‘Tom is dying,’ wrote Everard, early in February, to his cousin in Queen’s Road. ‘Dr. Swain assures me that unless he be removed he cannot last more than a month or two. This morning I saw the woman’— it was thus he always referred to his sister-inlaw —‘and talked to her in what was probably the plainest language she ever had the privilege of hearing. It was a tremendous scene, brought to a close only by her flinging herself on the sofa with shrieks8 which terrified the whole household. My idea is that we must carry the poor fellow away by force. His infatuation makes me rage and curse, but I am bent9 on trying to save his life. Will you come and give your help?’
A week later they succeeded in carrying the invalid back to Torquay. Mrs. Barfoot had abandoned him to his doctors, nurses, and angry relatives; she declared herself driven out of the house, and went to live at a fashionable hotel. Everard remained in Devon for more than a month, devoting himself with affection, which the trial of his temper seemed only to increase, to his brother’s welfare. Thomas improved a little; once more there was hope. Then on a sudden frantic10 impulse, after writing fifty letters which elicited11 no reply, he travelled in pursuit of his wife; and three days after his arrival in London he was dead.
By a will, executed at Torquay, he bequeathed to Everard about a quarter of his wealth. All the rest went to Mrs. Barfoot, who had declared herself too ill to attend the funeral, but in a fortnight was sufficiently12 recovered to visit one of her friends in the country.
Everard could now count upon an income of not much less than fifteen hundred a year. That his brother’s death would enrich him he had always foreseen, but no man could have exerted himself with more ardent13 energy to postpone14 that advantage. The widow charged him, wherever she happened to be, with deliberate fratricide; she vilified15 his reputation, by word of mouth or by letter, to all who knew him, and protested that his furious wrath16 at not having profited more largely by the will put her in fear of her life. This last remarkable17 statement was made in a long and violent epistle to Miss Barfoot, which the recipient18 showed to her cousin on the first opportunity. Everard had called one Sunday morning — it was the end of March — to say good-bye on his departure for a few weeks’ travel. Having read the letter, he laughed with a peculiar19 fierceness.
‘This kind of thing,’ said Miss Barfoot, ‘may necessitate20 your prosecuting21 her. There is a limit, you know, even to a woman’s licence.’
‘I am far more likely,’ he replied, ‘to purchase a very nice little cane22, and give her an exemplary thrashing.’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘Upon my word, I see no reason against it! That’s how I should deal with a man who talked about me in this way, and none the less if he were a puny23 creature quite unable to protect himself. In that furious scene before we got Tom away I felt most terribly tempted24 to beat her. There’s a great deal to be said for woman-beating. I am quite sure that many a labouring man who pommels his wife is doing exactly the right thing; no other measure would have the least result. You see what comes of impunity25. If this woman saw the possibility that I should give her a public caning26 she would be far more careful how she behaved herself. Let us ask Miss Nunn’s opinion.’
Rhoda had that moment entered the room. She offered her hand frankly27, and asked what the subject was.
‘Glance over this letter,’ said Barfoot. ‘Oh, you have seen it. I propose to get a light, supple28, dandyish cane, and to give Mrs. Thomas Barfoot half a dozen smart cuts across the back in her own drawing-room, some afternoon when people were present. What have you to say to it?’
He spoke with such show of angry seriousness that Rhoda paused before replying.
‘I sympathized with you,’ she said at length, ‘but I don’t think I would go to that extremity29.’
Everard repeated the argument he had used to his cousin.
‘You are quite right,’ Rhoda assented30. ‘I think many women deserve to be beaten, and ought to be beaten. But public Opinion would be so much against you.’
‘What do I care? So is public opinion against you.’
‘Very well. Do as you like. Miss Barfoot and I will come to the police court and give strong evidence in your favour.’
‘Now there’s a woman!’ exclaimed Everard, not all in jest, for Rhoda’s appearance had made his nerves thrill and his pulse beat. ‘Look at her, Mary. Do you wonder that I would walk the diameter of the globe to win her love?’
Rhoda flushed scarlet31, and Miss Barfoot was much embarrassed. Neither could have anticipated such an utterance32 as this. ‘That’s the simple truth,’ went on Everard recklessly, ‘and she knows it, and yet won’t listen to me. Well, good-bye to you both! Now that I have so grossly misbehaved myself, she has a good excuse for refusing even to enter the room when I am here. But do speak a word for me whilst I am away, Mary.’
He shook hands with them, scarcely looking at their faces, and abruptly33 departed.
The women stood for a moments at a distance from each other. Then Miss Barfoot glanced at her friend and laughed.
‘Really my poor cousin is not very discreet34.’
‘Anything but,’ Rhoda answered, resting on the back of a chair, her eyes cast down. ‘Do you think he will really cane his sister-inlaw?’
‘How can you ask such a question?’
‘It would be amusing. I should think better of him for it.’
‘Well, make it a condition. We know the story of the lady and her glove. I can see you sympathize with her.’
Rhoda laughed and went away, leaving Miss Barfoot with the impression that she had revealed a genuine impulse. It seemed not impossible that Rhoda might wish to say to her lover: ‘Face this monstrous35 scandal and I am yours.
A week passed and there arrived a letter, with a foreign stamp, addressed to Miss Nunn. Happening to receive it before Miss Barfoot had come down to breakfast, she put in away in a drawer till evening leisure, and made no mention of its arrival. Exhilaration appeared in her behaviour through the day. After dinner she disappeared, shutting herself up to read the letter.
‘DEAR MISS NUNN— I am sitting at a little marble table outside a cafe on the Cannibiere. Does that name convey anything to you? The Cannibiere is the principal street of Marseilles, street of gorgeous cafe’s and restaurants, just now blazing with electric light. You, no doubt, are shivering by the fireside; here it is like an evening of summer. I have dined luxuriously36, and I am taking my coffee whilst I write. At a table near to me sit two girls, engaged in the liveliest possible conversation, of which I catch a few words now and then, pretty French phrases that caress37 the ear. One of them is so strikingly beautiful that I cannot take my eyes from her when they have been tempted to that quarter. She speaks with indescribable grace and animation38, has the sweetest eyes and lips —
‘And all the time I am thinking of some one else. Ah, if you were here! How we would enjoy ourselves among these southern scenes! Alone, it is delightful39; but with you for a companion, with you to talk about everything in your splendidly frank way! This French girl’s talk is of course only silly chatter40; it makes me long to hear a few words from your lips — strong, brave, intelligent.
‘I dream of the ideal possibility. Suppose I were to look up and see you standing41 just in front of me, there on the pavement. You have come in a few hours straight from London. Your eyes glow with delight. To-morrow we shall travel on to Genoa, you and I, more than friends, and infinitely42 more than the common husband and wife! We have bidden the world go round for our amusement; henceforth it is our occupation to observe and discuss and make merry.
‘Is it all in vain? Rhoda, if you never love me, my life will be poor to what it might have been; and you, you also, will lose something. In imagination I kiss your hands and your lips.
EVERARD BARFOOT.’
There was an address at the head of this letter, but certainly Barfoot expected no reply, and Rhoda had no thought of sending one. Every night, however, she unfolded the sheet of thin foreign paper, and read, more than once, what was written upon it. Read it with external calm, with a brow of meditation43, and afterwards sat for some time in absent mood.
Would he write again? Her daily question was answered in rather more than a fortnight. This time the letter came from Italy; it was lying on the hall table when Rhoda returned from Great Portland Street, and Miss Barfoot was the first to read the address. They exchanged no remark. On breaking the envelope — she did so at once — Rhoda found a little bunch of violets crushed but fragrant44.
‘These in return for your Cheddar pinks,’ began the informal note accompanying the flowers. ‘I had them an hour ago from a pretty girl in the streets of Parma. I didn’t care to buy, and walked on, but the pretty girl ran by me, and with gentle force fixed45 the flowers in my button-hole, so that I had no choice but to stroke her velvety46 cheek and give her a lira. How hungry I am for the sight of your face! Think of me sometimes, dear friend.’
She laughed, and laid the letter and its violets away with the other.
‘I must depend on you, it seems, for news of Everard,’ said Miss Barfoot after dinner.
‘I can only tell you,’ Rhoda answered lightly, ‘that he has travelled from the south of France to the north of Italy, with much observation of female countenances47.’
‘He informs you of that?’
‘Very naturally. It is his chief interest. One likes people to tell the truth.’
Barfoot was away until the end of April, but after that note from Parma he did not write. One bright afternoon in May, a Saturday, he presented himself at his cousin’s house, and found two or three callers in the drawing-room, ladies as usual; one of them was Miss Winifred Haven48, another was Mrs. Widdowson. Mary received him without effusiveness49, and after a few minutes’ talk with her he took a place by Mrs. Widdowson, who, it struck him, looked by no means in such good spirits as during the early days of her marriage. As soon as she began to converse50, his impression of a change in her was confirmed; the girlishness so pleasantly noticeable when first he knew her had disappeared, and the gravity substituted for it was suggestive of disillusion51, of trouble.
She asked him if he knew some people named Bevis, who occupied a flat just above his own.
‘Bevis? I have seen the name on the index at the foot of the stairs; but I don’t know them personally.’
‘That was how I came to know that you live there,’ said Monica. ‘My husband took me to call upon the Bevises, and there we saw your name. At least, we supposed it was you, and Miss Barfoot tells me we were right.’
‘Oh yes; I live there all alone, a gloomy bachelor. How delightful if you knocked at my door some day, when you and Mr. Widdowson are again calling on your friends.’
Monica smiled, and her eyes wandered restlessly.
‘You have been away — out of England?’ she next said.
‘Yes; in Italy.’
‘I envy you.’
‘You have never been there?’
‘No — not yet.’
He talked a little of the agreeables and disagreeables of life in that country. But Mrs. Widdowson had become irresponsive; he doubted at length whether she was listening to him, so, as Miss Haven stepped this way, he took an opportunity of a word aside with his cousin.
‘Miss Nunn not at home?’
‘No. Won’t be till dinner-time.’
‘Quite well?’
‘Never was better. Would you care to come back and dine with us at half-past seven?’
‘Of course I should.’
With this pleasant prospect52 he took his leave. The afternoon being sunny, instead of walking straight to the station, to return home, he went out on to the Embankment, and sauntered round by Chelsea Bridge Road. As he entered Sloane Square he saw Mrs. Widdowson, who was coming towards the railway; she walked rather wearily, with her eyes on the ground, and did not become aware of him until he addressed her.
‘Are we travelling the same way?’ he asked. ‘Westward?’
‘Yes. I am going all the way round to Portland Road.’
They entered the station, Barfoot chatting humorously. And, so intent was he on the expression of his companion’s downcast face, that he allowed an acquaintance to pass close by him unobserved. It was Rhoda Nunn, returning sooner than Miss Barfoot had expected. She saw the pair, regarded them with a moment’s keen attentiveness53, and went on, out into the street.
In the first-class carriage which they entered there was no other passenger as far as Barfoot’s station. He could not resist the temptation to use rather an intimate tone, though one that was quite conventional, in the hope that he might discover something of Mrs. Widdowson’s mind. He began by asking whether she thought it a good Academy this year. She had not yet visited it, but hoped to do so on Monday. Did she herself do any kind of artistic54 work? Oh, nothing whatever; she was a very useless and idle person. He believed she had been a pupil of Miss Barfoot’s at one time? Yes, for a very short time indeed, just before her marriage. Was she not an intimate friend of Miss Nunn? Hardly intimate. They knew each other a few years ago, but Miss Nunn did not care much about her now.
‘Probably because I married,’ she added with a smile.
‘Is Miss Nunn really such a determined55 enemy of marriage?’
‘She thinks it pardonable in very weak people. In my case she was indulgent enough to come to the wedding.’
This piece of news surprised Barfoot.
‘She came to your wedding? And wore a wedding garment?’
‘Oh yes. And looked very nice.’
‘Do describe it to me. Can you remember?’
Seeing that no woman ever forgot the details of another’s dress, on however trivial an occasion, and at whatever distance of time, Monica was of course able to satisfy the inquirer. Her curiosity excited, she ventured in turn upon one or two insidious56 questions.
‘You couldn’t imagine Miss Nunn in such a costume?’
‘I should very much like to have seen her.’
‘She has a very striking face — don’t you think so?’
‘Indeed I do. A wonderful face.’
Their eyes met. Barfoot bent forward from his place opposite Monica.
‘To me the most interesting of all faces,’ he said softly.
His companion blushed with surprise and pleasure.
‘Does it seem strange to you, Mrs. Widdowson?’
‘Oh — why? Not at all.’
All at once she had brightened astonishingly. This subject was not pursued, but for the rest of the time they talked with a new appearance of mutual57 confidence and interest, Monica retaining her pretty, half-bashful smile. And when Barfoot alighted at Bayswater they shook hands with an especial friendliness58, both seeming to suggest a wish that they might soon meet again.
They did so not later than the following Monday. Remembering what Mrs. Widdowson had said of her intention to visit Burlington House, Barfoot went there in the afternoon. If he chanced to encounter the pretty little woman it would not be disagreeable. Perhaps her husband might be with her, and in that case he could judge of the terms on which they stood. A surly fellow, Widdowson; very likely to play the tyrant59, he thought. If he were not mistaken, she had wearied of him and regretted her bondage60 — the old story. Thinking thus, and strolling through the rooms with casual glances at a picture, he discovered his acquaintance, catalogue in hand, alone for the present. Her pensive61 face again answered to his smile. They drew back from the pictures and sat down.
‘I dined with our friends at Chelsea on Saturday evening,’ said Barfoot.
‘On Saturday? You didn’t tell me you were going back again.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of it just at the time.’
Monica hinted an amused surprise.
‘You see,’ he went on, ‘I expected nothing, and happy for me that it was so. Miss Nunn was in her severest mood; I think she didn’t smile once through the evening. I will confess to you I wrote her a letter whilst I was abroad, and it offended her, I suppose.’
‘I don’t think you can always judge of her thoughts by her face.’
‘Perhaps not. But I have studied her face so often and so closely. For all that, she is more a mystery to me than any woman I have ever known. That, of course, is partly the reason of her power over me. I feel that if ever — if ever she should disclose herself to me, it would be the strangest revelation. Every woman wears a mask, except to one man; but Rhoda’s — Miss Nunn’s — is, I fancy, a far completer disguise than I ever tried to pierce.’
Monica had a sense of something perilous62 in this conversation. It arose from a secret trouble in her own heart, which she might, involuntarily, be led to betray. She had never talked thus confidentially63 with any man; not, in truth, with her husband. There was no fear whatever of her conceiving an undue64 interest in Barfoot; certain reasons assured her of that; but talk that was at all sentimental65 gravely threatened her peace — what little remained to her. It would have been better to discourage this man’s confidences; yet they flattered her so pleasantly, and afforded such a fruitful subject for speculation66, that she could not obey the prompting of prudence67.
‘Do you mean,’ she said, ‘that Miss Nunn seems to disguise her feelings?’
‘It is supposed to be wrong — isn’t it? — for a man to ask one woman her opinion of another.’
‘I can’t be treacherous68 if I wished,’ Monica replied. ‘I don’t feel that I understand her.’
Barfoot wondered how much intelligence he might attribute to Mrs. Widdowson. Obviously her level was much below that of Rhoda. Yet she seemed to possess delicate sensibilities, and a refinement69 of thought not often met with in women of her position. Seriously desiring her aid, he looked at her with a grave smile, and asked —
‘Do you believe her capable of falling in love?’
Monica showed a painful confusion. She overcame it, however, and soon answered.
‘She would perhaps try not — not to acknowledge it to herself.’
‘When, in fact, it had happened?’
‘She thinks it so much nobler to disregard such feelings.’
‘I know. She is to be an inspiring example to the women who cannot hope to marry.’ He laughed silently. ‘And I suppose it is quite possible that mere70 shame would withhold71 her from taking the opposite course.’
‘I think she is very strong. But —’
‘But?’
He looked eagerly into her face.
‘I can’t tell. I don’t really know her. A woman may be as much a mystery to another woman as she is to a man.’
‘On the whole, I am glad to hear you say that. I believe it. It is only the vulgar that hold a different opinion.’
‘Shall we look at the pictures, Mr. Barfoot?’
‘Oh, I am so sorry. I have been wasting your time —’
Nervously72 disclaiming73 any such thought, Monica, rose and drew near to the canvases. They walked on together for some ten minutes, until Barfoot, who had turned to look at a passing figure, said in his ordinary voice —
‘I think that is Mr. Widdowson on the other side of the room.’
Monica looked quickly round, and saw her husband, as if occupied with the pictures, glancing in her direction.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
nurture
|
|
| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
disposition
|
|
| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
wrangling
|
|
| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
shrieks
|
|
| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
frantic
|
|
| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
elicited
|
|
| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
postpone
|
|
| v.延期，推迟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
vilified
|
|
| v.中伤，诽谤( vilify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
recipient
|
|
| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
necessitate
|
|
| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
prosecuting
|
|
| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
puny
|
|
| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
tempted
|
|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
impunity
|
|
| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
caning
|
|
| n.鞭打 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
supple
|
|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
extremity
|
|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
assented
|
|
| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
utterance
|
|
| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
discreet
|
|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
luxuriously
|
|
| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
caress
|
|
| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
animation
|
|
| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
chatter
|
|
| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
infinitely
|
|
| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
meditation
|
|
| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
velvety
|
|
| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
countenances
|
|
| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
haven
|
|
| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
effusiveness
|
|
| n.吐露，唠叨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
50
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
disillusion
|
|
| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
attentiveness
|
|
| [医]注意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
insidious
|
|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
friendliness
|
|
| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
tyrant
|
|
| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
bondage
|
|
| n.奴役，束缚 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
pensive
|
|
| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
perilous
|
|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
confidentially
|
|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
undue
|
|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
speculation
|
|
| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
prudence
|
|
| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
treacherous
|
|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
withhold
|
|
| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
disclaiming
|
|
| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |