Oxford12 Street, Regent Street, Piccadilly, the Strand13, the ways about St. James’s Park; John Hewett was not the only father who has come forth after nightfall from an obscure home to look darkly at the faces passing on these broad pavements. At times he would shrink into a shadowed corner, and peer thence at those who went by under the gaslight. When he moved forward, it was with the uneasy gait of one who shuns14 observation; you would have thought, perchance, that he watched an opportunity of begging and was shamefaced: it happened now and then that he was regarded suspiciously. A rough-looking man, with grizzled beard, with eyes generally bloodshot, his shoulders stooping — naturally the miserable15 are always suspected where law is conscious of its injustice16.
Two years ago he was beset17 for a time with the same restlessness, and took night-walks in the same directions; the habit wore away, however. Now it possessed18 him even more strongly. Between ten and eleven o’clock, when the children were in bed, he fell into abstraction, and presently, with an unexpected movement, looked up as if some one had spoken to him — just the look of one who hears a familiar voice; then he sighed, and took his hat and went forth. It happened sometimes when he was sitting with his friends Mr. and Mrs. Eagles; in that case he would make some kind of excuse. The couple suspected that his business would take him to the public-house, but John never came back with a sign about him of having drunk; of that failing he had broken himself. He went cautiously down the atone19 stairs, averting20 his face if anyone met him; then by cross-ways he reached Gray’s Inn Road, and so westwards.
He had a well-ordered home, and his children were about him, but these things did not compensate21 him for the greatest loss his life had suffered. The children, in truth, had no very strong hold upon his affections. Sometimes, when Amy sat and talked to him, he showed a growing nervousness, an impatience22, and at length turned away from her as if to occupy himself in some manner. The voice was not that which had ever power to soothe23 him when it spoke playfully. Memory brought back the tones which had been so dear to him, and at times something more than memory; he seemed really to hear them, as if from a distance. And then it was that he went out to wander in the streets.
Of Bob in the meantime he saw scarcely anything. That young man presented himself one Sunday shortly after his father had become settled in the new home, but practically he was a stranger. John and he had no interests in common; there even existed a slight antipathy24 on the father’s part of late years. Strangely enough this feeling expressed itself one day in the form of a rebuke25 to Bob for neglecting Pennyloaf — Pennyloaf, whom John had always declined to recognise.
‘I hear no good of your goin’s on,’ remarked Hewett, on a casual encounter in the street. ‘A married man ought to give up the kind of company as you keep.’
‘I do no harm,’ replied Bob bluntly. ‘Has my wife been complaining to you?’
‘I’ve nothing to do with her; it’s what I’m told.’
‘By Kirkwood, I suppose? You’d better not have made up with him again, if he’s only making mischief26.’
‘No, I didn’t mean Kirkwood.’
And John went his way. Odd thing, was it not, that this embittered27 leveller should himself practise the very intolerance which he reviled28 in people of the upper world. For his refusal to recognise Pennyloaf he had absolutely no grounds, save — I use the words advisedly — an aristocratic prejudice. Bob had married deplorably beneath him; it was unpardonable, let the character of the girl be what it might. Of course you recognise the item in John Hewett’s personality which serves to explain this singular attitude. But, viewed generally, it was one of those bits of human inconsistency over which the observer smiles, and which should be recommended to good people in search of arguments for the equality of men.
After that little dialogue, Bob went home in a disagreeable temper. To begin with, his mood had been ruffled29, for the landlady30 at his lodgings31 — the fourth to which he had removed this year — was ‘nasty’ about a week or two of unpaid32 rent, and a man on whom he had counted this evening for the payment of a debt was keeping out of his way. He found Pennyloaf sitting on the stairs with her two children, as usual; poor Pennyloaf had not originality33 enough to discover new expressions of misery34, and that one bright idea of donning her best dress was a single instance of ingenuity35. In obedience36 to Jane Snowdon, she kept herself and the babies and the room tolerably clean, but everything was done in the most dispirited way.
‘What are you kicking about here for?’ asked Bob impatiently. ‘That’s how that kid gets its cold — of course it is! — Ger out!’
The last remark was addressed to the elder child, who caught at his legs as he strode past. Bob was not actively37 unkind to the little wretches38 for whose being he was responsible; he simply occupied the natural position of unsophisticated man to children of that age, one of indifference, or impatience. The infants were a nuisance; no one desired their coming, and the older they grew the more expensive they were.
It was a cold evening of October; Pennyloaf had allowed the fire to get very low (she knew not exactly where the next supply of coals was to come from), and her husband growled39 as he made a vain endeavour to warm his hands.
‘Why haven’t you got tea ready?’ he asked,
‘I couldn’t be sure as you was comin’, Bob; how could I? But I’ll soon get the kettle boilin’.’
‘Couldn’t be sure as I was coming? Why, I’ve been back every night this week — except two or three.’
It was Thursday, but Bob meant nothing jocose40.
‘Look here!’ he continued, fixing a surly eye upon her. ‘What do you mean by complaining about me to people? Just mind your own business. When was that girl Jane Snowdon here last?’
‘Yesterday, Bob.’
‘I thought as much, Did she give you anything?’ Ho made this inquiry41 in rather a shamefaced way.
‘No, she didn’t.’
‘Well, I tell you what it is. I’m not going to have her coming about the place, so understand that. When she comes next, you’ll just tell her she needn’t come again.’
Pennyloaf looked at him with dismay. For the delivery of this command Bob had seated himself on the corner of the table and crossed his arms. But for the touch of black-guardism in his appearance, Bob would have been a very good-looking fellow; his face was healthy, by no means commonplace in its mould, and had the peculiar42 vividness which indicates ability — so impressive, because so rarely seen, in men of his level. Unfortunately his hair was cropped all but to the scalp, in the fashionable manner; it was greased, too, and curled up on one side of his forehead with a peculiarly offensive perkishness. Poor Pennyloaf was in a great degree responsible for the ills of her married life; not only did she believe Bob to be the handsomest man who walked the earth but in her weakness she could not refrain from telling him as much. At the present moment he was intensely self-conscious; with Pennyloaf’s eye upon him, he posed for effect. The idea of forbidding future intercourse43 with Jane had come to him quite suddenly; it was by no means his intention to make his order permanent, for Jane had now and then brought little presents which were useful, but just now he felt a satisfaction in asserting authority. Jane should understand that he regarded her censure44 of him with high displeasure.
‘You don’t mean that, Bob?’ murmured Pennyloaf.
‘Of course I do. And let me catch you disobeying me! I should think you might find better friends than a girl as used to be the Peckovers’ dirty little servant.’
Bob turned up his nose and sniffed45 the air. And Pennyloaf, in spite of the keenest distress46, actually felt that there was something in the objection, thus framed! She herself had never been a servant — never; she had never sunk below working with the needle for sixteen hours a day for a payment of ninepence. The work-girl regards a domestic slave as very distinctly her inferior.
‘But that’s a long while ago,’ she ventured to urge, after reflection.
‘That makes no difference. Do as I tell you, and don’t argue.’
It was not often that visitors sought Bob at his home of an evening, but whilst this dialogue was still going on an acquaintance made his arrival known by a knock at the door. It was a lank47 and hungry individual, grimy of face and hands, his clothing such as in the country would serve well for a scarecrow. Who could have recognised in him the once spruce and spirited Mr. Jack48 Bartley, distinguished49 by his chimney-pot hat at the Crystal Palace on Bob’s wedding-day? At the close of that same day, as you remember, he and Bob engaged in terrific combat, the outcome of earlier rivalry50 for the favour of Clem Peckover. Notwithstanding that memory, the two were now on very friendly terms. You have heard from Clem’s lips that Jack Bartley, failing to win herself, ended by espousing52 Miss Susan Jollop; also what was the result of that alliance. Mr. Bartley was an unhappy man. His wife had a ferocious53 temper, was reckless with money, and now drank steadily54; the consequence was, that Jack had lost all regular employment, and only earned occasional pence in the most various ways. Broken in spirit, he himself first made advances to his companion of former days, and Bob, flattered by the other’s humility55, encouraged him as a hanger-on. — Really, we shall soon be coming to a conclusion that the differences between the nether56 and the upper world are purely57 superficial.
Whenever Jack came to spend an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Hewett, he was sure sooner or later to indulge the misery that preyed58 upon him and give way to sheer weeping. He did so this evening, almost as soon as he entered.
‘I ain’t had a mouthful past my lips since last night, I ain’t!’ he sobbed59. ‘It’s ‘ard on a feller as used to have his meals regular. I’ll murder Suke yet, see if I don’t! I’ll have her life! She met me last night and gave me this black eye as you see — she did! It’s ‘ard on a feller.’
‘You mean to say as she ‘it you?’ cried Pennyloaf.
Bob chuckled60, thrust his hands into his pockets, spread himself out. His own superiority was so gloriously manifest.
‘Suppose you try it on with me, Penny!’ he cried.
‘You’d give me something as I should remember,’ she answered, smirking61, the good little slavey.
‘Shouldn’t wonder if I did,’ assented62 Bob.
Mr. Bartley’s pressing hunger was satisfied with some bread and butter and a cup of tea. Whilst taking a share of the meal, Bob brought a small box on to the table; it had a sliding lid, and inside were certain specimens63 of artistic64 work with which he was wont65 to amuse himself when tired of roaming the streets in jovial66 company. Do you recollect67 that, when we first made Bob’s acquaintance, he showed Sidney Kirkwood a medal of his own design and casting? His daily work at die-sinking had of course supplied him with this suggestion, and he still found pleasure in work of the same kind. In days before commercialism had divorced art and the handicrafts, a man with Bob’s distinct faculty68 would have found encouragement to exercise it for serious ends; as it was, he remained at the semi-conscious stage with regard to his own aptitudes69, and cast leaden medals just as a way of occupying his hands when a couple of hours hung heavy on them. Partly with the thought of amusing the dolorous70 Jack, yet more to win laudation, he brought forth DOW a variety of casts and moulds and spread them on the table. His latest piece of work was a medal in high relief bearing the heads of the Prince and Princess of Wales surrounded with a wreath. Bob had no political convictions; with complacency he drew these royal features, the sight of which would have made his father foam71 at the mouth. True, he might have found subjects artistically72 more satisfying, but he belonged to the people, and the English people.
Jack Bartley, having dried his eyes and swallowed his bread and butter, considered the medal with much attention.
‘I say,’ he remarked at length, ‘will you give me this, Bob?’
‘I don’t mind, You can take it if you like.’
‘Thanks!’
Jack wrapped it up and put it in his waistcoat pocket, and before long rose to take leave of his friends.
‘I only wish I’d got a wife like you,’ he observed at the door, as he saw Pennyloaf bending over the two children, recently put to bed.
Pennyloaf’s eyes gleamed at the compliment, and she turned them to her husband.
‘She’s nothing to boast of,’ said Bob, judicially73 and masculinely. ‘All women are pretty much alike.’
And Pennyloaf tried to smile at the snub.
Having devoted74 one evening to domestic quietude, Bob naturally felt himself free to dispose of the next in a manner more to his taste. The pleasures which sufficed to keep him from home had the same sordid75 monotony which characterises life in general for the lower strata76 of society. If he had money, there was the music-hall; if he had none, there were the streets. Being in the latter condition to-night, he joined a company of male and female intimates, and with them strolled aimlessly from one familiar rendezvous77 to another. Would that it were possible to set down a literal report of the conversation which passed during hours thus spent! Much of it, of course, would be merely revolting, but for the most part it would consist of such wearying, such incredible imbecilities as no human patience could endure through five minutes’ perusal78. Realise it, however, and you grasp the conditions of what is called the social problem. As regards Robert Hewett in particular, it would help you to understand the momentous79 change in his life which was just coming to pass.
On his reaching home at eleven o’clock, Pennyloaf met him with the news that Jack Bartley had looked in twice and seemed very anxious to see him. To-morrow being Saturday, Jack would call again early in the afternoon. When the time came, he presented himself, hungry and dirty as ever, but with an unwonted liveliness in his eye.
‘I’ve got something to say to you,’ he began, in a low voice, nodding significantly towards Pennyloaf.
‘Go and buy what you want for tomorrow,’ said Bob to his wife, giving her some money out of his wages. ‘Take the kids.’
Disappointed in being thus excluded from confidence, but obedient as ever, Pennyloaf speedily prepared herself and the children, the younger of whom she still had to carry. When she was gone Mr. Bartley assumed a peculiar attitude and began to speak in an undertone.
‘You know that medal as you gave me the other night?’
‘What about it?’
‘I sold it for fourpence to a chap I know. It got me a bed at the lodgings in Pentonville Road.’
‘Oh, you did! Well, what else?’
Jack was writhing80 in the most unaccountable way, peering hither and thither81 out of the corners of his eyes, seeming to have an obstruction82 in his throat.
‘It was in a public-house as I sold it — a chap I know. There was another chap as I didn’t know standing51 just by — see? He kep’ looking at the medal, and he kep’ looking at me. When I went out the chap as I didn’t know followed behind me. I didn’t see him at first, but he come up with me just at the top of Rosoman Street — a red-haired chap, looked like a corster. “Hollo!” says he. “Hollo!” says I. “Got any more o’ them medals?” he says, in a quiet way like. “What do you want to know for?” I says —‘cos you see he was a bloke as I didn’t know nothing about, and there’s no good being over-free with your talk. He got me to walk on a bit with him, and kept talking. “You didn’t buy that nowhere,” he says, with a sort of wink83. “What if I didn’t?” I says. “There’s no harm as I know.” Well, he kept on with his sort o’ winks84, and then he says, “Got any queer to put round?”’
At this point Jack lowered his voice to a whisper and looked timorously85 towards the door.
‘You know what he meant, Bob?’
Bob nodded and became reflective.
‘Well, I didn’t say nothing.’ pursued Bartley, ‘but the chap stuck to me. “A fair price for a fair article,” he says. “You’ll always find me there of a Thursday night, if you’ve got any business going. Give me a look round,” he says. “It ain’t in my line,” I says. So he gave a grin like, and kep’ on talking. “If you want a four-half shiner,” he says, “you know where to come. Reasonable with them as is reasonable. Thursday night,” he says, and then he slung86 his hook round the corner.’
‘What’s a four-half shiner?’ inquired Bob, looking from under his eyebrows87.
‘Well, I didn’t know myself, just then: but I’ve found out. It’s a public-house pewter — see?’
A flash of intelligence shot across Bob’s face.
When Pennyloaf returned she found her husband with his box of moulds and medals on the table. He was turning over its contents, meditatively88. On the table there also lay a half crown and a florin, as though Bob had been examining these products of the Royal Mint with a view to improving the artistic quality of his amateur workmanship. He took up the coins quietly as his wife entered and put them in his pocket.
‘Mrs. Rendal’s been at me again, Bob,’ Pennyloaf said, as she set down her market-basket. ‘You’ll have to give her something today.’
He paid no attention, and Pennyloaf had a difficulty in bringing him to discuss the subject of the landlady’s demands. Ultimately, however, he admitted with discontent the advisability of letting Mrs. Rendal have something on account. Though it was Saturday night, he let hour after hour go by and showed no disposition89 to leave home; to Pennyloaf’s surprise, he sat almost without moving by the fire, absorbed in thought.
Genuine respect for law is the result of possessing something which the law exerts itself to guard. Should it happen that you possess nothing, and that your education in metaphysics has been grievously neglected, the strong probability is, that your mind will reduce the principle of society to its naked formula: Get, by whatever means, so long as with impunity90. On that formula Bob Hewett was brooding; in the hours of this Saturday evening he exerted his mind more strenuously91 than ever before in the course of his life. And to a foregone result. Here is a man with no moral convictions, with no conscious relations to society save those which are hostile, with no personal affections; at the same time, vaguely92 aware of certain faculties93 in himself for which life affords no scope and encouraged in various kinds of conceit94 by the crass95 stupidity of all with whom he associates. It is suggested to him all at once that there is a very easy way of improving his circumstances, and that by exercise of a certain craft with which he is perfectly96 familiar; only, the method happens to be criminal. ‘Men who do this kind of thing are constantly being caught and severely97 punished. Yes; men of a certain kind; not Robert Hewett. Robert Hewett is altogether an exceptional being; he is head and shoulders above the men with whom he mixes; he is clever, he is remarkably98 good-looking. If anyone in this world, of a truth Robert Hewett may reckon on impunity when he sets his wits against the law. Why, his arrest and punishment is an altogether inconceivable thing; he never in his life had a charge brought against him.’
Again and again it came back to that. Every novice99 in unimpassioned crime has that thought, and the more self-conscious the man, the more impressed with a sense of his own importance, so much the weightier is its effect with him.
We know in what spirit John Hewett regarded rebels against the law. Do not imagine that any impulse of that nature actuated his son. Clara alone had inherited her father’s instinct of revolt. Bob’s temperament100 was, in a certain measure, that of the artist; he felt without reasoning; he let himself go whither his moods propelled him. Not a man of evil propensities101; entertain no such thought for a moment. Society produces many a monster, but the mass of those whom, after creating them, it pronounces bad are merely bad from the conventional point of view; they are guilty of weaknesses, not of crimes. Bob was not incapable102 of generosity103; his marriage had, in fact, implied more of that quality than you in the upper world can at all appreciate. He neglected his wife, of course, for he had never loved her, and the burden of her support was too great a trial for his selfishness. Weakness, vanity, a sense that he has not satisfactions proportionate to his desert, a strong temptation — here are the data which, in ordinary cases, explain a man’s deliberate attempt to profit by criminality.
In a short time Pennyloaf began to be aware of peculiarities104 of behaviour in her husband for which she could not account. Though there appeared no necessity for the step, he insisted on their once more seeking new lodgings, and, before the removal, he destroyed all his medals and moulds.
‘What’s that for, Bob?’ Pennyloaf inquired.
‘I’ll tell you, and mind you hold your tongue about it. Somebody’s been saying as these things might get me into trouble. Just you be careful not to mention to people that I used to make these kind of things.’
‘But why should it get you into trouble?’
‘Mind what I tell you, and don’t ask questions. You’re always too ready at talking.’
His absences of an evening were nothing new, but his manner on returning was such as Pennyloaf had never seen in him. He appeared to be suffering from some intense excitement; his hands were unsteady; he showed the strangest nervousness if there were any unusual sounds in the house. Then he certainly obtained money of which his wife did not know the source; he bought new articles of clothing, and in explanation said that he had won bets. Pennyloaf remarked these things with uneasiness; she had a fear during her lonely evenings for which she could give no reason. Poor slowwitted mortal though she was, a devoted fidelity105 attached her to her husband, and quickened wonderfully her apprehension106 in everything that concerned him.
‘Miss Snowdon came today, Bob,’ she had said, about a week after his order with regard to Jane.
‘Oh, she did? And did you tell her she’d better keep away?’
‘Yes,’ was the dispirited answer.
‘Glad to hear it.’
As for Jack Bartley, he never showed himself at the new lodgings.
Bob shortly became less regular in his attendance at the workshop. An occasional Monday he had, to be sure, been in the habit of allowing himself, but as the winter wore on he was more than once found straying about the streets in midweek. One morning towards the end of November, as he strolled along High Holborn, a hand checked his progress; he gave almost a leap, and turned a face of terror upon the person who stopped him. It was Clem — Mrs. Snowdon. They had, of course, met casually107 since Bob’s marriage, and in progress of time the ferocious glances they were wont to exchange had softened108 into a grin of half-friendly recognition; Clem’s behaviour at present was an unexpected revival109 of familiarity. When he had got over his shock Bob felt surprised, and expressed the feeling in a —‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
‘You jumped as if I’d stuck a pin in you,’ replied Clem. ‘Did you think it was a copper110?’
Bob looked at her with a surly smile. Though no one could have mistaken the class she belonged to, Clem was dressed in a way which made her companionship with Bob in his workman’s clothing somewhat incongruous; she wore a heavily trimmed brown hat, a long velveteen jacket, and carried a little bag of imitation fur.
‘Why ain’t you at work?’ she added. ‘Does Mrs. Pennyloaf Hewett know how you spend your time?’
‘Hasn’t your husband taught you to mind your own business?’
Clem took the retort good-humouredly, and they walked on conversing111. Not altogether at his ease thus companioned, Bob turned out of the main street, and presently they came within sight of the British Museum.
‘Ever been in that place?’ Clem asked.
‘Of course I have,’ he replied, with his air of superiority.
‘I haven’t. Is there anything to pay? Let’s go in for half an hour.’
It was an odd freak, but Bob began to have a pleasure in this renewal112 of intimacy113; he wished he had been wearing his best suit. Years ago his father had brought him on a public holiday to the Museum, and his interest was chiefly excited by the collection of the Royal Seals. To that quarter he first led his companion, and thence directed her towards objects more likely to supply her with amusement; he talked freely, and was himself surprised at the show of information his memory allowed him to make — desperately114 vague and often ludicrously wide of the mark, but still a something of knowledge, retained from all sorts of chance encounters by his capable mind. Had the British Museum been open to visitors in the hours of the evening, or on Sundays, Bob Hewitt would possibly have been employing his leisure nowadays in more profitable pursuits. Possibly; one cannot say more than that; for the world to which he belonged is above all a world of frustration115, and only the one man in half a million has fate for his friend.
Much Clem cared for antiquities116; when she had wearied herself in pretending interest, a seat in an unvisited corner gave her an opportunity for more congenial dialogue.
‘How’s Mrs. Pennyloaf?’ she asked, with a smile of malice117.
‘How’s Mr. What’s-his-name Snowdon?’ was the reply.
‘My husband’s a gentleman. Good thing for me I had the sense to wait.’
‘And for me too, I dare say.’
‘Why ain’t you at work? Got the sack?’
‘I can take a day off if I like, can’t I?’
‘And you’ll go ‘ome and tell your wife as you’ve been working. I know what you men are. What ‘ud Mrs. Pennyloaf say if she knew you was here with me? You daren’t tell her; you daren’t!’
‘I’m not doing any harm as I know of. I shall tell her if I choose, and if I choose I shan’t. I don’t ask her what I’m to do.’
‘I dare say. And how does that mother of hers get on? And her brother at the public? Nice relations for Mr. Bob Hewett. Do they come to tea on a Sunday?’
Bob glared at her, and Clem laughed, showing all her teeth. From this exchange of pleasantries the talk passed to various subjects — the affairs of Jack Bartley and his precious wife, changes in Clerkenwell Close, then to Clem’s own circumstances; she threw out hints of brilliant things in store for her.
‘Do you come here often?’ she asked at length.
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Thought p’r’aps you brought Mrs. Pennyloaf. When’ll you be here again?’
‘Don’t know,’ Bob replied, fidgeting and looking to a distance.
‘I shouldn’t wonder if I’m here this day next week,’ said Clem, after a pause. ‘You can bring Pennyloaf if you like.’
It was dinner-time, and they left the building together. At the end of Museum Street they exchanged a careless nod and went their several ways.
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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garners
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的第三人称单数 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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formerly
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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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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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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shuns
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的第三人称单数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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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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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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25
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reviled
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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31
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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32
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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33
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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34
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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35
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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36
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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38
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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39
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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40
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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41
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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42
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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43
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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44
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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45
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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47
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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48
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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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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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52
espousing
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的现在分词 ) | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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56
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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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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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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69
aptitudes
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| （学习方面的）才能，资质，天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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71
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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artistically
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| adv.艺术性地 | |
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73
judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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76
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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80
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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81
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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82
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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83
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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84
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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85
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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86
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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87
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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88
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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89
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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90
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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92
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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93
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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95
crass
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| adj.愚钝的，粗糙的；彻底的 | |
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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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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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98
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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99
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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100
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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101
propensities
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| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
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102
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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103
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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104
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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105
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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106
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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107
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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108
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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109
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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110
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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111
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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112
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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113
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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114
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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115
frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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116
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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117
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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