There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods — violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate2 blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing3 dark guardian4 of some fiery5 secret.
There are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted6 by the casual spectator as ‘. . . . ..Titian — remarkably7 fine,’ breaks through the defences of some Forsyte better lunched perhaps than his fellows, and holds him spellbound in a kind of ecstasy8. There are things, he feels — there are things here which — well, which are things. Something unreasoning, unreasonable9, is upon him; when he tries to define it with the precision of a practical man, it eludes10 him, slips away, as the glow of the wine he has drunk is slipping away, leaving him cross, and conscious of his liver. He feels that he has been extravagant11, prodigal12 of something; virtue13 has gone out of him. He did not desire this glimpse of what lay under the three stars of his catalogue. God forbid that he should know anything about the forces of Nature! God forbid that he should admit for a moment that there are such things! Once admit that, and where was he? One paid a shilling for entrance, and another for the programme.
The look which June had seen, which other Forsytes had seen, was like the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some imaginary canvas, behind which it was being moved — the sudden flaming-out of a vague, erratic14 glow, shadowy and enticing15. It brought home to onlookers16 the consciousness that dangerous forces were at work. For a moment they noticed it with pleasure, with interest, then felt they must not notice it at all.
It supplied, however, the reason of June’s coming so late and disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands with her lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder.
But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? And to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them silent.
Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old Jolyon.
He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was just then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of Nicholas, and no Forsyte going to the sea without intending to have an air for his money such as would render him bilious17 in a week. That fatally aristocratic tendency of the first Forsyte to drink Madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly18 accessible.
So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there was nothing else to do.
But how far — how far had ‘those two’ gone? How far were they going to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the most a flirtation19, ending, as all such attachments20 should, at the proper time.
Soames’ sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed21 with the breezes of Mayfair — she lived in Green Street — more fashionable principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, for instance, in Ladbroke Grove22, laughed at the idea of there being anything in it. The ‘little thing’— Irene was taller than herself, and it was real testimony23 to the solid worth of a Forsyte that she should always thus be a ‘little thing’— the little thing was bored. Why shouldn’t she amuse herself? Soames was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney — only that buffoon24 George would have called him the Buccaneer — she maintained that he was very chic25.
This dictum — that Bosinney was chic — caused quit a sensation. It failed to convince. That he was ‘good-looking in a way’ they were prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of Winifred’s extravagant way of running after something new.
It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the very earth was extravagant, chestnut26-trees spread with blossom, and flowers drenched27 in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming29 stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour30, swung his brazen31 shield above the Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the open air. Unprecedented32 was the tale of cabs and carriages that streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any pretensions33 to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to the horse-chestnuts34 at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling35 smoothly36, if dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the amorous37 perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too near, one would say to the other: “My dear! What a peculiar38 scent39!”
And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken — a perfume that stirred a yearning40 unnamable in the hearts of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys.
And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them — waiting for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches.
Some vague sympathy evoked41 by the scent of the limes, some sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the soundness of her dictum that there was ‘nothing in it’; or merely the craving42 to drive down to Richmond, irresistible43 that summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following note to her sister-in-law:
‘DEAR IRENE, ‘June 30.
‘I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the night. I thought it would be great fun if we made up a little party and drove down to, Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, and I will get young Flippard.
‘Emily (they called their mother Emily — it was so chic) will lend us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man at seven o’clock.
‘Your affectionate sister, ‘WINIFRED DARTIE.
‘Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be quite eatable.’
Montague was Dartie’s second and better known name — his first being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world.
Her plan met with more opposition44 from Providence45 than so benevolent46 a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard wrote:
‘DEAR Mrs. DARTIE,
‘Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep.
‘Yours, ‘AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.’
It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided48 but tolerant temperament49 that goes with a good deal of profile, fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain.
Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated50 animal, owned as he was by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that followed his scratching were among the darkest in Dartie’s life.
Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about Soames mingled51 with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he got drunk, so greatly was he affected52. But on Saturday morning the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough53 Handicap.
As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: “That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn’t care a cursh. He wash in — a mucker. If it didn’t come up — well then, damme, the old man would have to pay!”
A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new contempt for James.
It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck — a terrible squeak54! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck!
He was by no means averse55 to the expedition to Richmond. He would ‘stand’ it himself! He cherished an admiration56 for Irene, and wished to be on more playful terms with her.
At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing!
Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched little Publius (now aged47 seven) with the nursery governess to Montpellier Square.
They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre at 7.45.
Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there?
Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it was d —-d slow!
At seven o’clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver half-a-crown he didn’t do it in the three-quarters of an hour.
Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way.
Dartie said: “It’ll put Master Soames’s nose out of joint57 to hear his wife’s been drivin’ in a hansom with Master Bosinney!”
Winifred replied: “Don’t talk such nonsense, Monty!”
“Nonsense!” repeated Dartie. “You don’t know women, my fine lady!”
On the other occasion he merely asked: “How am I looking? A bit puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a windy wine!”
He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake.
Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in one of the long French windows overlooking the river.
Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day and night the scents58 of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of parching59 grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews.
To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear to be making much running, standing there close together, without a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature — not much go about him.
He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order the dinner.
A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink in this country ‘not good enough’ for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint60 himself. To stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.
The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren.
With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted61 this weakness in James the very first year after little Publius’s arrival (an error); he had profited by his perspicacity62. Four little Darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance.
The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This delectable63 fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of almost perfect preservation64, was first fried, then boned, then served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known to a few men of the world.
Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.
He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene’s face and figure. As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her — she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace. He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. As for that architect chap, he was as glum65 as a bear with a sore head — Winifred could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer.
It was all very amusing.
For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a certain poignancy66, being no fool. He told two or three stories verging67 on the improper68, a concession69 to the company, for his stories were not used to verging. He proposed Irene’s health in a mock speech. Nobody drank it, and Winifred said: “Don’t be such a clown, Monty!”
At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace overlooking the river.
“I should like to see the common people making love,” she said, “it’s such fun!”
There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day’s heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets.
It was not long before Winifred’s better sense — she was the only Forsyte present — secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a row. A heavy tree spread a thick canopy70 above their heads, and the haze71 darkened slowly over the river.
Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred. There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel Irene’s arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would bring her closer still. He thought: ‘That Buccaneer Johnny shan’t have it all to himself! It’s a pretty tight fit, certainly!’
From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle72 of a mandoline, and voices singing the old round:
‘A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, For we’ll go over and be merry; And laugh, and quaff73, and drink brown sherry!’
And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on her back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the air was cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm odour of the limes.
Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting with his arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on his face the look of a man being tortured.
And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the darkness shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing.
A hush74 had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers were thinking secrets too precious to be spoken.
And Dartie thought: ‘Women!’
The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon hid behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against Irene.
He was not alarmed at the shuddering76 that ran through the limbs he touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He felt her trying to draw herself away, and smiled.
It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as much as was good for him.
With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his bold eyes aslant77 upon her, he had the malicious78 look of a satyr.
Along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the stars clustered forth79; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift and swarm28 and whisper. Then on the terrace the buzz broke out once more, and Dartie thought: ‘Ah! he’s a poor, hungry-looking devil, that Bosinney!’ and again he pressed himself against Irene.
The movement deserved a better success. She rose, and they all followed her.
The man of the world was more than ever determined80 to see what she was made of. Along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. He had within him much good wine. There was the long drive home, the long drive and the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of the hansom cab — with its insulation81 from the world devised by some great and good man. That hungry architect chap might drive with his wife — he wished him joy of her! And, conscious that his voice was not too steady, he was careful not to speak; but a smile had become fixed82 on his thick lips.
They strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther end. His plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal83 simplicity84 he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, and get in quickly after her.
But when Irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, instead, to the horse’s head. Dartie was not at the moment sufficiently85 master of his legs to follow. She stood stroking the horse’s nose, and, to his annoyance86, Bosinney was at her side first. She turned and spoke75 to him rapidly, in a low voice; the words ‘That man’ reached Dartie. He stood stubbornly by the cab step, waiting for her to come back. He knew a trick worth two of that!
Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence87, he was at his best — a thorough man of the world.
Winifred was already in her cab. Dartie reflected that Bosinney would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn’t look sharp! Suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the road. Bosinney’s voice hissed88 in his ear: “I am taking Irene back; do you understand?” He saw a face white with passion, and eyes that glared at him like a wild cat’s.
“Eh?” he stammered89. “What? Not a bit. You take my wife!”
“Get away!” hissed Bosinney —“or I’ll throw you into the road!”
Dartie recoiled90; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow meant it. In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress brushed his legs. Bosinney stepped in after her.
“Go on!” he heard the Buccaneer cry. The cabman flicked91 his horse. It sprang forward.
Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab where his wife sat, he scrambled92 in.
“Drive on!” he shouted to the driver, “and don’t you lose sight of that fellow in front!”
Seated by his wife’s side, he burst into imprecations. Calming himself at last with a supreme93 effort, he added: “A pretty mess you’ve made of it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why on earth couldn’t you keep hold of him? He’s mad with love; any fool can see that!”
He drowned Winifred’s rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty94; nor was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad95, in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her brother, Irene, Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, and cursed the day when he had ever married.
Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at the end of which he lapsed96 into sulky silence. His angry eyes never deserted97 the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, haunted the darkness in front of him.
Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney’s passionate pleading — that pleading which the man of the world’s conduct had let loose like a flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some garment had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like the eyes of a beaten child. He could not hear Bosinney entreating98, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, awed99 and trembling, humbly100 touching101 her hand.
In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. The Darties saw Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up the steps with bent102 head. She evidently had her key in her hand, for she disappeared at once. It was impossible to tell whether she had turned to speak to Bosinney.
The latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had an admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. It was working with violent emotion.
“Good-night, Mr. Bosinney!” called Winifred.
Bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. He had obviously forgotten their existence.
“There!” said Dartie, “did you see the beast’s face? What did I say? Fine games!” He improved the occasion.
There had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that Winifred was unable to defend her theory.
She said: “I shall say nothing about it. I don’t see any use in making a fuss!”
With that view Dartie at once concurred103; looking upon James as a private preserve, he disapproved104 of his being disturbed by the troubles of others.
“Quite right,” he said; “let Soames look after himself. He’s jolly well able to!”
Thus speaking, the Darties entered their habitat in Green Street, the rent of which was paid by James, and sought a well-earned rest. The hour was midnight, and no Forsytes remained abroad in the streets to spy out Bosinney’s wanderings; to see him return and stand against the rails of the Square garden, back from the glow of the street lamp; to see him stand there in the shadow of trees, watching the house where in the dark was hidden she whom he would have given the world to see for a single minute — she who was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning of the light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart.
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1
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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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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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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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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10
eludes
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的第三人称单数 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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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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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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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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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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onlookers
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| n.旁观者，观看者( onlooker的名词复数 ) | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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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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bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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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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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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perspicacity
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| n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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quaff
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| v.一饮而尽；痛饮 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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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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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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insulation
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| n.隔离；绝缘；隔热 | |
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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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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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jeremiad
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| n.悲欢；悲诉 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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entreating
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的现在分词 ) | |
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99
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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101
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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102
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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103
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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