‘Well Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie,’ said she, breaking off in her song. ‘what’s the news out of doors?’
‘What’s the news in doors?’ returned Lizzie, playfully smoothing the bright long fair hair which grew very luxuriant and beautiful on the head of the doll’s dressmaker.
‘Let me see, said the blind man. Why the last news is, that I don’t mean to marry your brother.’
‘No?’
‘No-o,’ shaking her head and her chin. ‘Don’t like the boy.’
‘What do you say to his master?’
‘I say that I think he’s bespoke5.’
Lizzie finished putting the hair carefully back over the misshapen shoulders, and then lighted a candle. It showed the little parlour to be dingy6, but orderly and clean. She stood it on the mantelshelf, remote from the dressmaker’s eyes, and then put the room door open, and the house door open, and turned the little low chair and its occupant towards the outer air. It was a sultry night, and this was a fine-weather arrangement when the day’s work was done. To complete it, she seated herself in a chair by the side of the little chair, and protectingly drew under her arm the spare hand that crept up to her.
‘This is what your loving Jenny Wren7 calls the best time in the day and night,’ said the person of the house. Her real name was Fanny Cleaver8; but she had long ago chosen to bestow9 upon herself the appellation10 of Miss Jenny Wren.
‘I have been thinking,’ Jenny went on, ‘as I sat at work to-day, what a thing it would be, if I should be able to have your company till I am married, or at least courted. Because when I am courted, I shall make Him do some of the things that you do for me. He couldn’t brush my hair like you do, or help me up and down stairs like you do, and he couldn’t do anything like you do; but he could take my work home, and he could call for orders in his clumsy way. And he shall too. I’LL trot11 him about, I can tell him!’
Jenny Wren had her personal vanities — happily for her — and no intentions were stronger in her breast than the various trials and torments12 that were, in the fulness of time, to be inflicted13 upon ‘him.’
‘Wherever he may happen to be just at present, or whoever he may happen to be,’ said Miss Wren, ‘I know his tricks and his manners, and I give him warning to look out.’
‘Don’t you think you are rather hard upon him?’ asked her friend, smiling, and smoothing her hair.
‘Not a bit,’ replied the sage14 Miss Wren, with an air of vast experience. ‘My dear, they don’t care for you, those fellows, if you’re NOT hard upon ‘em. But I was saying If I should be able to have your company. Ah! What a large If! Ain’t it?’
‘I have no intention of parting company, Jenny.’
‘Don’t say that, or you’ll go directly.’
‘Am I so little to be relied upon?’
‘You’re more to be relied upon than silver and gold.’ As she said it, Miss Wren suddenly broke off, screwed up her eyes and her chin, and looked prodigiously16 knowing. ‘Aha!
Who comes here?
A Grenadier.
What does he want?
A pot of beer.
And nothing else in the world, my dear!’
A man’s figure paused on the pavement at the outer door. ‘Mr Eugene Wrayburn, ain’t it?’ said Miss Wren.
‘So I am told,’ was the answer.
‘You may come in, if you’re good.’
‘I am not good,’ said Eugene, ‘but I’ll come in.’
He gave his hand to Jenny Wren, and he gave his hand to Lizzie, and he stood leaning by the door at Lizzie’s side. He had been strolling with his cigar, he said, (it was smoked out and gone by this time,) and he had strolled round to return in that direction that he might look in as he passed. Had she not seen her brother tonight?
‘Yes,’ said Lizzie, whose manner was a little troubled.
Gracious condescension17 on our brother’s part! Mr Eugene Wrayburn thought he had passed my young gentleman on the bridge yonder. Who was his friend with him?
‘The schoolmaster.’
‘To be sure. Looked like it.’
Lizzie sat so still, that one could not have said wherein the fact of her manner being troubled was expressed; and yet one could not have doubted it. Eugene was as easy as ever; but perhaps, as she sat with her eyes cast down, it might have been rather more perceptible that his attention was concentrated upon her for certain moments, than its concentration upon any subject for any short time ever was, elsewhere.
‘I have nothing to report, Lizzie,’ said Eugene. ‘But, having promised you that an eye should be always kept on Mr Riderhood through my friend Lightwood, I like occasionally to renew my assurance that I keep my promise, and keep my friend up to the mark.’
‘I should not have doubted it, sir.’
‘Generally, I confess myself a man to be doubted,’ returned Eugene, coolly, ‘for all that.’
‘Why are you?’ asked the sharp Miss Wren.
‘Because, my dear,’ said the airy Eugene, ‘I am a bad idle dog.’
‘Then why don’t you reform and be a good dog?’ inquired Miss Wren.
‘Because, my dear,’ returned Eugene, ‘there’s nobody who makes it worth my while. Have you considered my suggestion, Lizzie?’ This in a lower voice, but only as if it were a graver matter; not at all to the exclusion18 of the person of the house.
‘I have thought of it, Mr Wrayburn, but I have not been able to make up my mind to accept it.’
‘False pride!’ said Eugene.
‘I think not, Mr Wrayburn. I hope not.’
‘False pride!’ repeated Eugene. ‘Why, what else is it? The thing is worth nothing in itself. The thing is worth nothing to me. What can it be worth to me? You know the most I make of it. I propose to be of some use to somebody — which I never was in this world, and never shall be on any other occasion — by paying some qualified19 person of your own sex and age, so many (or rather so few) contemptible20 shillings, to come here, certain nights in the week, and give you certain instruction which you wouldn’t want if you hadn’t been a self-denying daughter and sister. You know that it’s good to have it, or you would never have so devoted21 yourself to your brother’s having it. Then why not have it: especially when our friend Miss Jenny here would profit by it too? If I proposed to be the teacher, or to attend the lessons — obviously incongruous! — but as to that, I might as well be on the other side of the globe, or not on the globe at all. False pride, Lizzie. Because true pride wouldn’t shame, or be shamed by, your thankless brother. True pride wouldn’t have schoolmasters brought here, like doctors, to look at a bad case. True pride would go to work and do it. You know that, well enough, for you know that your own true pride would do it to-morrow, if you had the ways and means which false pride won’t let me supply. Very well. I add no more than this. Your false pride does wrong to yourself and does wrong to your dead father.’
‘How to my father, Mr Wrayburn?’ she asked, with an anxious face.
‘How to your father? Can you ask! By perpetuating22 the consequences of his ignorant and blind obstinacy23. By resolving not to set right the wrong he did you. By determining that the deprivation24 to which he condemned25 you, and which he forced upon you, shall always rest upon his head.’
It chanced to be a subtle string to sound, in her who had so spoken to her brother within the hour. It sounded far more forcibly, because of the change in the speaker for the moment; the passing appearance of earnestness, complete conviction, injured resentment26 of suspicion, generous and unselfish interest. All these qualities, in him usually so light and careless, she felt to be inseparable from some touch of their opposites in her own breast. She thought, had she, so far below him and so different, rejected this disinterestedness27, because of some vain misgiving28 that he sought her out, or heeded29 any personal attractions that he might descry30 in her? The poor girl, pure of heart and purpose, could not bear to think it. Sinking before her own eyes, as she suspected herself of it, she drooped31 her head as though she had done him some wicked and grievous injury, and broke into silent tears.
‘Don’t be distressed32,’ said Eugene, very, very kindly34. ‘I hope it is not I who have distressed you. I meant no more than to put the matter in its true light before you; though I acknowledge I did it selfishly enough, for I am disappointed.’
Disappointed of doing her a service. How else COULD he be disappointed?
‘It won’t break my heart,’ laughed Eugene; ‘it won’t stay by me eight-and-forty hours; but I am genuinely disappointed. I had set my fancy on doing this little thing for you and for our friend Miss Jenny. The novelty of my doing anything in the least useful, had its charms. I see, now, that I might have managed it better. I might have affected35 to do it wholly for our friend Miss J. I might have got myself up, morally, as Sir Eugene Bountiful. But upon my soul I can’t make flourishes, and I would rather be disappointed than try.’
If he meant to follow home what was in Lizzie’s thoughts, it was skilfully36 done. If he followed it by mere37 fortuitous coincidence, it was done by an evil chance.
‘It opened out so naturally before me,’ said Eugene. ‘The ball seemed so thrown into my hands by accident! I happen to be originally brought into contact with you, Lizzie, on those two occasions that you know of. I happen to be able to promise you that a watch shall be kept upon that false accuser, Riderhood. I happen to be able to give you some little consolation38 in the darkest hour of your distress33, by assuring you that I don’t believe him. On the same occasion I tell you that I am the idlest and least of lawyers, but that I am better than none, in a case I have noted39 down with my own hand, and that you may be always sure of my best help, and incidentally of Lightwood’s too, in your efforts to clear your father. So, it gradually takes my fancy that I may help you — so easily! — to clear your father of that other blame which I mentioned a few minutes ago, and which is a just and real one. I hope I have explained myself; for I am heartily40 sorry to have distressed you. I hate to claim to mean well, but I really did mean honestly and simply well, and I want you to know it.’
‘I have never doubted that, Mr Wrayburn,’ said Lizzie; the more repentant41, the less he claimed.
‘I am very glad to hear it. Though if you had quite understood my whole meaning at first, I think you would not have refused. Do you think you would?’
‘I— don’t know that I should, Mr Wrayburn.’
‘Well! Then why refuse now you do understand it?’
‘It’s not easy for me to talk to you,’ returned Lizzie, in some confusion, ‘for you see all the consequences of what I say, as soon as I say it.’
‘Take all the consequences,’ laughed Eugene, ‘and take away my disappointment. Lizzie Hexam, as I truly respect you, and as I am your friend and a poor devil of a gentleman, I protest I don’t even now understand why you hesitate.’
There was an appearance of openness, trustfulness, unsuspecting generosity42, in his words and manner, that won the poor girl over; and not only won her over, but again caused her to feel as though she had been influenced by the opposite qualities, with vanity at their head.
‘I will not hesitate any longer, Mr Wrayburn. I hope you will not think the worse of me for having hesitated at all. For myself and for Jenny — you let me answer for you, Jenny dear?’
The little creature had been leaning back, attentive43, with her elbows resting on the elbows of her chair, and her chin upon her hands. Without changing her attitude, she answered, ‘Yes!’ so suddenly that it rather seemed as if she had chopped the monosyllable than spoken it.
‘For myself and for Jenny, I thankfully accept your kind offer.’
‘Agreed! Dismissed!’ said Eugene, giving Lizzie his hand before lightly waving it, as if he waved the whole subject away. ‘I hope it may not be often that so much is made of so little!’
Then he fell to talking playfully with Jenny Wren. ‘I think of setting up a doll, Miss Jenny,’ he said.
‘You had better not,’ replied the dressmaker.
‘Why not?’
‘You are sure to break it. All you children do.’
‘But that makes good for trade, you know, Miss Wren,’ returned Eugene. ‘Much as people’s breaking promises and contracts and bargains of all sorts, makes good for MY trade.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Miss Wren retorted; ‘but you had better by half set up a pen-wiper, and turn industrious44, and use it.’
‘Why, if we were all as industrious as you, little Busy-Body, we should begin to work as soon as we could crawl, and there would be a bad thing!’
‘Do you mean,’ returned the little creature, with a flush suffusing45 her face, ‘bad for your backs and your legs?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Eugene; shocked — to do him justice — at the thought of trifling46 with her infirmity. ‘Bad for business, bad for business. If we all set to work as soon as we could use our hands, it would be all over with the dolls’ dressmakers.’
‘There’s something in that,’ replied Miss Wren; ‘you have a sort of an idea in your noddle sometimes.’ Then, in a changed tone; ‘Talking of ideas, my Lizzie,’ they were sitting side by side as they had sat at first, ‘I wonder how it happens that when I am work, work, working here, all alone in the summer-time, I smell flowers.’
‘As a commonplace individual, I should say,’ Eugene suggested languidly — for he was growing weary of the person of the house — ‘that you smell flowers because you DO smell flowers.’
‘No I don’t,’ said the little creature, resting one arm upon the elbow of her chair, resting her chin upon that hand, and looking vacantly before her; ‘this is not a flowery neighbourhood. It’s anything but that. And yet as I sit at work, I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses, till I think I see the rose-leaves lying in heaps, bushels, on the floor. I smell fallen leaves, till I put down my hand — so — and expect to make them rustle47. I smell the white and the pink May in the hedges, and all sorts of flowers that I never was among. For I have seen very few flowers indeed, in my life.’
‘Pleasant fancies to have, Jenny dear!’ said her friend: with a glance towards Eugene as if she would have asked him whether they were given the child in compensation for her losses.
‘So I think, Lizzie, when they come to me. And the birds I hear! Oh!’ cried the little creature, holding out her hand and looking upward, ‘how they sing!’
There was something in the face and action for the moment, quite inspired and beautiful. Then the chin dropped musingly48 upon the hand again.
‘I dare say my birds sing better than other birds, and my flowers smell better than other flowers. For when I was a little child,’ in a tone as though it were ages ago, ‘the children that I used to see early in the morning were very different from any others that I ever saw. They were not like me; they were not chilled, anxious, ragged49, or beaten; they were never in pain. They were not like the children of the neighbours; they never made me tremble all over, by setting up shrill50 noises, and they never mocked me. Such numbers of them too! All in white dresses, and with something shining on the borders, and on their heads, that I have never been able to imitate with my work, though I know it so well. They used to come down in long bright slanting51 rows, and say all together, “Who is this in pain! Who is this in pain!” When I told them who it was, they answered, “Come and play with us!” When I said “I never play! I can’t play!” they swept about me and took me up, and made me light. Then it was all delicious ease and rest till they laid me down, and said, all together, “Have patience, and we will come again.” Whenever they came back, I used to know they were coming before I saw the long bright rows, by hearing them ask, all together a long way off, “Who is this in pain! Who is this in pain!” And I used to cry out, “O my blessed children, it’s poor me. Have pity on me. Take me up and make me light!”’
By degrees, as she progressed in this remembrance, the hand was raised, the late ecstatic look returned, and she became quite beautiful. Having so paused for a moment, silent, with a listening smile upon her face, she looked round and recalled herself.
‘What poor fun you think me; don’t you, Mr Wrayburn? You may well look tired of me. But it’s Saturday night, and I won’t detain you.’
‘That is to say, Miss Wren,’ observed Eugene, quite ready to profit by the hint, ‘you wish me to go?’
‘Well, it’s Saturday night,’ she returned, and my child’s coming home. And my child is a troublesome bad child, and costs me a world of scolding. I would rather you didn’t see my child.’
‘A doll?’ said Eugene, not understanding, and looking for an explanation.
But Lizzie, with her lips only, shaping the two words, ‘Her father,’ he delayed no longer. He took his leave immediately. At the corner of the street he stopped to light another cigar, and possibly to ask himself what he was doing otherwise. If so, the answer was indefinite and vague. Who knows what he is doing, who is careless what he does!
A man stumbled against him as he turned away, who mumbled52 some maudlin53 apology. Looking after this man, Eugene saw him go in at the door by which he himself had just come out.
On the man’s stumbling into the room, Lizzie rose to leave it.
‘Don’t go away, Miss Hexam,’ he said in a submissive manner, speaking thickly and with difficulty. ‘Don’t fly from unfortunate man in shattered state of health. Give poor invalid54 honour of your company. It ain’t — ain’t catching55.’
Lizzie murmured that she had something to do in her own room, and went away upstairs.
‘How’s my Jenny?’ said the man, timidly. ‘How’s my Jenny Wren, best of children, object dearest affections broken-hearted invalid?’
To which the person of the house, stretching out her arm in an attitude of command, replied with irresponsive asperity56: ‘Go along with you! Go along into your corner! Get into your corner directly!’
The wretched spectacle made as if he would have offered some remonstrance57; but not venturing to resist the person of the house, thought better of it, and went and sat down on a particular chair of disgrace.
‘Oh-h-h!’ cried the person of the house, pointing her little finger, ‘You bad old boy! Oh-h-h you naughty, wicked creature! WHAT do you mean by it?’
The shaking figure, unnerved and disjointed from head to foot, put out its two hands a little way, as making overtures58 of peace and reconciliation59. Abject60 tears stood in its eyes, and stained the blotched red of its cheeks. The swollen61 lead-coloured under lip trembled with a shameful62 whine63. The whole indecorous threadbare ruin, from the broken shoes to the prematurely-grey scanty64 hair, grovelled65. Not with any sense worthy4 to be called a sense, of this dire15 reversal of the places of parent and child, but in a pitiful expostulation to be let off from a scolding.
‘I know your tricks and your manners,’ cried Miss Wren. ‘I know where you’ve been to!’ (which indeed it did not require discernment to discover). ‘Oh, you disgraceful old chap!’
The very breathing of the figure was contemptible, as it laboured and rattled66 in that operation, like a blundering clock.
‘Slave, slave, slave, from morning to night,’ pursued the person of the house, ‘and all for this! WHAT do you mean by it?’
There was something in that emphasized ‘What,’ which absurdly frightened the figure. As often as the person of the house worked her way round to it — even as soon as he saw that it was coming — he collapsed67 in an extra degree.
‘I wish you had been taken up, and locked up,’ said the person of the house. ‘I wish you had been poked68 into cells and black holes, and run over by rats and spiders and beetles69. I know their tricks and their manners, and they’d have tickled70 you nicely. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ stammered71 the father.
‘Then,’ said the person of the house, terrifying him by a grand muster72 of her spirits and forces before recurring73 to the emphatic74 word, ‘WHAT do you mean by it?’
‘Circumstances over which had no control,’ was the miserable75 creature’s plea in extenuation76.
‘I’LL circumstance you and control you too,’ retorted the person of the house, speaking with vehement77 sharpness, ‘if you talk in that way. I’ll give you in charge to the police, and have you fined five shillings when you can’t pay, and then I won’t pay the money for you, and you’ll be transported for life. How should you like to be transported for life?’
‘Shouldn’t like it. Poor shattered invalid. Trouble nobody long,’ cried the wretched figure.
‘Come, come!’ said the person of the house, tapping the table near her in a business-like manner, and shaking her head and her chin; ‘you know what you’ve got to do. Put down your money this instant.’
The obedient figure began to rummage78 in its pockets.
‘Spent a fortune out of your wages, I’ll be bound!’ said the person of the house. ‘Put it here! All you’ve got left! Every farthing!’
Such a business as he made of collecting it from his dogs’-eared pockets; of expecting it in this pocket, and not finding it; of not expecting it in that pocket, and passing it over; of finding no pocket where that other pocket ought to be!
‘Is this all?’ demanded the person of the house, when a confused heap of pence and shillings lay on the table.
‘Got no more,’ was the rueful answer, with an accordant shake of the head.
‘Let me make sure. You know what you’ve got to do. Turn all your pockets inside out, and leave ‘em so!’ cried the person of the house.
He obeyed. And if anything could have made him look more abject or more dismally79 ridiculous than before, it would have been his so displaying himself.
‘Here’s but seven and eightpence halfpenny!’ exclaimed Miss Wren, after reducing the heap to order. ‘Oh, you prodigal80 old son! Now you shall be starved.’
‘No, don’t starve me,’ he urged, whimpering.
‘If you were treated as you ought to be,’ said Miss Wren, ‘you’d be fed upon the skewers81 of cats’ meat; — only the skewers, after the cats had had the meat. As it is, go to bed.’
When he stumbled out of the corner to comply, he again put out both his hands, and pleaded: ‘Circumstances over which no control —’
‘Get along with you to bed!’ cried Miss Wren, snapping him up. ‘Don’t speak to me. I’m not going to forgive you. Go to bed this moment!’
Seeing another emphatic ‘What’ upon its way, he evaded82 it by complying and was heard to shuffle83 heavily up stairs, and shut his door, and throw himself on his bed. Within a little while afterwards, Lizzie came down.
‘Shall we have our supper, Jenny dear?’
‘Ah! bless us and save us, we need have something to keep us going,’ returned Miss Jenny, shrugging her shoulders.
Lizzie laid a cloth upon the little bench (more handy for the person of the house than an ordinary table), and put upon it such plain fare as they were accustomed to have, and drew up a stool for herself.
‘Now for supper! What are you thinking of, Jenny darling?’
‘I was thinking,’ she returned, coming out of a deep study, ‘what I would do to Him, if he should turn out a drunkard.’
‘Oh, but he won’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘You’ll take care of that, beforehand.’
‘I shall try to take care of it beforehand, but he might deceive me. Oh, my dear, all those fellows with their tricks and their manners do deceive!’ With the little fist in full action. ‘And if so, I tell you what I think I’d do. When he was asleep, I’d make a spoon red hot, and I’d have some boiling liquor bubbling in a saucepan, and I’d take it out hissing84, and I’d open his mouth with the other hand — or perhaps he’d sleep with his mouth ready open — and I’d pour it down his throat, and blister85 it and choke him.’
‘I am sure you would do no such horrible thing,’ said Lizzie.
‘Shouldn’t I? Well; perhaps I shouldn’t. But I should like to!’
‘I am equally sure you would not.’
‘Not even like to? Well, you generally know best. Only you haven’t always lived among it as I have lived — and your back isn’t bad and your legs are not queer.’
As they went on with their supper, Lizzie tried to bring her round to that prettier and better state. But, the charm was broken. The person of the house was the person of a house full of sordid86 shames and cares, with an upper room in which that abased87 figure was infecting even innocent sleep with sensual brutality88 and degradation89. The doll’s dressmaker had become a little quaint shrew; of the world, worldly; of the earth, earthy.
Poor doll’s dressmaker! How often so dragged down by hands that should have raised her up; how often so misdirected when losing her way on the eternal road, and asking guidance! Poor, poor little doll’s dressmaker!
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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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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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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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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perpetuating
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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disinterestedness
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descry
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| v.远远看到；发现；责备 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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suffusing
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的现在分词 ) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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overtures
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| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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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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grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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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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extenuation
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| n.减轻罪孽的借口；酌情减轻；细 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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skewers
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| n.串肉扦( skewer的名词复数 )；烤肉扦；棒v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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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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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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