Lesbia leaned back in the barouche listening calmly, while her chaperon expatiated4 upon the wealth and possessions of Horace Smithson. It was now ten days since the meeting at Ascot, and Mr. Smithson had contrived5 to see a great deal of Lesbia in that short time. He was invited almost everywhere, and he had haunted her at afternoon and evening parties; he had supped in Arlington Street after the opera; he had played cards with Lesbia, and had enjoyed the felicity of winning her money. His admiration6 was obvious, and there was a seriousness in his manner of pursuing her which showed that, in Lady Kirkbank’s unromantic phraseology, ‘the man meant business.’
‘Smithson is caught at last, and I am glad of it,’ said Georgie.
‘The creature is an abominable7 flirt8, and has broken more hearts than any man in London. He was all but the death of one of the dearest girls I know.’
‘Mr. Smithson breaks hearts!’ exclaimed Lesbia, languidly. ‘I should not have thought that was in his line. Mr. Smithson is not an Adonis, nor are his manners particularly fascinating.’
‘My child how fresh you are! Do you suppose it is the handsome men or the fascinating men for whom women break their hearts in society? It is the rich men they all want to marry — men like Smithson, who can give them diamonds, and yachts, and a hunting stud, and half a dozen fine houses. Those are the prizes — the blue ribbons of the matrimonial race-course — men like Smithson, who pretend to admire all the pretty women, who dangle9, and dangle, and keep off other offers, and give ten guinea bouquets10, and then at the end of the season are off to Hombourg or the Scotch11 moors12, without a word. Do you think that kind of treatment is not hard enough to break a penniless girl’s heart? She sees the golden prize within her grasp, as she believes; she thinks that she and poverty have parted company for ever; she imagines herself mistress of town house and country houses, yachts and stables; and then one fine morning the gentleman is off and away! Do not you think that is enough to break a girl’s heart?’
‘I can imagine that girl steeped to the lips in poverty might be willing to marry Mr. Smithson’s houses and yachts,’ answered Lesbia, in her low sweet voice, with a faint sneer13 even amidst the sweetness, ‘but, I think it must have been a happy release for any one to be let off the sacrifice at the last moment.’
‘Poor Belle14 Trinder did not think so.’
‘Who was Belle Trinder?’
‘An Essex parson’s daughter whom I took under my wing five years ago — a splendid girl, large and fair, and just a trifle coarse — not to be spoken of in the same day with you, dearest; but still a decidedly handsome creature. And she took remarkably16 well. She was a very lively girl, “never ran mute,” Sir George used to say. Sir George was very fond of her. She amused him, poor girl, with her rather brainless rattle17.’
‘And Mr. Smithson admired her?’
‘Followed her about everywhere, sent her whole flower gardens in the way of bouquets and Japanese baskets, and floral parures for her gowns, and opera boxes and concert tickets. Their names were always coupled. People used to call them Bel and the Dragon. The poor child made up her mind she was to be Mrs. Smithson. She used to talk of what she would do for her own people — the poor old father, buried alive in a damp parsonage, and struggling every winter with chronic18 bronchitis; the four younger sisters pining in dulness and penury19; the mother who hardly knew what it was to rest from the continual worries of daily life.’
‘Poor things!’ sighed Lesbia, gazing admiringly at the handle of her last new sunshade.
‘Belle used to talk of what she would do for them all,’ pursued Lady Kirkbank. ‘Father should go every year to the villa20 at Monte Carlo; mother and the girls should have a month in Park Lane every season, and their autumn holiday at one of Mr. Smithson’s country houses. I knew the world well enough to be sure that this kind of thing would never answer with a man like Smithson. It is only one man in a thousand — the modern Arthur, the modern Quixote — who will marry a whole family. I told Belle as much, but she laughed. She felt so secure of her power over the man. “He will do anything I ask him,” she said.’
‘Miss Trinder must be an extraordinary young person,’ observed Lesbia, scornfully. ‘The man had not proposed, had he?’
‘No; the actual proposal hung fire, but Belle thought it was a settled thing all the same. Everybody talked to her as if she were engaged to Smithson, and those poor, ignorant vicarage girls used to write her long letters of congratulation, envying her good fortune, speculating, about what she would do when she was married. The girl was too open and candid21 for London society — talked too much, “gave the view before she was sure of her fox,” Sir George said. All this silly talk came to Smithson’s ears, and one morning we read in the Post that Mr. Smithson had started the day before for Algiers, where he was to stay at the house of the English Consul22, and hunt lions. We waited all day, hoping for some letter of explanation, some friendly farewell which would mean à revoir. But there was nothing, and then poor Belle gave way altogether. She shut herself up in her room, and went out of one hysterical23 fit into another. I never heard a girl sob24 so terribly. She was not fit to be seen for a week, and then she went home to her father’s parsonage in the flat swampy25 country on the borders of Suffolk, and eat her heart, as Byron calls it. And the worst of it was that she had no actual justification26 for considering herself jilted. She had talked, and other people had talked, and among them they had settled the business. But Smithson had said hardly anything. He had only flirted27 to his heart’s content, and had spent a few hundreds upon flowers, gloves, fans, and opera tickets, which perhaps would not have been accepted by a girl with a strong sense of her own dignity.’
‘I should think not, indeed,’ interjected Lesbia.
‘But which poor Belle was only too delighted to get.’
‘Miss Trinder must be very bad style,’ said Lesbia, with languid scorn, ‘and Mr. Smithson is an execrable person. Did she die?’
‘No, my dear, she is alive poor soul!’
‘You said she broke her heart.’
‘“The heart may break, yet brokenly live on,”’ quoted Lady Kirkbank. ‘The disappointed young women don’t all die. They take to district visiting, or rational dressing28, or china painting, or an ambulance brigade. The lucky ones marry well-to-do widowers29 with large families, and so slip into a comfortable groove30 by the time they are five-and-thirty. Poor Belle is still single, still buried in the damp parsonage, where she paints plates and teacups, and wears out my old gowns, just as she is wearing out her own life, poor creature!’
‘The idea of any one wanting to marry Mr. Smithson,’ said Lesbia. ‘It seems too dreadful.’
‘A case of real destitution31, you think. Wait till you have seen Smithson’s house in Park Lane — his team, his yacht, his orchid32 houses in Berkshire.’
Lesbia sighed. Her knowledge of London society was only seven weeks old; and yet already the day of disenchantment had begun! She was having her eyes opened to the stern realities of life. A year ago when her appearance in the great world was still only a dream of the future, she had pictured to herself the crowd of suitors who would come to woo, and she had resolved to choose the worthiest33.
What would he be like, that worthiest among the wooers, that King Arthur among her knights35?
First and foremost, he would be of rank higher than her own — duke, a marquis, or one of the first and oldest among earls. Title and lofty lineage were indispensable. It would be a fall, a failure, a disappointment, were she to marry a commoner, however distinguished.
The worthy36 one must be noble, therefore, and of the old nobility. He must be young, handsome, intellectual. He must stand out from among his peers by his gifts of mind and person. He must have won distinction in the arena37 of politics or diplomacy38, arms or letters. He must be ‘somebody.’
She had been seven weeks in society, and this modern Arthur had not appeared. So far as she had been able to discover, there was no such person. The dukes and marquises were mostly men of advanced years. The young unmarried nobility were given over to sport, play, and foolishness. She had heard of only one man who at all corresponded with her ideal, and he was Lord Hartfield. But Lord Hartfield had given himself up to politics, and was no doubt a prig. Lady Kirkbank spoke15 of him with contempt, as an intolerable person. But then Lord Hartfield was not in Lady Kirkbank’s set. He belonged to that serious circle to which Lady Kirkbank’s house appeared about as reputable a place of gathering39 as a booth on a race-course.
And now Lady Kirkbank told Lesbia that this Mr. Smithson, a nobody with a great fortune, was a man whose addresses she, the sister of Lord Maulevrier, ought to welcome. Mr. Smithson, who claimed to be a lineal descendant of that Sir Michael Carrington, standard-bearer to Coeur de Lion in the Holy Land, whose descendants changed their name to Smith during the Wars of the Roses. Mr. Smithson bodily proclaimed himself a scion40 of this good old county family, and bore on his plate and his coach panels the elephant’s head and the three demi-griffins of the Hertfordshire Smiths, who only smiled and shrugged41 their shoulders when they were complimented upon the splendid surroundings of their cousin. Who could tell? Some lateral42 branch of the standard-bearer’s family tree might have borne this illustrious twig43.
Lady Kirkbank and all Lady Kirkbank’s friends seemed to have conspired44 to teach Lesbia Haselden one lesson, and that lesson meant that money was the first prize in the great game of life. Money ranked before everything — before titles, before noble lineage, genius, fame, beauty, courage, honour. Money was Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Mr. Smithson, whose antecedents were as cloudy as those of Aphrodite, was a greater man than a peer whose broad acres only brought him two per cent., or half of whose farms were tenantless45, and his fields growing cockle instead of barley46.
Yes, one by one, Lady Lesbia’s illusions were reft from her. A year ago she had fancied beauty all-powerful, a gift which must ensure to its possessor dominion47 over all the kingdoms of the earth. Rank, intellect, fame would bow down before that magical diadem48. And, behold49, she had been shining upon London society for seven weeks, and only empty heads and empty pockets had bowed down — the frivolous50, the ineligible51 — and Mr. Smithson.
Another illusion which had been dispelled52 was Lesbia’s comfortable idea of her own expectations. Her grandmother had told her that she might take rank among heiresses; and she had held herself accordingly, deeming that her place was among the wealthiest. And now, since Mr. Smithson’s appearance upon the scene, Lady Kirkbank had informed her young friend with noble candour that Lady Maulevrier’s fortune, however large it might seem at Grasmere, would be a poor thing in London; and that Lady Maulevrier’s ideas about money were as old-fashioned as her notions about morals.
‘Life is about six times as expensive as it was in your grandmother’s time.’ said Lady Kirkbank, as the carriage rolled softly along the shabby road between Knightsbridge and Fulham. ‘It is the pace that kills. Society, which used to jog along comfortably, like the old Brighton stage, at ten miles an hour, now goes as fast as the Brighton express. In my mother’s time poor Lord Byron was held up to the execration53 of respectable people as the type of cynical54 profligacy55; in my own time people talked about Lord Waterford; but, my dear, the young men now are all Byrons and Waterfords, without the genius of the one or the generosity56 of the other. We are all going at steeplechase rate. Social success without money is impossible. The rich Americans, the successful Jews, will crowd us out unless we keep pace with them. Ah, Lesbia, my dear girl, there would be a great future before you if you could only make up your mind to accept Mr. Smithson.’
‘How do you know that he means to propose to me?’ asked Lesbia, mockingly. ‘Perhaps he is only going to behave as he did to Miss Trinder.’
‘Lady Lesbia Haselden is a very different person from a country parson’s daughter,’ answered her chaperon; ‘Smithson told me all about it afterwards. He was really taken with Belle’s fine figure and good complexion57; but one of her particular friends told him of her foolish talk about her sisters, and how well she meant to get them married when she was Mrs. Smithson. This disgusted him. He went down to Essex, reconnoitered the parsonage, saw one of the sisters hanging out cuffs58 and collars in the orchard59 — another feeding the fowls60 — both in shabby gowns and country-made boots; one of them with red hair and freckles61. The mother was bargaining for fish with a hawker at the kitchen door. And these were the people he was expected to import into Park Lane, under ceilings painted by Leighton. These were the people he was to exhibit on board his yacht, to cart about on his drag. “I had half made up my mind to marry the girl, but I would sooner have hung myself than marry her mother and sisters so I took the first train for Dover, en route for Algiers,” said Smithson, and upon my word I could hardly blame the man,’ concluded Lady Kirkbank.
They were driving up the narrow avenue to the gates of Hurlingham by this time. Lesbia shock out her frock and looked at her gloves, tan-coloured mousquetaires, reaching up to the elbow, and embroidered62 to match her frock.
To-day she was a study in brown and gold. Brown satin petticoat embroidered with marsh63 marigolds; little bronze shoes, with marsh marigolds tied on the lachets; brown stockings with marsh marigold clocks; tunic64 brown foulard smothered65 with quillings of soft brown lace; Princess bonnet66 of brown straw, with a wreath of marsh marigold and a neat little buckle67 of brown diamonds; parasol brown satin, with an immense bunch of marsh marigolds on the top; fan to match parasol.
The seats in front of the field were nearly all full when Lady Kirkbank and Lesbia left their carriage; but their interests had been protected by a gentleman who had turned down two chairs and sat between them on guard. This was Mr. Smithson.
‘I have been sitting here for an hour keeping your chairs,’ he said, as he rose to greet them. ‘You have no idea what work I have had, and how ferociously68 all the women have looked at me.’
The match was going on. The Lancers were scuffling for the ball, and affording a fine display of hog-maned ponies69 and close-cropped young men in ideal boots. But Lesbia cared very little about the match. She was looking along the serried70 ranks of youth and beauty to see if anybody’s frock was smarter than her own.
No. She could see nothing she liked so well as her brown satin and buttercups. She sat down in a perfectly71 contented72 frame of mind, pleased with herself and with Seraphine — pleased even with Mr. Smithson, who had shown himself devoted73 by his patient attendance upon the empty chairs.
After the match was over the two ladies and their attendant strolled about the gardens. Other men came and fluttered round Lesbia, and women and girls exchanged endearing smiles and pretty little words of greeting with her, and envied her the brown frock and buttercups and Mr. Smithson at her chariot wheel. And then they went to the lawn in front of the club-house, which was so crowded that even Mr. Smithson found it difficult to get a tea-table, and would hardly have succeeded so soon as he did if it had not been for the assistance of a couple of Lesbia’s devoted Guardsmen, who ran to and fro and badgered the waiters.
After much skirmishing they were seated at a rustic74 table, the blue river gleaming and glancing in the distance, the good old trees spreading their broad shadows over the grass, the company crowding and chattering75 and laughing — an animated76 picture of pretty faces, smart gowns, big parasols, Japanese fans.
Lesbia poured out the tea with the prettiest air of domesticity.
‘Can you really pour out tea?’ gasped77 a callow lieutenant78, gazing upon her with goggling79, enraptured80 eyes. ‘I did not think you could do anything so earthly.’
‘I can, and drink it too,’ answered Lesbia, laughing. ‘I adore tea. Cream and sugar?’
‘I— I beg your pardon — how many?’ murmured the youth, who had lost himself in gazing, and no longer understood plain English.
Mr. Smithson frowned at the intruder, and contrived to absorb Lesbia’s attention for the rest of the afternoon. He had a good deal more to say for himself than her military admirers, and was altogether more amusing. He had a little cynical air which Lesbia’s recent education had taught her to enjoy. He depreciated81 all her female friends — abused their gowns and bonnets82, and gave her to understand, between the lines, as it were, that she was the only woman in London worth thinking about.
She looked at him curiously83, wondering how Belle Trinder had been able to resign herself to the idea of marrying him.
He was not absolutely bad looking — but he was in all things unlike a girl’s ideal lover. He was short and stout84, with a pale complexion, and sunken faded eyes, as of a man who had spent the greater part of his life by candle light, and had pored much over ledgers85 and bank books, share lists and prospectuses86. He dressed well, or allowed himself to be dressed by the most correct of tailors — the Prince’s tailor — but he never attempted to lead the fashion in his garments. He had no originality87. Such sublime88 flights as that of the man who revived corduroy, or of that daring genius who resuscitated89 the half-forgotten Inverness coat, were unknown to him. He could only follow the lead of the highest. He had small feet, of which he was intensely proud, podgy white hands on which he wore the most exquisite90 rings. He changed his rings every day, like a Roman Emperor; was reported to have summer and winter rings — onyx and the coolest looking intaglios set in filagree for warm weather — fiery91 rubies92 and diamonds in massive bands of dull gold for winter. He was said to devote half-an-hour every morning to the treatment of his nails, which were perfect. All the inkstains of his youth had been obliterated93, and those nails which had once been bitten to the quick during the throes of financial study were now things of beauty.
Lady Lesbia surveyed Mr. Smithson critically, and shuddered94 at the thought that this person was the best substitute which the season had yet offered her for her ideal knight34. She thought of John Hammond, the tall, strong figure, straight and square; the head so proudly carried on a neck which would have graced a Greek arena. The straight, clearly-cut features, the flashing eyes, bright with youth and hope and the promise of all good things. Yes, there was indeed a man — a man in all the nobility of manhood, as God made him, an Adam before the Fall.
Ah, if John Hammond had only possessed95 a quarter of Mr. Smithson’s wealth how gladly would Lesbia have defied the world and married him. But to defy the world upon nothing a year was out of the question.
‘Why didn’t he go on the Stock Exchange and make his fortune?’ thought Lesbia, pettishly96, ‘instead of talking vaguely97 about politics and literature.’
She felt angry with her rejected lover for having come to her empty-handed. She had seen no man in London who was, or who seemed to her, his equal. And yet she did not repent98 of having rejected him. The more she knew of the world and the more she knew of herself the more deeply was she convinced that poverty was an evil thing, and that she was not the right kind of person to endure it.
She was inwardly making these comparisons as they strolled back to the carriage, while Mr. Smithson and Lady Kirkbank talked confidentially99 at her side.
‘Do you know that Lady Kirkbank has promised and vowed100 three things for you?’ said Mr. Smithson.
‘Indeed! I thought I was past the age at which one can be compromised by other people’s promises. Pray what are those three things?’
‘First, that you will come to breakfast in Park Lane with Lady Kirkbank next Wednesday morning. I say Wednesday because that will give me time to ask some nice people to meet you; secondly101, that you will honour me by occupying my box at the Lyceum some evening next week; and thirdly, that you will allow me to drive you down to the Orleans for supper after the play. The drive only takes an hour, and the moonlight nights are delicious at this time of the year.’
‘I am in Lady Kirkbank’s hands,’ answered Lesbia, laughing. ‘I am her goods, her chattels102; she takes me wherever she likes.’
‘But would you refuse to do me this honour if you were a free agent?’
‘I can’t tell. I hardly know what it is to be a free agent. At Grasmere I did whatever my grandmother told me; in London I obey Lady Kirkbank. I was transferred from one master to another. Why should we breakfast in Park Lane instead of in Arlington Street? What is the use of crossing Piccadilly to eat our breakfast?’
This was a cool-headed style of treatment to which Mr. Smithson was not accustomed, and which charmed him accordingly. Young women usually threw themselves at his head, as it were; but here was a girl who talked to him as indifferently as if he were a tradesman offering his wares103.
‘What a dreadfully practical person you are?’ he exclaimed. ‘What is the use of crossing Piccadilly? Well, in the first place, you will make me ineffably104 happy. But perhaps that doesn’t count. In the second place, I shall be able to show you some rather good pictures of the French school —’
‘I hate the French school!’ interjected Lesbia. ‘Tricky, flashy, chalky, shallow, smelling of the footlights and the studio.’
‘Well, sink the pictures. You will meet some very charming people, belonging to that artist world which is not to be met everywhere.’
‘I will go to Park Lane to meet your people, if Lady Kirkbank likes to take me,’ said Lesbia; and with this answer Mr. Smithson was bound to be content.
‘My pet, if you had made it the study of your life how to treat that man you could not do it better,’ said Lady Kirkbank, when they were driving along the dusty road between dusty hedges and dusty trees, past that last remnant of country which was daily being debased into London. ‘Upon my word, Lesbia, I begin to think you must be a genius.’
‘Did you see any gowns you liked better than mine?’ asked Lesbia, reclining reposefully105, with her little bronze shoes upon the opposite cushion.
‘Not one — Seraphine has surpassed herself.’
‘You are always saying that. One would suppose you were a sleeping partner in the firm. But I really think this brown and buttercups is rather nice. I saw that odious106 American girl just now — Miss — Miss Milwaukee, that mop-stick girl people raved107 about at Cannes. She was in pale blue and cream colour, a milk and water mixture, and looked positively108 plain.’
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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abominable
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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dangle
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bouquets
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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moors
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sneer
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belle
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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remarkably
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rattle
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chronic
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penury
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villa
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candid
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consul
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hysterical
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sob
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swampy
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justification
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flirted
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dressing
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widowers
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groove
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destitution
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orchid
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worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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knight
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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worthy
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arena
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diplomacy
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gathering
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scion
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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lateral
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| adj.侧面的，旁边的 | |
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43
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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tenantless
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| adj.无人租赁的，无人居住的 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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diadem
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| n.王冠，冕 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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ineligible
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| adj.无资格的，不适当的 | |
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dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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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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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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goggling
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| v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的现在分词 ) | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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prospectuses
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| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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resuscitated
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| v.使（某人或某物）恢复知觉，苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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pettishly
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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98
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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100
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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102
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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103
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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104
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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105
reposefully
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| adv.平稳地 | |
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106
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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107
raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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