‘How the buttons on his blue frock shone, tra-la-la! How he carolled and he sang, like a bird!. . . . ’
Swithin did not exactly carol and sing like a bird, but he felt almost like endeavouring to hum a tune1, as he stepped out of Hyde Park Mansions3, and contemplated4 his horses drawn5 up before the door.
The afternoon was as balmy as a day in June, and to complete the simile6 of the old song, he had put on a blue frock-coat, dispensing7 with an overcoat, after sending Adolf down three times to make sure that there was not the least suspicion of east in the wind; and the frock-coat was buttoned so tightly around his personable form, that, if the buttons did not shine, they might pardonably have done so. Majestic8 on the pavement he fitted on a pair of dog-skin gloves; with his large bell-shaped top hat, and his great stature9 and bulk he looked too primeval for a Forsyte. His thick white hair, on which Adolf had bestowed10 a touch of pomatum, exhaled11 the fragrance12 of opoponax and cigars — the celebrated13 Swithin brand, for which he paid one hundred and forty shillings the hundred, and of which old Jolyon had unkindly said, he wouldn’t smoke them as a gift; they wanted the stomach of a horse!
“Adolf!”
“Sare!”
“The new plaid rug!”
He would never teach that fellow to look smart; and Mrs. Soames he felt sure, had an eye!
“The phaeton hood14 down; I am going — to — drive — a — lady!”
A pretty woman would want to show off her frock; and well — he was going to drive a lady! It was like a new beginning to the good old days.
Ages since he had driven a woman! The last time, if he remembered, it had been Juley; the poor old soul had been as nervous as a cat the whole time, and so put him out of patience that, as he dropped her in the Bayswater Road, he had said: “Well I’m d —-d if I ever drive you again!” And he never had, not he!
Going up to his horses’ heads, he examined their bits; not that he knew anything about bits — he didn’t pay his coachman sixty pounds a year to do his work for him, that had never been his principle. Indeed, his reputation as a horsey man rested mainly on the fact that once, on Derby Day, he had been welshed by some thimble-riggers. But someone at the Club, after seeing him drive his greys up to the door — he always drove grey horses, you got more style for the money, some thought — had called him ‘Four-in-hand Forsyte.’ The name having reached his ears through that fellow Nicholas Treffry, old Jolyon’s dead partner, the great driving man notorious for more carriage accidents than any man in the kingdom — Swithin had ever after conceived it right to act up to it. The name had taken his fancy, not because he had ever driven four-in-hand, or was ever likely to, but because of something distinguished15 in the sound. Four-in-hand Forsyte! Not bad! Born too soon, Swithin had missed his vocation16. Coming upon London twenty years later, he could not have failed to have become a stockbroker17, but at the time when he was obliged to select, this great profession had not as yet became the chief glory of the upper-middle class. He had literally18 been forced into land agency.
Once in the driving seat, with the reins19 handed to him, and blinking over his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a slow look round — Adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom20 at the horses’ heads stood ready to let go; everything was prepared for the signal, and Swithin gave it. The equipage dashed forward, and before you could say Jack21 Robinson, with a rattle23 and flourish drew up at Soames’ door.
Irene came out at once, and stepped in — he afterward24 described it at Timothy’s —“as light as — er — Taglioni, no fuss about it, no wanting this or wanting that;” and above all, Swithin dwelt on this, staring at Mrs. Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a good deal, “no silly nervousness!” To Aunt Hester he portrayed25 Irene’s hat. “Not one of your great flopping26 things, sprawling27 about, and catching28 the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, but a neat little —” he made a circular motion of his hand, “white veil — capital taste.”
“What was it made of?” inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress.
“Made of?” returned Swithin; “now how should I know?”
He sank into silence so profound that Aunt Hester began to be afraid he had fallen into a trance. She did not try to rouse him herself, it not being her custom.
‘I wish somebody would come,’ she thought; ‘I don’t like the look of him!’
But suddenly Swithin returned to life. “Made of” he wheezed29 out slowly, “what should it be made of?”
They had not gone four miles before Swithin received the impression that Irene liked driving with him. Her face was so soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the spring light, and whenever he spoke30 she raised them to him and smiled.
On Saturday morning Soames had found her at her writing-table with a note written to Swithin, putting him off. Why did she want to put him off? he asked. She might put her own people off when she liked, he would not have her putting off his people!
She had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said: “Very well!”
And then she began writing another. He took a casual glance presently, and saw that it was addressed to Bosinney.
“What are you writing to him about?” he asked.
Irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly: “Something he wanted me to do for him!”
“Humph!” said Soames — “Commissions!”
“You’ll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!” He said no more.
Swithin opened his eyes at the mention of Robin22 Hill; it was a long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, before the rush at the Club began; the new chef took more trouble with an early dinner — a lazy rascal31!
He would like to have a look at the house, however. A house appealed to any Forsyte, and especially to one who had been an auctioneer. After all he said the distance was nothing. When he was a younger man he had had rooms at Richmond for many years, kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to business every day of his life.
Four-in-hand Forsyte they called him! His T-cart, his horses had been known from Hyde Park Corner to the Star and Garter. The Duke of Z. . . . wanted to get hold of them, would have given him double the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when you have it, eh? A look of solemn pride came portentously32 on his shaven square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up collar, like a turkey-cock preening33 himself.
She was really — a charming woman! He enlarged upon her frock afterwards to Aunt Juley, who held up her hands at his way of putting it.
Fitted her like a skin — tight as a drum; that was how he liked ’em, all of a piece, none of your daverdy, scarecrow women! He gazed at Mrs. Septimus Small, who took after James — long and thin.
“There’s style about her,” he went on, “fit for a king! And she’s so quiet with it too!”
“She seems to have made quite a conquest of you, any way,” drawled Aunt Hester from her corner.
Swithin heard extremely well when anybody attacked him.
“What’s that?” he said. “I know a — pretty — woman when I see one, and all I can say is, I don’t see the young man about that’s fit for her; but perhaps — you — do, come, perhaps — you-do!”
“Oh?” murmured Aunt Hester, “ask Juley!”
Long before they reached Robin Hill, however, the unaccustomed airing had made him terribly sleepy; he drove with his eyes closed, a life-time of deportment alone keeping his tall and bulky form from falling askew34.
Bosinney, who was watching, came out to meet them, and all three entered the house together; Swithin in front making play with a stout35 gold-mounted Malacca cane36, put into his hand by Adolf, for his knees were feeling the effects of their long stay in the same position. He had assumed his fur coat, to guard against the draughts37 of the unfinished house.
The staircase — he said — was handsome! the baronial style! They would want some statuary about! He came to a standstill between the columns of the doorway38 into the inner court, and held out his cane inquiringly.
What was this to be — this vestibule, or whatever they called it? But gazing at the skylight, inspiration came to him.
“Ah! the billiard-room!”
When told it was to be a tiled court with plants in the centre, he turned to Irene:
“Waste this on plants? You take my advice and have a billiard table here!”
Irene smiled. She had lifted her veil, banding it like a nun’s coif across her forehead, and the smile of her dark eyes below this seemed to Swithin more charming than ever. He nodded. She would take his advice he saw.
He had little to say of the drawing or dining-rooms, which he described as “spacious”; but fell into such raptures39 as he permitted to a man of his dignity, in the wine-cellar, to which he descended40 by stone steps, Bosinney going first with a light.
“You’ll have room here,” he said, “for six or seven hundred dozen — a very pooty little cellar!”
Bosinney having expressed the wish to show them the house from the copse below, Swithin came to a stop.
“There’s a fine view from here,” he remarked; “you haven’t such a thing as a chair?”
A chair was brought him from Bosinney’s tent.
“You go down,” he said blandly41; “you two! I’ll sit here and look at the view.”
He sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very blank, fixed42 on the landscape.
He nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. He was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of reflection. The air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the prospect43 a fine one, a remarka. . . . His head fell a little to one side; he jerked it up and thought: Odd! He — ah! They were waving to him from the bottom! He put up his hand, and moved it more than once. They were active — the prospect was remar. . . . His head fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to the right. It remained there; he was asleep.
And asleep, a sentinel on the — top of the rise, he appeared to rule over this prospect — remarkable44 — like some image blocked out by the special artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to record the domination of mind over matter!
And all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont45 of a Sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, their grey unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden roots of violence, their instinct for possession to the exclusion46 of all the world — all these unnumbered generations seemed to sit there with him on the top of the rise.
But from him, thus slumbering47, his jealous Forsyte spirit travelled far, into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those two young people, to see what they were doing down there in the copse — in the copse where the spring was running riot with the scent48 of sap and bursting buds, the song of birds innumerable, a carpet of bluebells49 and sweet growing things, and the sun caught like gold in the tops of the trees; to see what they were doing, walking along there so close together on the path that was too narrow; walking along there so close that they were always touching50; to watch Irene’s eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the heart out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit was there, stopping with them to look at the little furry51 corpse52 of a mole53, not dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat untouched by the rain or dew; watching over Irene’s bent54 head, and the soft look of her pitying eyes; and over that young man’s head, gazing at her so hard, so strangely. Walking on with them, too, across the open space where a wood-cutter had been at work, where the bluebells were trampled55 down, and a trunk had swayed and staggered down from its gashed56 stump57. Climbing it with them, over, and on to the very edge of the copse, whence there stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which came the sounds, ‘Cuckoo-cuckoo!’
Silent, standing58 with them there, and uneasy at their silence! Very queer, very strange!
Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood — back to the cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never ceased, and the wild scent — hum! what was it — like that herb they put in — back to the log across the path. . . .
And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises, his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now — a — ah! falling, o — oh! sliding — down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil59; his cry: “You must know — I love you!” Must know — indeed, a pretty . . .? Love! Hah!
Swithin awoke; virtue60 had gone out of him. He had a taste in his mouth. Where was he?
Damme! He had been asleep!
He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.
Those young people — where had they got to? His left leg had pins and needles.
“Adolf!” The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.
He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming.
Irene was in front; that young fellow — what had they nicknamed him —‘The Buccaneer?’ looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea61 in his ear, he shouldn’t wonder. Serve him right, taking her down all that way to look at the house! The proper place to look at a house from was the lawn.
They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing there for, talking — talking? They came on again. She had been, giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that — a great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.
He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. That young man looked very queer!
“You’ll never make anything of this!” he said tartly62, pointing at the mansion2; —“too newfangled!”
Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as “an extravagant63 sort of fellow very odd way of looking at you — a bumpy64 beggar!”
What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology65 he did not state; possibly Bosinney’s, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin’s conception of the calm satiety66 that should characterize the perfect gentleman.
He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for tea — his brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it — but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to drink anything. He longed to inform Irene of the taste in his mouth — she was so sympathetic — but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked67 it against his palate.
In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork68 of a pint-bottle of champagne69. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said: “Why, you’re quite a Monte Cristo!” This celebrated novel — one of the half-dozen he had read — had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.
Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize70 the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip71.
“A very nice wine,” he said at last, passing it before his nose; “not the equal of my Heidsieck!”
It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards imparted at Timothy’s in this nutshell: “I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!”
And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge72 with the interest of his discovery.
“The fellow,” he said to Mrs. Septimus, “follows her about with his eyes like a dog — the bumpy beggar! I don’t wonder at it — she’s a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of discretion73!” A vague consciousness of perfume caging about Irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals74 and a passionate75 heart, moved him to the creation of this image. “But I wasn’t sure of it,” he said, “till I saw him pick up her handkerchief.”
Mrs. Small’s eyes boiled with excitement.
“And did he give it her back?” she asked.
“Give it back?” said Swithin: “I saw him slobber on it when he thought I wasn’t looking!”
Mrs. Small gasped76 — too interested to speak.
“But she gave him no encouragement,” went on Swithin; he stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed Aunt Hester so — he had suddenly recollected77 that, as they were starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a second time, and let it stay there too. . . . He had touched his horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. But she had looked back, and she had not answered his first question; neither had he been able to see her face — she had kept it hanging down.
There is somewhere a picture, which Swithin has not seen, of a man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked breast. She has a half-smile on her face — a smile of hopeless surrender and of secret joy.
Seated by Swithin’s side, Irene may have been smiling like that.
When, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered78 resentment79 against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in Wigmore Street, where the rascally80 tenant81 had gone bankrupt through helping82 his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his right side. She listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. He thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied himself terribly. Yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the breast, his top hat aslant83, driving this beautiful woman, he had never felt more distinguished.
A coster, however, taking his girl for a Sunday airing, seemed to have the same impression about himself. This person had flogged his donkey into a gallop84 alongside, and sat, upright as a waxwork85, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously86 on a red handkerchief, like Swithin’s on his full cravat87; while his girl, with the ends of a fly-blown boa floating out behind, aped a woman of fashion. Her swain moved a stick with a ragged88 bit of string dangling89 from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity90 the circular flourish of Swithin’s whip, and rolled his head at his lady with a leer that had a weird91 likeness92 to Swithin’s primeval stare.
Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian’s presence, Swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. He laid his whip-lash93 across the mares flank. The two chariots, however, by some unfortunate fatality94 continued abreast95. Swithin’s yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his dignity by a special intervention96 of Providence97. A carriage driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into proximity98; the wheels grated, the lighter99 vehicle skidded100, and was overturned.
Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled up to help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his neck!
But he could not if he would. The greys had taken alarm. The phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened faces as they went dashing past. Swithin’s great arms, stretched at full length, tugged101 at the reins. His cheeks were puffed102, his lips compressed, his swollen103 face was of a dull, angry red.
Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch104 she gripped it tightly. Swithin heard her ask:
“Are we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?”
He gasped out between his pants: “It’s nothing; a — little fresh!”
“I’ve never been in an accident.”
“Don’t you move!” He took a look at her. She was smiling, perfectly105 calm. “Sit still,” he repeated. “Never fear, I’ll get you home!”
And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to hear her answer in a voice not like her own:
“I don’t care if I never get home!”
The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithin’s exclamation106 was jerked back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a hill, now steadied to a trot107, and finally stopped of their own accord.
“When”— Swithin described it at Timothy’s —“I pulled ’em up, there she was as cool as myself. God bless my soul! she behaved as if she didn’t care whether she broke her neck or not! What was it she said: ‘I don’t care if I never get home?” Leaning over the handle of his cane, he wheezed out, to Mrs. Small’s terror: “And I’m not altogether surprised, with a finickin’ feller like young Soames for a husband!”
It did not occur to him to wonder what Bosinney had done after they had left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering about like the dog to which Swithin had compared him; wandering down to that copse where the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo still calling from afar; gone down there with her handkerchief pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling108 with the scent of mint and thyme. Gone down there with such a wild, exquisite109 pain in his heart that he could have cried out among the trees. Or what, indeed, the fellow had done. In fact, till he came to Timothy’s, Swithin had forgotten all about him.
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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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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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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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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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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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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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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afterward
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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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flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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wheezed
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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portentously
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preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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askew
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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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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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39
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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40
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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41
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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42
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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44
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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45
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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46
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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47
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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48
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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49
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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50
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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51
furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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52
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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53
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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54
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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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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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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satiety
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| n.饱和；(市场的)充分供应 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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bulge
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| n.突出，膨胀，激增；vt.突出，膨胀 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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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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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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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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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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84
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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85
waxwork
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| n.蜡像 | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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87
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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93
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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95
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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99
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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skidded
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| v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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101
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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103
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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104
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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105
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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107
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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108
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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109
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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