‘And how will all this affect Jane?’ he asked involuntarily.
‘That is what I cannot tell,’ replied Michael. ‘It troubles me. My son is a stranger; all these years have made him quite a different man from what I remember; and the worst is, I can no longer trust myself to judge him. Yet I must know the truth — Sidney, I must know the truth. It’s hard to speak ill of the only son left to me out of the four I once had, but if I think of him as he was seventeen years ago — no, no, he must have changed as he has grown older. But you must help me to know him, Sidney.’
And in a very few days Sidney had his first opportunity of observing Jane’s father. At this meeting Joseph seemed to desire nothing so much as to recommend himself by an amiable5 bearing. Impossible to speak with more engaging frankness than he did whilst strolling away from Hanover Street in Sidney’s company. Thereafter the two saw a great deal of each other. Joseph was soon a familiar visitor in Tysoe Street; he would come about nine o’clock of an evening, and sit till after midnight. The staple6 of his talk was at first the painfully unnatural7 relations existing between his father, his daughter, and himself. He had led a most unsatisfactory life; he owned it, deplored8 it. That the old man should distrust him was but natural; but would not Sidney, as a common friend, do his best to dispel9 this prejudice? On the subject of his brother Mike he kept absolute silence. The accident of meeting an intimate acquaintance at the office of Messrs. Percival and Peel had rendered it possible for him to pursue his inquiries10 in that direction without it becoming known to Michael Snowdon that he had done anything of the kind; and the policy he elaborated for himself demanded the appearance of absolute disinterestedness11 in all his dealings with his father. Aided by the shrewd Mrs. Peckover, he succeeded in reconciling Clem to a present disappointment, bitter as it was, by pointing out that there was every chance of his profiting largely upon the old man’s death, which could not be a very remote contingency12. At present there was little that could be done save to curry13 favour in Hanover Street, and keep an eye on what went forward between Kirkwood and Jane. This latter was, of course, an issue of supreme14 importance. A very little observation convinced Joseph that his daughter had learned to regard Sidney as more than a friend; whether there existed any mutual15 understanding between them he could only discover by direct inquiry17, and for the present it seemed wiser to make no reference to the subject. He preserved the attitude of one who has forfeited18 his natural rights, and only seeks with humility19 the chance of proving that he is a reformed character. Was, or was not, Kirkwood aware of the old man’s wealth? That too must be left uncertain, though it was more than probable he had seen the advertisement in the newspapers, and, like Mrs. Peckover, had based conclusions thereupon. Another possibility was, that Kirkwood had wormed himself into Michael’s complete confidence. From Joseph’s point of view, subtle machinations were naturally attributed to the young man — whose appearance proved him anything but a commonplace person. The situation was full of obscurities and dangers. From Scawthorne Joseph received an assurance that the whole of the Australian property had been capitalised and placed in English investments; also, that the income was regularly drawn20 and in some way disposed of; the manner of such disposal being kept private between old Mr. Percival and his client.
In the meantime family discussions in the Close had brought to Joseph’s knowledge a circumstance regarding Kirkwood which interested him in a high degree. When talking of Sidney’s character, it was natural that the Peckovers should relate the story of his relations with Clara Hewett.
‘Clara?’ exclaimed Mr. Snowdon, as if struck by the name. ‘Disappeared, has she? What sort of a girl to look at?’
Clem was ready with a malicious21 description, whereto her husband attended very carefully. He mused22 over it, and proceeded to make inquiries about Clara’s family. The Hewetts were now living in another part of Clerkenwell, but there was no hostility23 between them and the Peckovers. Was anything to be gained by keeping up intimacy24 with them? Joseph, after further musing25, decided26 that it would be just as well to do so; suppose Clem called upon them and presented the husband of whom she was so proud? He would like, if possible, to hear a little more about their daughter; an idea he had — never mind exactly what. So this call was paid, and in a few weeks Joseph had established an acquaintance with John Hewett.
Sidney, on his part, had a difficulty in coming to definite conclusions respecting Jane’s father. Of course he was prejudiced against the man, and though himself too little acquainted with the facts of the case to distinguish Joseph’s motives27, he felt that the middle-aged29 prodigal’s return was anything but a fortunate event for Michael and his granddaughter. The secret marriage with Clem was not likely, in were not lacking grounds for hesitation30 in refusing to accept any case, to have a respectable significance. True, there Joseph’s account of himself. He had a fund of natural amiability31; he had a good provision of intellect; his talk was at times very persuasive32 and much like that of one who has been brought to a passable degree of honesty by the slow development of his better instincts. But his face was against him; the worn, sallow features, the eyes which so obviously made a struggle to look with frankness, the vicious lower lip, awoke suspicion and told tales of base experience such as leaves its stamp upon a man for ever. All the more repugnant was this face to Sidney because it presented, in certain aspects, an undeniable resemblance to Jane’s; impossible to say which feature put forth33 this claim of kindred, but the impression was there, and it made Sidney turn away his eyes in disgust as often as he perceived it. He strove, however, to behave with friendliness34, for it was Michael’s desire that he should do so. That Joseph was using every opportunity of prying35 into his thoughts, of learning the details of his history, he soon became perfectly36 conscious; but he knew of nothing that he need conceal37.
It was impossible that Sidney should not have reflected many a time on Michael Snowdon’s position, and have been moved to curiosity by hints of the mysterious when he thought of his friends in Hanover Street. As it happened, he never saw those newspaper advertisements addressed to Joseph, and his speculation38 had nothing whatever to support it save the very few allusions39 to the past which Michael had permitted himself in the course of talk. Plainly the old man had means sufficient for his support, end in all likelihood this independence was connected with his visit to Australia; but no act or word of Michael’s had ever suggested that he possessed40 more than a very modest competency. It was not, indeed, the circumstances, so much as the character and views, of his friend that set Kirkwood pondering. He did not yet know Michael Snowdon; of that he was convinced. He had not fathomed41 his mind, got at the prime motive28 of his being. Moreover, he felt that the old man was waiting for some moment, or some event, to make revelation of himself. Since Joseph’s appearance, it had become more noticeable than ever that Snowdon suffered from some agitation42 of the mind; Sidney had met his eyes fixed43 upon him in a painful interrogation, and seemed to discern the importunity44 of a desire that was refused utterance45. His own condition was affected46 by sympathy with this restlessness, and he could not overcome the feeling that some decisive change was at hand for him. Though nothing positive justified47 the idea, he began to connect this anticipation48 of change with the holiday that was approaching, the week to be spent in Essex at the end of July. It had been his fear that Joseph’s presence might affect these arrangements, but Michael was evidently resolved to allow nothing of the kind. One evening, a fortnight before the day agreed upon for leaving town, and when Joseph had made a call in Hanover Street, the old man took occasion to speak of the matter. Joseph accepted the information with his usual pliancy49.
‘I only wish my wife and me could join you,’ he remarked. ‘But it wouldn’t do to take a holiday so soon after settling to business. Better luck for me next year, father, let’s hope.’
That he had settled to business was a fact of which Joseph made so much just now that one would have been tempted50 to suppose it almost a new experience for him. His engagement, he declared, was with a firm of advertising51 agents in the City; nothing to boast of, unfortunately, and remunerative52 only in the way of commission; but he saw his way to better things.
‘Jane, my girl,’ he continued, averting53 his eyes as if in emotion, ‘I don’t know how you and me are going to show our gratitude54 for all this kindness, I’m sure. I hope you haven’t got so used to it that you think there’s no need to thank your grandfather?’
The girl and the old man exchanged a look. Joseph sighed, and began to speak of another subject in a tone of cheery martyrdom.
Jane herself had not been quite so joyous55 as was her wont1 since the occurrence that caused her to take a new view of her position in the world. She understood that her grandfather regarded the change very gravely, and in her own heart awoke all manner of tremulous apprehensions56 when she tried to look onward57 a little to the uncertainties58 of the future. Forecasts had not hitherto troubled her; the present was so rich in satisfactions that she could follow the bent59 of her nature and live with no anxiety concerning the unknown. It was a great relief to her to be assured that the long-standing16 plans for the holiday would suffer no change. The last week was a time of impatience60, resolutely61 suppressed. On the Saturday afternoon Sidney was to meet them at Liverpool Street. Would anything happen these last few days — this last day — this last hour? No; all three stood together on the platform, and their holiday had already begun.
Over the pest-stricken regions of East London, sweltering in sunshine which served only to reveal the intimacies62 of abomination; across miles of a city of the damned, such as thought never conceived before this age of ours; above streets swarming63 with a nameless populace, cruelly exposed by the unwonted light of heaven; stopping at stations which it crushes the heart to think should be the destination of any mortal; the train made its way at length beyond the outmost limits of dread64, and entered upon a land of level meadows, of hedges and trees, of crops and cattle. Michael Snowdon was anxious that Jane should not regard with the carelessness of familiarity those desolate65 tracts66 from which they were escaping. In Bethnal Green he directed her attention with a whispered word to the view from each window, and Jane had learnt well to understand him. But, the lesson over, it was none of his purpose to spoil her natural mood of holiday. Sidney sat opposite her, and as often as their eyes met a smile of contentment answered on either’s face.
They alighted at Chelmsford, and were met by the farmer in whose house they were going to lodge67, a stolid68, good-natured fellow named Pammenter, with red, leathery cheeks, and a corkscrew curl of black hair coming forward on each temple. His trap was waiting, and in a few minutes they started on the drive to Danbury. The distance is about five miles, and, until Danbury Hill is reached, the countryside has no point of interest to distinguish it from any other representative bit of rural Essex. It is merely one of those quiet corners of flat, homely69 England, where man and beast seem on good terms with each other, where all green things grow in abundance, where from of old tilth and pasture-land are humbly70 observant of seasons and alternations, where the brown roads are familiar only with the tread of the labourer, with the light wheel of the farmer’s gig, or the rumbling71 of the solid warn. By the roadside you pass occasionally a mantled72 pool, where perchance ducks or geese are enjoying themselves; and at times there is a pleasant glimpse of farm-yard, with stacks and barns and stables. All things as simple as could be, but beautiful on this summer afternoon, and priceless when one has come forth from the streets of Clerkenwell.
Farmer Pammenter was talkative, and his honest chest-voice sounded pleasantly; but the matter of his discourse73 might have been more cheerful. Here, as elsewhere, the evil of the times was pressing upon men and disheartening them from labour. Farms lying barren, ill-will between proprietor74 and tenant75, between tenant and hind76, departure of the tillers of the soil to rot in towns that have no need of them — of such things did honest Pammenter speak, with many a sturdy malediction77 of landlords and land-laws, whereat Sidney smiled, not unsympathetic.
Danbury Hill, rising thick-wooded to the village church, which is visible for miles around, with stretches of heath about its lower slopes, with its far prospects78 over the sunny country, was the pleasant end of a pleasant drive. Mrs. Pammenter and her children (seven of them, unhappily) gave the party a rough, warm-hearted welcome. Ha! how good it was to smell the rooms through which the pure air breathed freely! All the front of the house was draped with purple clematis; in the garden were sun-flowers and hollyhocks and lowly plants innumerable; on the red and lichened79 tiles pigeons were cooing themselves into a doze80; the horse’s hoofs81 rang with a pleasant clearness on the stones as he was led to his cool stable. Her heart throbbing82 with excess of delight, Jane pushed back the diamond-paned casement83 of her bedroom, the same room she had occupied last year and the year before, and buried her face in clematis. Then the tea that Mrs. Pammenter had made ready; — how delicious everything tasted! how white the cloth was! how fragrant84 the cut flowers in the brown jug85!
But Michael had found the journey a greater tax upon his strength than he anticipated. Whilst Sidney and Jane talked merrily over the tea-table the old man was thinking. ‘Another year they will come without me,’ and he smiled just to hide his thoughts. In the evening he smoked his pipe on a garden-seat, for the most part silent, and at sunset he was glad to go up to his chamber86.
Jane was renewing her friendship with the Pammenters’ eldest87 girl, an apple-checked, red-haired, ungraceful, but good-natured lass of sixteen. Their voices sounded from all parts of the garden and the farm-yard, Jane’s clear-throated laugh contrasting with the rougher utterance of her companion. After supper, in the falling of the dusk, Sidney strolled away from the gossiping circle within-doors, and found a corner of the garden whence there was a view of wooded hillside against the late glow of the heavens. Presently he heard footsteps, and through the leafage of a tree that shadowed him he saw Jane looking this way and that, as if she sought some one. Her dress was a light calico, and she held in her hand a rough garden hat, the property of Miss Pammenter. Sidney regarded her for some moments, then called her by name. She could not see him at first, and looked about anxiously. He moved a branch of the tree and again called her; whereupon she ran forward.
‘I thought perhaps you’d gone up the hill,’ she said, resting her arms on the wall by which he was standing.
Then they kept silence, enjoying the sweetness of the hour. Differently, it is true; for Kirkwood’s natural sensitiveness had been developed and refined by studies of which Jane had no conception. Imperfect as his instruction remained, the sources of spiritual enjoyment88 were open to him, and with all his feeling there blended that reflective bitterness which is the sad privilege of such as he. Jane’s delight was as simple as the language in which she was wont to express herself. She felt infinitely89 more than Pennyloaf, for instance, would have done under the circumstances; but her joy consisted, in the main, of a satisfaction of pure instincts and a deep sense of gratitude to those who made her life what it was. She could as little have understood Sidney’s mind at this moment as she could have given an analytic90 account of her own sensations. For all that, the two were in profound sympathy; how different soever the ways in which they were affected, the result, as they stood side by side, was identical in the hearts of both.
Sidney began to speak of Michael Snowdon, keeping his voice low, as if in fear of breaking those subtle harmonies wherewith the night descended91.
‘We must be careful not to over-tire him, He looked very pale when he went upstairs. I’ve thought lately that he must suffer more than he tells us.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid he often does,’ Jane assented92, as if relieved to speak of it. ‘Yet he always says it’s nothing to trouble about, nothing but what is natural at his age. He’s altered a great deal since father came,’ she added, regarding him diffidently.
‘I hope it isn’t because he thinks your father may be wanting to take you away?’
‘Oh, it can’t be that! Oh, he knows I wouldn’t leave him! Mr. Kirkwood, you don’t think my father will give us any trouble?’
She revealed an anxiety which delicacy93 of feeling had hitherto prevented her expressing. Sidney at once spoke94 reassuringly95, though he had in fact no little suspicion of Joseph Snowdon’s tactics.
‘It’s my grandfather that I ought to think most of,’ pursued Jane earnestly. ‘I can’t feel to my father as I do to him. What should I have been now if —’
Something caused her to leave the speech unfinished, and for a few moments there was silence. From the ground exhaled96 a sweet fresh odour, soothing97 to the senses, and at times a breath of air brought subtler perfume from the alleys98 of the garden. In the branches above them rustled99 a bird’s wing. At a distance on the country road sounded the trotting100 of a horse.
‘I feel ashamed and angry with myself,’ said Sidney, in a tone of emotion, ‘when I think now of t hose times. I might have done something, Jane. I had no right to know what you were suffering and just go by as if it didn’t matter!’
‘Oh, but you didn’t!’ came eagerly from the girl’s lips. ‘You’ve forgotten, but I can’t. You were very kind to me — you helped me more than you can think — you never saw me without speaking kindly101. Don’t you remember that night when I came to fetch you from the workshop, and you took off your coat and put it over me, because it was cold and raining?’
‘Jane, what a long, long time ago that seems!’
‘As long as I live I shall never forget it — never! You were the only friend I had then.’
‘No; there was some one else who took thought for you,’ said Sidney, regarding her gravely.
Jane met his look for an instant — they could just read each other’s features in the pale light — then dropped her eyes.
‘I don’t think you’ve forgotten that either,’ he added, in the same unusual voice.
‘No,’ said Jane, below her breath.
‘Say who it is I mean.’
‘You mean Miss Hewett,’ was the reply, after a troubled moment.
‘I wanted you to say her name. You remember one evening not long ago, when your grandfather was away? I had the same wish then. Why shouldn’t we speak of her? She was a friend to you when you needed one badly, and it’s right that you should remember her with gratitude. I think of her just like we do of people that are dead.’
Jane stood with one hand on the low wall, half-turned to him, but her face bent downwards102. Regarding her for what seemed a long time, Sidney felt as though the fragrance103 of the earth and the flowers were mingling104 with his blood and confusing him with emotions. At the same his tongue was paralysed. Frequently of late he had known a timidity in Jane’s presence, which prevented him from meeting her eyes, and now this tremor105 came upon him with painful intensity106. He knew to what his last words had tended; it was with consciousness of a distinct purpose that he had led the conversation to Clara; but now he was powerless to speak the words his heart prompted. Of a sudden he experienced a kind of shame, the result of comparison between himself and the simple girl who stood before him; she was so young, and the memory of passions from which he had suffered years ago affected him with a sense of unworthiness, almost of impurity107. Jane had come to be his ideal of maidenhood108, but till this moment he had not understood the full significance of the feeling with which he regarded her. He could not transform with a word their relations to each other. The temptation of the hour had hurried him towards an end which he must approach with more thought, more preparation of himself.
It was scarcely for ten heart-beats. Then Jane raised her eyes and said in a voice that trembled:
‘I’ve often wished I could see her again, and thank her for her kindness that night.’
‘That will help me to think with less pain of things that are long since over and done with,’ Sidney replied, forcing himself to speak firmly. ‘We can’t alter the past, Jane, but we can try to remember only the best part of it. You, I hope, very seldom look back at all.’
‘Grandfather wishes me never to forget it. He often says that.’
‘Does he? I think I understand.’
Jane drew down a branch and laid the broad cool leaves against her cheek; releasing it, she moved in the direction of the house. Her companion followed with slow step, his head bent. Before they came to the door Jane drew his attention to a bat that was sweeping109 duskily above their heads; she began to speak with her wonted cheerfulness.
‘How I should like Pennyloaf to be here! I wonder what she’d think of it?’
At the door they bade each other good night. Sidney took yet a few turns in the garden before entering. But that it would have seemed to the Pammenters a crazy proceeding110, he would have gladly struck away over the fields and walked for hours.
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1
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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unnatural
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deplored
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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disinterestedness
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contingency
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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standing
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humility
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drawn
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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mused
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hostility
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intimacy
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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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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motives
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motive
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middle-aged
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hesitation
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amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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persuasive
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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friendliness
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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conceal
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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51
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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56
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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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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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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61
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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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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64
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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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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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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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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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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malediction
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| n.诅咒 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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lichened
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| adj.长满地衣的，长青苔的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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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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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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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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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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101
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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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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103
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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104
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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105
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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106
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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107
impurity
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| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
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108
maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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109
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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