She was small and active and sallow; her yellow hair was faded, and looked dry; her blue silk blouses and modest lace collars and high black shoes and sailor hats were as literal and uncharming as a schoolroom desk; but her eyes determined1 her appearance, revealed her as a personage and a force, indicated her faith in the goodness and purpose of everything. They were blue, and they were never still; they expressed amusement, pity, enthusiasm. If she had been seen in sleep, with the wrinkles beside her eyes stilled and the creased2 lids hiding the radiant irises3, she would have lost her potency4.
She was born in a hill-smothered Wisconsin village where her father was a prosy minister; she labored5 through a sanctimonious6 college; she taught for two years in an iron-range town of blurry-faced Tatars and Montenegrins, and wastes of ore, and when she came to Gopher Prairie, its trees and the shining spaciousness7 of the wheat prairie made her certain that she was in paradise.
She admitted to her fellow-teachers that the schoolbuilding was slightly damp, but she insisted that the rooms were “arranged so conveniently — and then that bust8 of President McKinley at the head of the stairs, it’s a lovely art-work, and isn’t it an inspiration to have the brave, honest, martyr9 president to think about!” She taught French, English, and history, and the Sophomore10 Latin class, which dealt in matters of a metaphysical nature called Indirect Discourse11 and the Ablative Absolute. Each year she was reconvinced that the pupils were beginning to learn more quickly. She spent four winters in building up the Debating Society, and when the debate really was lively one Friday afternoon, and the speakers of pieces did not forget their lines, she felt rewarded.
She lived an engrossed12 useful life, and seemed as cool and simple as an apple. But secretly she was creeping among fears, longing13, and guilt14. She knew what it was, but she dared not name it. She hated even the sound of the word “sex.” When she dreamed of being a woman of the harem, with great white warm limbs, she awoke to shudder15, defenseless in the dusk of her room. She prayed to Jesus, always to the Son of God, offering him the terrible power of her adoration17, addressing him as the eternal lover, growing passionate18, exalted19, large, as she contemplated20 his splendor21. Thus she mounted to endurance and surcease.
By day, rattling22 about in many activities, she was able to ridicule23 her blazing nights of darkness. With spurious cheerfulness she announced everywhere, “I guess I’m a born spinster,” and “No one will ever marry a plain schoolma’am like me,” and “You men, great big noisy bothersome creatures, we women wouldn’t have you round the place, dirtying up nice clean rooms, if it wasn’t that you have to be petted and guided. We just ought to say ‘Scat!’ to all of you!”
But when a man held her close at a dance, even when “Professor” George Edwin Mott patted her hand paternally24 as they considered the naughtinesses of Cy Bogart, she quivered, and reflected how superior she was to have kept her virginity.
In the autumn of 1911, a year before Dr. Will Kennicott was married, Vida was his partner at a five-hundred tournament. She was thirty-four then; Kennicott about thirty-six. To her he was a superb, boyish, diverting creature; all the heroic qualities in a manly25 magnificent body. They had been helping26 the hostess to serve the Waldorf salad and coffee and gingerbread. They were in the kitchen, side by side on a bench, while the others ponderously27 supped in the room beyond.
Kennicott was masculine and experimental. He stroked Vida’s hand, he put his arm carelessly about her shoulder.
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
“You’re a cunning thing,” he offered, patting the back of her shoulder in an exploratory manner.
While she strained away, she longed to move nearer to him. He bent28 over, looked at her knowingly. She glanced down at his left hand as it touched her knee. She sprang up, started noisily and needlessly to wash the dishes. He helped her. He was too lazy to adventure further — and too used to women in his profession. She was grateful for the impersonality30 of his talk. It enabled her to gain control. She knew that she had skirted wild thoughts.
A month after, on a sleighing-party, under the buffalo31 robes in the bob-sled, he whispered, “You pretend to be a grown-up schoolteacher, but you’re nothing but a kiddie.” His arm was about her. She resisted.
“Don’t you like the poor lonely bachelor?” he yammered in a fatuous32 way.
“No, I don’t! You don’t care for me in the least. You’re just practising on me.”
“You’re so mean! I’m terribly fond of you.”
“I’m not of you. And I’m not going to let myself be fond of you, either.”
He persistently33 drew her toward him. She clutched his arm. Then she threw off the robe, climbed out of the sled, raced after it with Harry34 Haydock. At the dance which followed the sleigh-ride Kennicott was devoted35 to the watery36 prettiness of Maud Dyer, and Vida was noisily interested in getting up a Virginia Reel. Without seeming to watch Kennicott, she knew that he did not once look at her.
That was all of her first love-affair.
He gave no sign of remembering that he was “terribly fond.” She waited for him; she reveled in longing, and in a sense of guilt because she longed. She told herself that she did not want part of him; unless he gave her all his devotion she would never let him touch her; and when she found that she was probably lying, she burned with scorn. She fought it out in prayer. She knelt in a pink flannel37 nightgown, her thin hair down her back, her forehead as full of horror as a mask of tragedy, while she identified her love for the Son of God with her love for a mortal, and wondered if any other woman had ever been so sacrilegious. She wanted to be a nun38 and observe perpetual adoration. She bought a rosary, but she had been so bitterly reared as a Protestant that she could not bring herself to use it.
Yet none of her intimates in the school and in the boarding- house knew of her abyss of passion. They said she was “so optimistic.”
When she heard that Kennicott was to marry a girl, pretty, young, and imposingly39 from the Cities, Vida despaired. She congratulated Kennicott; carelessly ascertained40 from him the hour of marriage. At that hour, sitting in her room, Vida pictured the wedding in St. Paul. Full of an ecstasy41 which horrified42 her, she followed Kennicott and the girl who had stolen her place, followed them to the train, through the evening, the night.
She was relieved when she had worked out a belief that she wasn’t really shameful43, that there was a mystical relation between herself and Carol, so that she was vicariously yet veritably with Kennicott, and had the right to be.
She saw Carol during the first five minutes in Gopher Prairie. She stared at the passing motor, at Kennicott and the girl beside him. In that fog world of transference of emotion Vida had no normal jealousy44 but a conviction that, since through Carol she had received Kennicott’s love, then Carol was a part of her, an astral self, a heightened and more beloved self. She was glad of the girl’s charm, of the smooth black hair, the airy head and young shoulders. But she was suddenly angry. Carol glanced at her for a quarter-second, but looked past her, at an old roadside barn. If she had made the great sacrifice, at least she expected gratitude45 and recognition, Vida raged, while her conscious schoolroom mind fussily46 begged her to control this insanity47.
During her first call half of her wanted to welcome a fellow reader of books; the other half itched48 to find out whether Carol knew anything about Kennicott’s former interest in herself. She discovered that Carol was not aware that he had ever touched another woman’s hand. Carol was an amusing, naive49, curiously50 learned child. While Vida was most actively51 describing the glories of the Thanatopsis, and complimenting this librarian on her training as a worker, she was fancying that this girl was the child born of herself and Kennicott; and out of that symbolizing52 she had a comfort she had not known for months.
When she came home, after supper with the Kennicotts and Guy Pollock, she had a sudden and rather pleasant backsliding from devotion. She bustled53 into her room, she slammed her hat on the bed, and chattered54, “I don’t CARE! I’m a lot like her — except a few years older. I’m light and quick, too, and I can talk just as well as she can, and I’m sure —— Men are such fools. I’d be ten times as sweet to make love to as that dreamy baby. And I AM as good-looking!”
But as she sat on the bed and stared at her thin thighs55, defiance56 oozed57 away. She mourned:
“No. I’m not. Dear God, how we fool ourselves! I pretend I’m ‘spiritual.’ I pretend my legs are graceful58. They aren’t. They’re skinny. Old-maidish. I hate it! I hate that impertinent young woman! A selfish cat, taking his love for granted. . . . No, she’s adorable. . . . I don’t think she ought to be so friendly with Guy Pollock.”
For a year Vida loved Carol, longed to and did not pry59 into the details of her relations with Kennicotts enjoyed her spirit of play as expressed in childish tea-parties, and, with the mystic bond between them forgotten, was healthily vexed60 by Carol’s assumption that she was a sociological messiah come to save Gopher Prairie. This last facet61 of Vida’s thought was the one which, after a year, was most often turned to the light. In a testy62 way she brooded, “These people that want to change everything all of a sudden without doing any work, make me tired! Here I have to go and work for four years, picking out the pupils for debates, and drilling them, and nagging63 at them to get them to look up references, and begging them to choose their own subjects — four years, to get up a couple of good debates! And she comes rushing in, and expects in one year to change the whole town into a lollypop paradise with everybody stopping everything else to grow tulips and drink tea. And it’s a comfy homey old town, too!”
She had such an outburst after each of Carol’s campaigns — for better Thanatopsis programs, for Shavian plays, for more human schools — but she never betrayed herself, and always she was penitent64.
Vida was, and always would be, a reformer, a liberal. She believed that details could excitingly be altered, but that things-in-general were comely65 and kind and immutable66. Carol was, without understanding or accepting it, a revolutionist, a radical67, and therefore possessed68 of “constructive69 ideas,” which only the destroyer can have, since the reformer believes that all the essential constructing has already been done. After years of intimacy70 it was this unexpressed opposition71 more than the fancied loss of Kennicott’s love which held Vida irritably72 fascinated.
But the birth of Hugh revived the transcendental emotion. She was indignant that Carol should not be utterly73 fulfilled in having borne Kennicott’s child. She admitted that Carol seemed to have affection and immaculate care for the baby, but she began to identify herself now with Kennicott, and in this phase to feel that she had endured quite too much from Carol’s instability.
She recalled certain other women who had come from the Outside and had not appreciated Gopher Prairie. She remembered the rector’s wife who had been chilly74 to callers and who was rumored75 throughout the town to have said, “Re-ah-ly I cawn’t endure this bucolic76 heartiness77 in the responses.” The woman was positively78 known to have worn handkerchiefs in her bodice as padding — oh, the town had simply roared at her. Of course the rector and she were got rid of in a few months.
Then there was the mysterious woman with the dyed hair and penciled eyebrows79, who wore tight English dresses, like basques, who smelled of stale musk80, who flirted82 with the men and got them to advance money for her expenses in a lawsuit83, who laughed at Vida’s reading at a school-entertainment, and went off owing a hotel-bill and the three hundred dollars she had borrowed.
Vida insisted that she loved Carol, but with some satisfaction she compared her to these traducers of the town.
II
Vida had enjoyed Raymie Wutherspoon’s singing in the Episcopal choir84; she had thoroughly85 reviewed the weather with him at Methodist sociables and in the Bon Ton. But she did not really know him till she moved to Mrs. Gurrey’s boarding- house. It was five years after her affair with Kennicott. She was thirty-nine, Raymie perhaps a year younger.
She said to him, and sincerely, “My! You can do anything, with your brains and tact86 and that heavenly voice. You were so good in ‘The Girl from Kankakee.’ You made me feel terribly stupid. If you’d gone on the stage, I believe you’d be just as good as anybody in Minneapolis. But still, I’m not sorry you stuck to business. It’s such a constructive career.”
“Do you really think so?” yearned87 Raymie, across the apple-sauce.
It was the first time that either of them had found a dependable intellectual companionship. They looked down on Willis Woodford the bank-clerk, and his anxious babycentric wife, the silent Lyman Casses, the slangy traveling man, and the rest of Mrs. Gurrey’s unenlightened guests. They sat opposite, and they sat late. They were exhilarated to find that they agreed in confession88 of faith:
“People like Sam Clark and Harry Haydock aren’t earnest about music and pictures and eloquent89 sermons and really refined movies, but then, on the other hand, people like Carol Kennicott put too much stress on all this art. Folks ought to appreciate lovely things, but just the same, they got to be practical and — they got to look at things in a practical way.”
Smiling, passing each other the pressed-glass pickle-dish, seeing Mrs. Gurrey’s linty90 supper-cloth irradiated by the light of intimacy, Vida and Raymie talked about Carol’s rose-colored turban, Carol’s sweetness, Carol’s new low shoes, Carol’s erroneous theory that there was no need of strict discipline in school, Carol’s amiability91 in the Bon Ton, Carol’s flow of wild ideas, which, honestly, just simply made you nervous trying to keep track of them;
About the lovely display of gents’ shirts in the Bon Ton window as dressed by Raymie, about Raymie’s offertory last Sunday, the fact that there weren’t any of these new solos as nice as “Jerusalem the Golden,” and the way Raymie stood up to Juanita Haydock when she came into the store and tried to run things and he as much as told her that she was so anxious to have folks think she was smart and bright that she said things she didn’t mean, and anyway, Raymie was running the shoe-department, and if Juanita, or Harry either, didn’t like the way he ran things, they could go get another man;
About Vida’s new jabot which made her look thirty-two (Vida’s estimate) or twenty-two (Raymie’s estimate), Vida’s plan to have the high-school Debating Society give a playlet, and the difficulty of keeping the younger boys well behaved on the playground when a big lubber like Cy Bogart acted up so;
About the picture post-card which Mrs. Dawson had sent to Mrs. Cass from Pasadena, showing roses growing right outdoors in February, the change in time on No. 4, the reckless way Dr. Gould always drove his auto92, the reckless way almost all these people drove their autos, the fallacy of supposing that these socialists93 could carry on a government for as much as six months if they ever did have a chance to try out their theories, and the crazy way in which Carol jumped from subject to subject.
Vida had once beheld94 Raymie as a thin man with spectacles, mournful drawn-out face, and colorless stiff hair. Now she noted95 that his jaw96 was square, that his long hands moved quickly and were bleached97 in a refined manner, and that his trusting eyes indicated that he had “led a clean life.” She began to call him “Ray,” and to bounce in defense16 of his unselfishness and thoughtfulness every time Juanita Haydock or Rita Gould giggled98 about him at the Jolly Seventeen.
On a Sunday afternoon of late autumn they walked down to Lake Minniemashie. Ray said that he would like to see the ocean; it must be a grand sight; it must be much grander than a lake, even a great big lake. Vida had seen it, she stated modestly; she had seen it on a summer trip to Cape99 Cod100.
“Have you been clear to Cape Cod? Massachusetts? I knew you’d traveled, but I never realized you’d been that far!”
Made taller and younger by his interest she poured out, “Oh my yes. It was a wonderful trip. So many points of interest through Massachusetts — historical. There’s Lexington where we turned back the redcoats, and Longfellow’s home at Cambridge, and Cape Cod — just everything — fishermen and whale- ships and sand-dunes and everything.”
She wished that she had a little cane101 to carry. He broke off a willow102 branch.
“My, you’re strong!” she said.
“No, not very. I wish there was a Y. M. C. A. here, so I could take up regular exercise. I used to think I could do pretty good acrobatics103, if I had a chance.”
“I’m sure you could. You’re unusually lithe104, for a large man.”
“Oh no, not so very. But I wish we had a Y. M. It would be dandy to have lectures and everything, and I’d like to take a class in improving the memory — I believe a fellow ought to go on educating himself and improving his mind even if he is in business, don’t you, Vida — I guess I’m kind of fresh to call you ‘Vida’!”
“I’ve been calling you ‘Ray’ for weeks!”
He wondered why she sounded tart29.
He helped her down the bank to the edge of the lake but dropped her hand abruptly105, and as they sat on a willow log and he brushed her sleeve, he delicately moved over and murmured, “Oh, excuse me — accident.”
She stared at the mud-browned chilly water, the floating gray reeds.
“You look so thoughtful,” he said.
She threw out her hands. “I am! Will you kindly106 tell me what’s the use of — anything! Oh, don’t mind me. I’m a moody107 old hen. Tell me about your plan for getting a partnership108 in the Bon Ton. I do think you’re right: Harry Haydock and that mean old Simons ought to give you one.”
He hymned the old unhappy wars in which he had been Achilles and the mellifluous109 Nestor, yet gone his righteous ways unheeded by the cruel kings. . . . “Why, if I’ve told ’em once, I’ve told ’em a dozen times to get in a side-line of light-weight pants for gents’ summer wear, and of course here they go and let a cheap kike like Rifkin beat them to it and grab the trade right off ’em, and then Harry said — you know how Harry is, maybe he don’t mean to be grouchy110, but he’s such a sore-head ——”
He gave her a hand to rise. “If you don’t MIND. I think a fellow is awful if a lady goes on a walk with him and she can’t trust him and he tries to flirt81 with her and all.”
“I’m sure you’re highly trustworthy!” she snapped, and she sprang up without his aid. Then, smiling excessively, “Uh — don’t you think Carol sometimes fails to appreciate Dr. Will’s ability?”
III
Ray habitually111 asked her about his window-trimming, the display of the new shoes, the best music for the entertainment at the Eastern Star, and (though he was recognized as a professional authority on what the town called “gents’ furnishings”) about his own clothes. She persuaded him not to wear the small bow ties which made him look like an elongated112 Sunday School scholar. Once she burst out:
“Ray, I could shake you! Do you know you’re too apologetic? You always appreciate other people too much. You fuss over Carol Kennicott when she has some crazy theory that we all ought to turn anarchists113 or live on figs114 and nuts or something. And you listen when Harry Haydock tries to show off and talk about turnovers115 and credits and things you know lots better than he does. Look folks in the eye! Glare at ’em! Talk deep! You’re the smartest man in town, if you only knew it. You ARE!”
He could not believe it. He kept coming back to her for confirmation116. He practised glaring and talking deep, but he circuitously117 hinted to Vida that when he had tried to look Harry Haydock in the eye, Harry had inquired, “What’s the matter with you, Raymie? Got a pain?” But afterward118 Harry had asked about Kantbeatum socks in a manner which, Ray felt, was somehow different from his former condescension119.
They were sitting on the squat120 yellow satin settee in the boarding-house parlor121. As Ray reannounced that he simply wouldn’t stand it many more years if Harry didn’t give him a partnership, his gesticulating hand touched Vida’s shoulders.
“Oh, excuse me!” he pleaded.
“It’s all right. Well, I think I must be running up to my room. Headache,” she said briefly122.
IV
Ray and she had stopped in at Dyer’s for a hot chocolate on their way home from the movies, that March evening. Vida speculated, “Do you know that I may not be here next year?”
“What do you mean?”
With her fragile narrow nails she smoothed the glass slab123 which formed the top of the round table at which they sat. She peeped through the glass at the perfume-boxes of black and gold and citron in the hollow table. She looked about at shelves of red rubber water-bottles, pale yellow sponges, wash- rags with blue borders, hair-brushes of polished cherry backs. She shook her head like a nervous medium coming out of a trance, stared at him unhappily, demanded:
“Why should I stay here? And I must make up my mind. Now. Time to renew our teaching-contracts for next year. I think I’ll go teach in some other town. Everybody here is tired of me. I might as well go. Before folks come out and SAY they’re tired of me. I have to decide tonight. I might as well —— Oh, no matter. Come. Let’s skip. It’s late.”
She sprang up, ignoring his wail124 of “Vida! Wait! Sit down! Gosh! I’m flabbergasted! Gee125! Vida!” She marched out. While he was paying his check she got ahead. He ran after her, blubbering, “Vida! Wait!” In the shade of the lilacs in front of the Gougerling house he came up with her, stayed her flight by a hand on her shoulder.
“Oh, don’t! Don’t! What does it matter?” she begged. She was sobbing126, her soft wrinkly lids soaked with tears. “Who cares for my affection or help? I might as well drift on, forgotten. O Ray, please don’t hold me. Let me go. I’ll just decide not to renew my contract here, and — and drift — way off ——”
His hand was steady on her shoulder. She dropped her head, rubbed the back of his hand with her cheek.
They were married in June.
V
They took the Ole Jenson house. “It’s small,” said Vida, “but it’s got the dearest vegetable garden, and I love having time to get near to Nature for once.”
Though she became Vida Wutherspoon technically127, and though she certainly had no ideals about the independence of keeping her name, she continued to be known as Vida Sherwin.
She had resigned from the school, but she kept up one class in English. She bustled about on every committee of the Thanatopsis; she was always popping into the rest-room to make Mrs. Nodelquist sweep the floor; she was appointed to the library-board to succeed Carol; she taught the Senior Girls’ Class in the Episcopal Sunday School, and tried to revive the King’s Daughters. She exploded into self-confidence and happiness; her draining thoughts were by marriage turned into energy. She became daily and visibly more plump, and though she chattered as eagerly, she was less obviously admiring of marital128 bliss129, less sentimental130 about babies, sharper in demanding that the entire town share her reforms — the purchase of a park, the compulsory131 cleaning of back-yards.
She penned Harry Haydock at his desk in the Bon Ton; she interrupted his joking; she told him that it was Ray who had built up the shoe-department and men’s department; she demanded that he be made a partner. Before Harry could answer she threatened that Ray and she would start a rival shop. “I’ll clerk behind the counter myself, and a Certain Party is all ready to put up the money.”
She rather wondered who the Certain Party was.
Ray was made a one-sixth partner.
He became a glorified132 floor-walker, greeting the men with new poise133, no longer coyly subservient134 to pretty women. When he was not affectionately coercing135 people into buying things they did not need, he stood at the back of the store, glowing, abstracted, feeling masculine as he recalled the tempestuous136 surprises of love revealed by Vida.
The only remnant of Vida’s identification of herself with Carol was a jealousy when she saw Kennicott and Ray together, and reflected that some people might suppose that Kennicott was his superior. She was sure that Carol thought so, and she wanted to shriek137, “You needn’t try to gloat! I wouldn’t have your pokey old husband. He hasn’t one single bit of Ray’s spiritual nobility.”
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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sanctimonious
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| adj.假装神圣的，假装虔诚的，假装诚实的 | |
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spaciousness
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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splendor
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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ponderously
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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impersonality
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| n.无人情味 | |
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31
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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32
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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34
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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37
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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38
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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39
imposingly
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40
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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42
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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43
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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44
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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45
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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46
fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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47
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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48
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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50
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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51
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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52
symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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53
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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54
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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55
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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57
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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58
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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59
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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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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61
facet
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| n.(问题等的)一个方面；(多面体的)面 | |
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62
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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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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64
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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66
immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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67
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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68
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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70
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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72
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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74
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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75
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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76
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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77
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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78
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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79
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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80
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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82
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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84
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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85
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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86
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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87
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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89
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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90
linty
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| adj.有棉毛的，有棉絮的 | |
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91
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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92
auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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93
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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96
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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97
bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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98
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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100
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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101
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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102
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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103
acrobatics
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| n.杂技 | |
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104
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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105
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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106
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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107
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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108
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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109
mellifluous
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| adj.（音乐等）柔美流畅的 | |
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110
grouchy
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| adj.好抱怨的；愠怒的 | |
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111
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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112
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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114
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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115
turnovers
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| n.营业额( turnover的名词复数 )；失误（篮球术语）；职工流动率；（商店的）货物周转率 | |
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116
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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117
circuitously
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| 曲折地 | |
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118
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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119
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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120
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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121
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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122
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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123
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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124
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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125
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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126
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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127
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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128
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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129
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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130
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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131
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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132
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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133
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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134
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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135
coercing
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| v.迫使做( coerce的现在分词 )；强迫；（以武力、惩罚、威胁等手段）控制；支配 | |
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136
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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137
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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