rose till it simulated the shriek112 of a fire-alarm whistle at night, but always at the end it gave a lively metallic113 clang, and in the stillness she heard the flump of the cut stick falling on the pile.
She threw a motor robe over her, ran out. Bjornstam welcomed her, “Well, well, well! Here’s old Miles, fresh as ever. Well say, that’s all right; he ain’t even begun to be cheeky yet; next summer he’s going to take you out on his horse-trading trip, clear into Idaho.”
“Yes, and I may go!”
“How’s tricks? Crazy about the town yet?”
“No, but I probably shall be, some day.”
“Don’t let ’em get you. Kick ’em in the face!”
He shouted at her while he worked. The pile of stove- wood grew astonishingly. The pale bark of the poplar sticks was mottled with lichens114 of sage-green and dusty gray; the newly sawed ends were fresh-colored, with the agreeable roughness of a woolen115 muffler. To the sterile116 winter air the wood gave a scent117 of March sap.
Kennicott telephoned that he was going into the country. Bjornstam had not finished his work at noon, and she invited him to have dinner with Bea in the kitchen. She wished that she were independent enough to dine with these her guests. She considered their friendliness118, she sneered119 at “social distinctions,” she raged at her own taboos120 — and she continued to regard them as retainers and herself as a lady. She sat in the dining-room and listened through the door to Bjornstam’s booming and Bea’s giggles121. She was the more absurd to herself in that, after the rite2 of dining alone, she could go out to the kitchen, lean against the sink, and talk to them.
They were attracted to each other; a Swedish Othello and Desdemona, more useful and amiable122 than their prototypes. Bjornstam told his scapes: selling horses in a Montana mining- camp, breaking a log-jam, being impertinent to a “two- fisted” millionaire lumberman. Bea gurgled “Oh my!” and kept his coffee cup filled.
He took a long time to finish the wood. He had frequently to go into the kitchen to get warm. Carol heard him confiding123 to Bea, “You’re a darn nice Swede girl. I guess if I had a woman like you I wouldn’t be such a sorehead. Gosh, your kitchen is clean; makes an old bach feel sloppy124. Say, that’s nice hair you got. Huh? Me fresh? Saaaay, girl, if I ever do get fresh, you’ll know it. Why, I could pick you up with one finger, and hold you in the air long enough to read Robert J. Ingersoll clean through. Ingersoll? Oh, he’s a religious writer. Sure. You’d like him fine.”
When he drove off he waved to Bea; and Carol, lonely at the window above, was envious125 of their pastoral.
“And I—— But I will go on.”
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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scrawly
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| 潦草地写 | |
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indictment
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slippers
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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admiration
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condemnation
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tricky
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practitioners
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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apparatus
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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debris
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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fabulous
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galloped
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effusive
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cult
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liturgy
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remarkable
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flannel
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trudging
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attic
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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brass
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frenzy
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unnatural
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postponement
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advancement
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auctions
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spoke
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aspirations
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radiator
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entirely
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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intimacy
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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45
automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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46
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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47
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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48
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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49
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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50
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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51
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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52
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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53
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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54
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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55
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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57
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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58
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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59
dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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60
motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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61
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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62
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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63
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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65
mittens
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| 不分指手套 | |
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66
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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67
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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68
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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69
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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70
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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71
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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72
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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73
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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74
negligently
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75
touting
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| v.兜售( tout的现在分词 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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76
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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78
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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79
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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80
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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81
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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82
inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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83
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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84
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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85
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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86
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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87
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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88
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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89
deferring
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| v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的现在分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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90
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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91
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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92
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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93
injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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94
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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95
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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96
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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97
nagging
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| adj.唠叨的，挑剔的；使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的现在分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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98
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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99
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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100
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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101
nagged
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| adj.经常遭责怪的；被压制的；感到厌烦的；被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的过去式和过去分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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102
elegances
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| n.高雅( elegance的名词复数 )；（举止、服饰、风格等的）优雅；精致物品；（思考等的）简洁 | |
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103
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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104
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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105
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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106
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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107
desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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108
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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109
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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110
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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111
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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112
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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113
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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114
lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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115
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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116
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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117
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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118
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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119
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
taboos
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| 禁忌( taboo的名词复数 )； 忌讳； 戒律； 禁忌的事物（或行为） | |
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121
giggles
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| n.咯咯的笑( giggle的名词复数 )；傻笑；玩笑；the giggles 止不住的格格笑v.咯咯地笑( giggle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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122
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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123
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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124
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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125
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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