I was sitting in the dusk in my room at Hotel des Bains, when the visitor for whom I hoped made his appearance in the person of Clive, with his broad shoulders, and broad hat, and a shaggy beard, which he had thought fit in his quality of painter to assume. Our greeting it need not be said was warm; and our talk, which extended far into the night, very friendly and confidential1. If I make my readers confidants in Mr. Clive’s private affairs, I ask my friend’s pardon for narrating2 his history in their behoof. The world had gone very ill with my poor Clive, and I do not think that the pecuniary3 losses which had visited him and his father afflicted4 him near so sorely as the state of his home. In a pique5 with the woman he loved, and from that generous weakness which formed part of his character, and which led him to acquiesce6 in most wishes of his good father, the young man had gratified the darling desire of the Colonel’s heart, and taken the wife whom his two old friends brought to him. Rosey, who was also, as we have shown, of a very obedient and ductile7 nature, had acquiesced8 gladly enough in her mamma’s opinion, that she was in love with the rich and handsome young Clive, and accepted him for better or worse. So undoubtedly9 would this good child have accepted Captain Hoby, her previous adorer, have smilingly promised fidelity10 to the Captain at church, and have made a very good, happy, and sufficient little wife for that officer — had not mamma commanded her to jilt him. What wonder that these elders should wish to see their two dear young ones united? They began with suitable age, money, good temper, and parents’ blessings11. It is not the first time that, with all these excellent helps to prosperity and happiness, a marriage has turned out unfortunately — a pretty, tight ship gone to wreck12 that set forth13 on its voyage with cheers from the shore, and every prospect14 of fair wind and fine weather.
We have before quoted poor Clive’s simile15 of the shoes with which his good old father provided him — as pretty a little pair of shoes as need be — only they did not fit the wearer. If they pinched him at first, how they blistered16 and tortured him now! If Clive was gloomy and discontented even when the honeymoon17 had scarce waned18, and he and his family sat at home in state and splendour under the boughs19 of the famous silver cocoa-nut tree, what was the young man’s condition now in poverty, when they had no love along with a scant20 dinner of herbs; when his mother-inlaw grudged21 each morsel22 which his poor old father ate — when a vulgar, coarse-minded woman pursued with brutal23 sarcasm24 and deadly rancour one of the tenderest and noblest gentlemen in the world — when an ailing25 wife, always under some one’s domination, received him with helpless hysterical26 cries and reproaches — when a coarse female tyrant27, stupid, obstinate28, utterly29 unable to comprehend the son’s kindly30 genius, or the father’s gentle spirit, bullied31 over both, using the intolerable undeniable advantage which her actual wrongs gave her to tyrannise over these two wretched men! He had never heard the last of that money which they had sent to Mrs. Mason, Clive said. When the knowledge of the fact came to the Campaigner’s ears, she raised such a storm as almost killed the poor Colonel, and drove his son half mad. She seized the howling infant, vowing32 that its unnatural33 father and grandfather were bent34 upon starving it — she consoled and sent Rosey into hysterics — she took the outlawed35 parson to whose church they went, and the choice society of bankrupt captains, captains’ ladies, fugitive36 stockbrokers’ wives, and dingy37 frequenters of billiard-rooms, and refugees from the Bench, into her councils; and in her daily visits amongst these personages, and her walks on the pier38, whither she trudged39 with poor Rosey in her train, Mrs. Mackenzie made known her own wrongs and her daughter’s — showed how the Colonel, having robbed and cheated them previously40, was now living upon them; insomuch that Mrs. Bolter, the levanting auctioneer’s wife, would not make the poor old man a bow when she met him — that Mrs. Captain Kitely, whose husband had lain for seven years past in Boulogne gaol41 ordered her son to cut Clive; and when, the child being sick, the poor old Colonel went for arrowroot to the chemist’s, young Snooks, the apothecary’s assistant, refused to allow him to take the powder away without previously depositing the money.
He had no money, Thomas Newcome. He gave up every farthing. After having impoverished42 all around him, he had no right, he said, to touch a sixpence of the wretched pittance43 remaining to them — he had even given up his cigar, the poor old man, the companion and comforter of forty years. He was “not fit to be trusted with money,” Mrs. Mackenzie said, and the good man owned as he ate his scanty44 crust, and bowed his noble old head in silence under that cowardly persecution45.
And this, at the end of threescore and seven or eight years, was to be the close of a life which had been spent in freedom and splendour, and kindness and honour; this the reward of the noblest heart that ever beat — the tomb and prison of a gallant46 warrior47 who had ridden in twenty battles — whose course through life had been a bounty48 wherever it had passed — whose name had been followed by blessings, and whose career was to end here — here — in a mean room, in a mean alley49 of a foreign town — a low furious woman standing50 over him and stabbing the kind defenceless heart with killing51 insult and daily outrage52!
As we sat together in the dark, Clive told me this wretched story, which was wrung53 from him with a passionate54 emotion that I could not but keenly share. He wondered the old man lived, Clive said. Some of the women’s taunts55 and gibes56, as he could see, struck his father so that he gasped57 and started back as if some one had lashed59 him with a whip. “He would make away with himself,” said poor Clive, “but he deems this is his punishment, and that he must bear it as long as it pleases God. He does not care for his own losses, as far as they concern himself: but these reproaches of Mrs. Mackenzie, and some things which were said to him in the Bankruptcy60 Court, by one or two widows of old friends, who were induced through his representations, to take shares in that infernal bank, have affected61 him dreadfully. I hear him lying awake and groaning63 at night, God bless him. Great God! what can I do — what can I do?” burst out the young man in a dreadful paroxysm of grief. “I have tried to get lessons — I went to London on the deck of a steamer, and took a lot of drawings with me — tried picture-dealers — pawnbrokers64 — Jews — Moss65, whom you may remember at Gandish’s, and who gave me for forty-two drawings, eighteen pounds. I brought the money back to Boulogne. It was enough to pay the doctor, and bury our last poor little dead baby. Tenez, Pen, you must give me some supper: I have had nothing all day but a pain de deux sous; I can’t stand it at home. My heart’s almost broken — you must give me some money, Pen, old boy. I know you will. I thought of writing to you, but I wanted to support myself, you see. When I went to London with the drawings I tried George’s chambers66, but he was in the country, I saw Crackthorpe on the street in Oxford67 Street, but I could not face him, and bolted down Hanway Yard. I tried, and I could not ask him, and I got the eighteen pounds from Moss that day, and came home with it.”
Give him money? of course I would give him money — my dear old friend! And, as an alterative68 and a wholesome69 shock to check that burst of passion and grief in which the poor fellow indulged, I thought fit to break into a very fierce and angry invective70 on my own part, which served to disguise the extreme feeling of pain and pity that I did not somehow choose to exhibit. I rated Clive soundly, and taxed him with unfriendliness and ingratitude71 for not having sooner applied73 to friends who would think shame of themselves whilst he was in need. Whatever he wanted was his as much as mine. I could not understand how the necessity of the family should, in truth, be so extreme as he described it, for after all many a poor family lived upon very much less; but I uttered none of these objections, checking them with the thought that Clive, on his first arrival at Boulogne, entirely74 ignorant of the practice of economy, might have imprudently engaged in expenses which had reduced him to this present destitution75. (I did not know at the time that Mrs. Mackenzie had taken entire superintendence of the family treasury76 — and that this exemplary woman was putting away, as she had done previously, sundry77 little sums to meet rainy days.)
I took the liberty of asking about debts, and of these Clive gave me to understand there were none — at least none of his or his father’s contracting. “If we were too proud to borrow, and I think we were wrong, Pen, my dear old boy — I think we were wrong now — at least, we were too proud to owe. My colourman takes his bill out in drawings, and I think owes me a trifle. He got me some lessons at fifty sous a ticket — a pound the ten — from an economical swell78 who has taken a chateau79 here, and has two flunkeys in livery. He has four daughters, who take advantage of the lessons, and screws ten per cent upon the poor colourman’s pencils and drawing-paper. It’s pleasant work to give the lessons to the children; and to be patronised by the swell; and not expensive to him, is it, Pen? But I don’t mind that, if I could but get lessons enough: for, you see, besides our expenses here, we must have some more money, and the dear old governor would die outright80 if poor old Sarah Mason did not get her fifty pounds a year.”
And now there arrived a plentiful81 supper, and a bottle of good wine, of which the giver was not sorry to partake after the meagre dinner at three o’clock, to which I had been invited by the Campaigner; and it was midnight when I walked back with my friend to his house in the upper town; and all the stars of heaven were shining cheerily; and my dear Clive’s face wore an expression of happiness, such as I remembered in old days, as we shook hands and parted with a “God bless you.”
To Clive’s friend, revolving82 these things in his mind, as he lay in one of those most snug83 and comfortable beds at the excellent Hotel des Bains, it appeared that this town of Boulogne was a very bad market for the artist’s talents; and that he had to bring them to London, where a score of old friends would assuredly be ready to help him. And if the Colonel, too, could be got away from the domination of the Campaigner, I felt certain that the dear old gentleman could but profit by his leave of absence. My wife and I at this time inhabited a spacious84 old house in Queens Square, Westminster, where there was plenty of room for father and son. I knew that Laura would be delighted to welcome these guests — may the wife of every worthy85 gentleman who reads these pages be as ready to receive her husband’s friends. It was the state of Rosa’s health, and the Campaigner’s authority and permission, about which I was in doubt, and whether this lady’s two slaves would be allowed to go away.
These cogitations kept the present biographer long awake, and he did not breakfast next day until an hour before noon. I had the coffee-room to myself by chance, and my meal was not yet ended when the waiter announced a lady to visit Mr. Pendennis, and Mrs. Mackenzie made her appearance. No signs of care or poverty were visible in the attire86 or countenance87 of the buxom88 widow. A handsome bonnet89, decorated within with a profusion90 of poppies, bluebells91; and ears of corn; a jewel on her forehead, not costly92, but splendid in appearance, and glittering artfully over that central spot from which her wavy93 chestnut94 hair parted to cluster in ringlets round her ample cheeks; a handsome India shawl, smart gloves, a rich silk dress, a neat parasol of blue with pale yellow lining95, a multiplicity of glittering rinks, and a very splendid gold watch and chain, which I remembered in former days as hanging round poor Rosey’s white neck; — all these adornments set off the widow’s person, so that you might have thought her a wealthy capitalist’s lady, and never could have supposed that she was a poor, cheated, ruined, robbed, unfortunate Campaigner.
Nothing could be more gracious than the accueil of this lady. She paid me many handsome compliments about my literary work — asked most affectionately for dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children — and then, as I expected, coming to business, contrasted the happiness and genteel position of my wife and family with the misery96 and wrongs of her own blessed child and grandson. She never could call that child by the odious97 name which he received at his baptism. I knew what bitter reasons she had to dislike the name of Thomas Newcome.
She again rapidly enumerated98 the wrongs she had received at the hands of that gentleman; mentioned the vast sums of money out of which she and her soul’s darling had been tricked by that poor muddle-headed creature, to say no worse of him; and described finally their present pressing need. The doctors, the burial, Rosey’s delicate condition, the cost of sweetbreads, calf’s-foot jelly, and cod-liver oil, were again passed in a rapid calculation before me; and she ended her speech by expressing her gratification that I had attended to her advice of the previous day, and not given Clive Newcome a direct loan; that the family wanted it, the Campaigner called upon Heaven to witness; that Clive and his absurd poor father would fling guineas out of the window was a fact equally certain; the rest of the argument was obvious, namely, that Mr. Pendennis should administer a donation to herself.
I had brought but a small sum of money in my pocket-book, though Mrs. Mackenzie, intimate with bankers, and having, thank Heaven, in spite of all her misfortunes, the utmost confidence of all her tradesmen, hinted a perfect willingness on her part to accept an order upon her friends, Hobson Brothers of London.
This direct thrust I gently and smilingly parried by asking Mrs. Mackenzie whether she supposed a gentleman who had just paid an electioneering bill, and had, at the best of times, but a very small income, might sometimes not be in a condition to draw satisfactorily upon Messrs. Hobson or any other bankers? Her countenance fell at this remark, nor was her cheerfulness much improved by the tender of one of the two bank-notes which then happened to be in my possession. I said that I had a use for the remaining note, and that it would not be more than sufficient to pay my hotel bill, and the expenses of my party back to London.
My party? I had here to divulge99, with some little trepidation100, the plan which I had been making overnight; to explain how I thought that Clive’s great talents were wasted at Boulogne, and could only find a proper market in London; how I was pretty certain, through my connection with booksellers, to find some advantageous101 employment for him, and would have done so months ago had I known the state of the case; but I had believed, until within a very few days since, that the Colonel, in spite of his bankruptcy, was still in the enjoyment102 of considerable military pensions.
This statement, of course, elicited103 from the widow a number of remarks not complimentary104 to my dear old Colonel. He might have kept his pensions had he not been a fool — he was a baby about money matters — misled himself and everybody — was a log in the house, etc. etc. etc.
I suggested that his annuities105 might possibly be put into some more satisfactory shape — that I had trustworthy lawyers with whom I would put him in communication — that he had best come to London to see to these matters — and that my wife had a large house where she would most gladly entertain the two gentlemen.
This I said with some reasonable dread62 — fearing, in the first place, her refusal; in the second, her acceptance of the invitation, with a proposal, as our house was large, to come herself and inhabit it for a while. Had I not seen that Campaigner arrive for a month at poor James Binnie’s house in Fitzroy Square, and stay there for many years? Was I not aware that when she once set her foot in a gentleman’s establishment, terrific battles must ensue before she could be dislodged? Had she not once been routed by Clive? and was she not now in command and possession? Do I not, finally, know something of the world; and have I not a weak, easy temper? I protest it was with terror that I awaited the widow’s possible answer to my proposal.
To my great relief, she expressed the utmost approval of both my plans. I was uncommonly106 kind, she was sure, to interest myself about the two gentlemen, and for her blessed Rosa’s sake, a fond mother thanked me. It was most advisable that he should earn some money by that horrid107 profession which he had chosen to adopt — a trade, she called it. She was clearly anxious get rid both of father and son, and agreed that the sooner they went the better.
We walked back arm-inarm to the Colonel’s quarters in the Old Town, Mrs. Mackenzie, in the course of our walk, doing me the honour to introduce me by name to several dingy acquaintances, whom we met sauntering up the street, and imparting to me, as each moved away, the pecuniary cause of his temporary residence in Boulogne. Spite of Rosey’s delicate state of health, Mrs. Mackenzie did not hesitate to break the news to her of the gentlemen’s probable departure, abruptly108 and eagerly, as if the intelligence was likely to please her:— and it did, rather than otherwise. The young woman, being in the habit of letting mamma judge for her, continued it in this instance; and whether her husband stayed or went, seemed to be equally content or apathetic109. “And is it not most kind and generous of dear Mr. and Mrs. Pendennis to propose to receive Mr. Newcome and the Colonel?” This opportunity for gratitude72 being pointed110 out to Rosey, she acquiesced in it straightway — it was very kind of me, Rosey was sure. “And don’t you ask after dear Mrs. Pendennis and the dear children — you poor dear suffering darling child?” Rosey, who had neglected this inquiry111, immediately hoped Mrs. Pendennis and the children were well. The overpowering mother had taken utter possession of this poor little thing. Rosey’s eyes followed the Campaigner about, and appealed to her at all moments. She sat under Mrs. Mackenzie as a bird before a boa-constrictor, doomed112 — fluttering — fascinated — scared and fawning113 as a whipt spaniel before a keeper.
The Colonel was on his accustomed bench on the rampart at this sunny hour. I repaired thither114, and found the old gentleman seated by his grandson, who lay, as yesterday, on the little bonne’s lap, one of his little purple hands closed round the grandfather’s finger. “Hush!” says the good man, lifting up his other finger to his moustache, as I approached, “Boy’s asleep. Il est bien joli quand il dort — le Boy, n’est-ce pas, Marie?” The maid believed monsieur well — the boy was a little angel. “This maid is a most trustworthy, valuable person, Pendennis,” the Colonel said, with much gravity.
The boa-constrictor had fascinated him, too — the lash58 of that woman at home had cowed that helpless, gentle, noble spirit. As I looked at the head so upright and manly115, now so beautiful and resigned — the year of his past life seemed to pass before me somehow in a flash of thought. I could fancy the accursed tyranny — the dumb acquiescence116 — the brutal jeer117 — the helpless remorse118 — the sleepless119 nights of pain and recollection — the gentle heart lacerated with deadly stabs — and the impotent hope. I own I burst into a sob120 at the sight, and thought of the noble suffering creature, and hid my face, and turned away.
He sprang up, releasing his hand from the child’s, and placing it, the kind shaking hand, on my shoulder. “What is it, Arthur — my dear boy?” he said, looking wistfully in my face. “No bad news from home, my dear? Laura and the children well?”
The emotion was mastered in a moment, I put his arm under mine, and as we slowly sauntered up and down the sunny walk of the old rampart, I told him how I had come with special commands from Laura to bring him for a while to stay with us, and to settle his business, which I was sure had been wofully mismanaged, and to see whether we could not find the means of getting some little out of the wreck of the property for the boy yonder.
At first Colonel Newcome would not hear of quitting Boulogne, where Rosey would miss him — he was sure she would want him — but before the ladies of his family, to whom we presently returned, Thomas Newcome’s resolution was quickly recalled. He agreed to go, and Clive coming in at this time was put in possession of our plan and gladly acquiesced in it. On that very evening I came with a carriage to conduct my two friends to the steamboat. Their little packets were made and ready. There was no pretence121 of grief at parting on the women’s side, but Marie, the little maid, with Boy in her arms, cried sadly; and Clive heartily122 embraced the child; and the Colonel, going back to give it one more kiss, drew out of his neckcloth a little gold brooch which he wore, and which, trembling, he put into Marie’s hand, bidding her take good care of Boy till his return.
“She is a good girl — a most faithful, attached girl, Arthur, do you see,” the kind old gentleman said; “and I had no money to give her — no, not one single rupee.”
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1
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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narrating
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| v.故事( narrate的现在分词 ) | |
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pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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ductile
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| adj.易延展的，柔软的 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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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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outlawed
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| 宣布…为不合法（outlaw的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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42
impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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43
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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44
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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45
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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46
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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47
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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48
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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49
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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50
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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51
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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52
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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53
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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54
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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55
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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56
gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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57
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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58
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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59
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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60
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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61
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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62
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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63
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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64
pawnbrokers
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| n.当铺老板( pawnbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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65
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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66
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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67
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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68
alterative
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| adj.（趋于）改变的，变质的，使体质逐渐康复的n.变质剂，体质改善疗法 | |
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69
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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70
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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71
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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72
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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73
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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74
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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76
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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78
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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81
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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82
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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83
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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86
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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88
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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89
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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91
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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93
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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95
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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96
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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98
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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100
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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101
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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102
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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103
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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105
annuities
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| n.养老金；年金( annuity的名词复数 )；（每年的）养老金；年金保险；年金保险投资 | |
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106
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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107
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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108
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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109
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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110
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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111
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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112
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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113
fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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114
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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115
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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116
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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117
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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118
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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119
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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120
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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121
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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122
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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