Her lover’s letters were the chief delight of her lonely days. To read them again and again, and ponder upon them, and then to pour out all her heart and mind in answering them. These were pleasures enough for her young like. Hammond’s letters were such as any woman might be proud to receive. They were not love-letters only. He wrote as friend to friend; not descending7 from the proud pinnacle8 of masculine intelligence to the lower level of feminine silliness; not writing down to a simple country girl’s capacity; but writing-fully and fervently9, as if there were no subject too lofty or too grave for the understanding of his betrothed10. He wrote as one sure of being sympathised with, wrote as to his second self: and Mary showed herself not unworthy of the honour thus rendered to her intellect.
There was one world which had newly opened to Mary since her engagement, and that was the world of politics. Hammond had told her that his ambition was to succeed as a politician — to do some good in his day as one of the governing body; and of late she had made it her business to learn how England and the world outside England were governed.
She had no natural leaning to the study of political economy. Instead, she had always imagined any question relating to the government of her country to be inherently dry-as-dust and uninviting. But had John Hammond devoted12 his days to the study of Coptic manuscripts, or the arrow headed inscriptions13 upon Assyrian tablets, she would have toiled14 her hardest in the endeavour to make herself a Coptic scholar, or an adept15 in the cuneiform characters. If he had been a student of Chinese, she would not have been discomfited16 by such a trifle as the fifty thousand characters in the Chinese alphabet.
And so, as he was to make his name in the arena17 of public life, she set herself to acquire a proper understanding of the science of politics; and to this end she gorged18 herself with English history — Hume, Hallam, Green, Justin McCarthy, Palgrave, Lecky, from the days of Witenagemote to the Reform Bill; the Repeal19 of the Corn Laws, the Disestablishment of the Irish Church, Ballot20, Trade unionism, and unreciprocated Free Trade. No question was deep enough to repel21 her; for was not her lover interested in the dryest thereof; and what concerned him and his welfare must needs be full of interest for her.
To this end she read the debates religiously day by day; and she one day ventured shyly to suggest that she should read them aloud to Lady Maulevrier.
‘Would it not be a little rest for you if I were to read your Times aloud to you every afternoon, grandmother?’ she asked. ‘You read so many books, French, English, and German, and I think your eyes must get a little tired sometimes.’
Mary ventured the remark with some timidity, for those falcon22 eyes were fixed23 upon her all the time, bright and clear and steady as the eyes of youth. It seemed almost an impertinence to suggest that such eyes could know weariness.
‘No, Mary, my sight, holds out wonderfully for an old woman,’ replied her ladyship, gently. ‘The new theory of the last oculist24 whose book I dipped into — a very amusing and interesting book, by-the-bye — is that the sight improves and strengthens by constant use, and that an agricultural labourer, who hardly uses his eyes at all, has rarely in the decline of life so good a sight as the watchmaker or the student. I have read immensely all my life, and find myself no worse for that indulgence. But you may read the debates to me if you like, my dear, for if my eyes are strong, I myself am very tired. Sick to death, Mary, sick to death.’
The splendid eyes turned from Mary, and looked away to the blue sky, to the hills in their ineffable25 beauty of colour and light — shifting, changing with every moment of the summer day. Intense weariness, a settled despair, were expressed in that look — tearless, yet sadder than all tears.
‘It must be very monotonous, very sad for you,’ murmured Mary, her own eyes brimming over with tears. ‘But it will not be always so, dear grandmother. I hope a time will come when you will be able to go about again, to resume your old life.’
‘I do not hope, Mary. No, child, I feel and know that time will never come. My strength is ebbing26 slowly day by day. If I live for another year, live to see Lesbia married, and you, too, perhaps — well, I shall die at peace. At peace, no; not ——’ she faltered27, and the thin, semi-transparent hand was pressed upon her brow. ‘What will be said of me when I am dead?’
Mary feared that her grandmother’s mind was wandering. She came and knelt beside the couch, laid and her head against the satin pillows, tenderly, caressingly28.
‘Dear grandmother, pray be calm,’ she murmured.
‘Mary, do not look at me like that, as if you would read my heart. There are hearts that must not be looked into. Mine is like a charnel-house. Monotonous, yes; my life has been monotonous. No conventual gloom was ever deeper than the gloom of Fellside. My boy did nothing to lighten it for me, and his son followed in his father’s footsteps. You and Lesbia have been my only consolation29. Lesbia! I was so proud of her beauty, so proud and fond of her, because she was like me, and recalled my own youth. And see how easily she forgets me. She has gone into a new world, in which my age and my infirmities have no part; and I am as nothing to her.’
Mary changed from red to pale, so painful was her embarrassment30. What could she say in defence of her sister? How could she deny that Lesbia was an ingrate31, when those rare and hurried letters, so careless in their tone, expressing the selfishness of the writer in every syllable32, told but too plainly of forgetfulness and ingratitude33?
‘Dear grandmother, Lesbia has so much to do — her life is so full of engagements,’ she faltered feebly.
‘Yes, she goes from party to party — she gives herself up heart and mind and soul to pleasures which she ought to consider only as the trivial means to great ends; and she forgets the woman who reared her, and cared for her, and watched over her from her infancy34, and who tried to inspire her with a noble ambition. — Yes, read to me, child, read. Give me new thoughts, if you can, for my brain is weary with grinding the old ones. There was a grand debate in the Lords last night, and Lord Hartfield spoke35. Let me hear his speech. You can read what was said by the man before him; never mind the rest.’
Mary read Lord Somebody’s speech, which was passing dull, but which prepared the ground for a magnificent and exhaustive reply from Lord Hartfield. The question was an important one, affecting the well-being36 of the masses, and Lord Hartfield spoke with an eloquence37 which rose in force and fire as he wound himself like a serpent into the heart of his subject — beginning quietly, soberly, with no opening flashes of rhetoric38, but rising gradually to the topmost heights of oratory39.
‘What a speech!’ cried Lady Maulevrier, delighted, her cheeks glowing, her eyes kindling40; ‘what a noble fellow the speaker must be! Oh, Mary, I must tell you a secret. I loved that man’s father. Yes, my dear, I loved him fondly, dearly, truly, as you love that young man of yours; and he was the only man I ever really loved. Fate parted us. But I have never forgotten him — never, Mary, never. At this moment I have but to close my eyes and I can see his face — see him looking at me as he looked the last time we met. He was a younger son, poor, his future quite hopeless in those days; but it was not my fault we were parted. I would have married him — yes, wedded41 poverty, just as you are going to marry this Mr. Hammond; but my people would not let me; and I was too young, too helpless, to make a good fight. Oh, Mary, if I had only fought hard enough, what a happy woman I might have been, and how good a wife.’
‘You were a good wife to my grandfather, I am sure,’ faltered Mary, by way of saying something consolatory42.
A dark frown came over Lady Maulevrier’s face, which had softened43 to deepest tenderness just before.
‘A good wife to Maulevrier,’ she said, in a mocking tone. Well, yes, as good a wife as such a husband deserved. ‘I was better than Caesar’s wife, Mary, for no breath of suspicion ever rested upon my name. But if I had married Ronald Hollister, I should have been a happy woman; and that I have never been since I parted from him.’
‘You have never seen the present Lord Hartfield, I think?’
‘Never; but I have watched his career, I have thought of him. His father died while he was an infant, and he was brought up in seclusion44 by a widowed mother, who kept him tied to her apron-strings till he went to Oxford45. She idolised him, and I am told she taught herself Latin and Greek, mathematics even, in order to help him in his boyish, studies, and, later on, read Greek plays and Latin poetry with him, till she became an exceptional classic for a woman. She was her son’s companion and friend, sympathised with his tastes, his pleasures, his friendships; devoted every hour of her life, every thought of her mind to his welfare, his interests, walked with him, rode with him, travelled half over Europe, yachted with him. Her friends all declared that the lad would grow up an odious46 milksop; but I am told that there never was a manlier47 man than Lord Hartfield. From his boyhood he was his mother’s protector, helped to administer her affairs, acquired a premature48 sense of responsibility, and escaped almost all those vices49 which make young men detestable. His mother died within a few months of his majority. He was broken-hearted at losing her, and left Europe immediately after her death. From that time he has been a great traveller. But I suppose now that he has taken his seat in the House of Lords, and has spoken a good many times, he means to settle down and take his place among the foremost men of his day. I am told that he is worthy11 to take such a place.’
‘You must feel warmly interested in watching his career,’ said Mary, sympathetically.
‘I am interested in everything that concerns him. I will tell you another secret, Mary. I think I am getting into my dotage50, my dear, or I should hardly talk to you like this,’ said Lady Maulevrier, with a touch of bitterness.
Mary was sitting on a stool by the sofa, close to the invalid51’s pillow. She clasped her grandmother’s hand and kissed it fondly.
‘Dear grandmother, I think you are talking to me like this to-day because you are beginning to care for me a little,’ she said, tenderly.
‘Oh, my dear, you are very good, very sweet and forgiving to care for me at all, after my neglect of you,’ answered Lady Maulevrier, with a sigh. ‘I have kept you out in the cold so long, Mary. Lesbia — well, Lesbia has been a kind of infatuation for me, and like all infatuations mine has ended in disappointment and bitterness. Ambition has been the bane of my life, Mary; and when I could no longer be ambitious for myself — when my own existence had become a mere52 death in life, I began to dream and to scheme for the aggrandisement of my granddaughter. Lesbia’s beauty, Lesbia’s elegance53 seemed to make success certain — and so I dreamt my dream — which may never be fulfilled.’
‘What was your dream, grandmother? May I know all about it?’
‘That was the secret I spoke of just now. Yes, Mary, you may know, for I fear the dream will never be realised. I wanted my Lesbia to become Lord Hartfield’s wife. I would have brought them together myself, could I have but gone to London; but, failing that, I fancied Lady Kirkbank would have divined my wishes without being told them, and would have introduced Hartfield to Lesbia; and now the London season is drawing to a close, and Hartfield and Lesbia have never met. He hardly goes anywhere, I am told. He devotes himself exclusively to politics; and he is not in Lady Kirkbank’s set. A terrible disappointment to me, Mary!’
‘It is a pity,’ said Mary. ‘Lesbia is so lovely. If Lord Hartfield were fancy-free he ought to fall in love with her, could they but meet. I thought that in London all fashionable people knew each other, and were continually meeting.’
‘It used to be so in my day, Mary. Almack’s was a common ground, even if there had been no other. But now there are circles and circles, I believe, rings that touch occasionally, but never break and mingle54. I am afraid poor Georgie’s set is not quite so nice as I could have wished. Yet Lesbia writes as if she were in raptures55 with her chaperon, and with all the people she meets. And then Georgie tells me that this Mr. Smithson whom Lesbia has refused is a very important personage, a millionaire, and very likely to be made a peer.’
‘A new peer,’ said Mary, making a wry56 face. ‘One would rather have an old commoner. I always fancy a newly-made peer must be like a newly-built house, glaring, and staring, and arid57 and uncongenial.’
‘C’est selon,’ said Lady Maulevrier. ‘One would not despise a Chatham or a Wellington because of the newness of his title; but a man who has only money to recommend him ——’
Lady Maulevrier left her sentence unfinished, save by a shrug58; while Mary made another wry face. She had that grand contempt for sordid59 wealth which is common to young people who have never known the want of money.
‘I hope Lesbia will marry some one better than Mr. Smithson,’ she said.
‘I hope so too, dear; and yet do you know I have an idea that Lesbia means to accept Mr. Smithson, or she would hardly have consented to go to his house for the Henley week. Here is a letter from Georgie Kirkbank which you will have to answer for me to-morrow — a letter full of raptures about Mr. Smithson’s place in Berkshire, Rood Hall. I remember the house well. I was there nearly fifty years ago, when the Heronvilles owned it; and now the Heronvilles are all dead or ruined, and this city person is master of the fine old mansion60. It is a strange world, Mary.’
From that time forward Mary and her grandmother were on more confidential61 terms, and when, two days later, Fellside was startled into life by the unexpected arrival of Lord Maulevrier and Mr. Hammond, the dowager seemed almost as pleased as her granddaughter at the arrival of the young men.
As for Mary, she was almost beside herself with joy when she heard their voices from the lawn, and, rushing to the shrubbery, saw them walk up the hill, as she had seen them on that first evening nearly a year ago, when John Hammond came as a stranger to Fellside.
She tried to take her joy soberly, though her eyes were dancing with delight, as she went to the porch to meet them.
‘What extraordinary young men you are,’ she said, as she emerged breathless from her lover’s embrace. ‘The idea of your descending upon us without a moment’s notice. Why did you not write or telegraph, that your rooms might be ready?’
‘Am I to understand that all the spare rooms at Fellside are kept as damp as at the bottom of the lake?’ asked Maulevrier.
‘I did not think any preparation was necessary; but we can go back if we’re not wanted, can’t we, Jack62?’
‘You darling,’ cried Mary, hanging affectionately upon her brother’s arm. ‘You know I was only joking, you know how enraptured63 I am to have you.’
‘To have me, only me,’ said Maulevrier. ‘Jack doesn’t count, I suppose?’
‘You know how glad I am, and that I want to hide my gladness,’ answered Mary, radiant and blushing like the rich red roses in the porch. ‘You men are so vain. And now come and see grandmother, she will be cheered by your arrival. She has been so good to me just lately, so sweet.’
‘She might have been good and sweet to you all your life,’ said Hammond. ‘I am not prepared to be grateful to her at a moment’s notice for any crumbs64 of affection she may throw you.’
‘Oh but you must be grateful, sir; and you must love her and pity her,’ retorted Mary. ‘Think how sadly she has suffered. We cannot be too kind to her, or too fond of her, poor dear.’
‘Mary is right,’ said Hammond, half in jest and half in earnest. ‘What wonderful instincts these young women have.’
‘Come and see her ladyship; and then you must have dinner, just as you had that first evening,’ said Mary. ‘We’ll act that first evening over again, Jack; only you can’t fall in love with Lesbia, as she isn’t here.’
‘I don’t think I surrendered that first evening, Mary. Though I thought your sister the loveliest girl I had ever seen.’
‘And what did you think of me, sir? Tell me that,’ said Mary.
‘Shall I tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I freely confess that I did not think about you at all. You were there — a pretty, innocent, bright young maiden65, with big brown eyes and auburn hair; but I thought no more about you than I did about the Gainsborough on the wall, which you very much resemble.’
‘That is most humiliating,’ said Mary, pouting66 a little in the midst of her bliss67.
‘No, dearest, it is only natural,’ answered Hammond. ‘I believe if all the happy lovers in this world could be questioned, at least half of them would confess to having thought very little about each other at first meeting. They meet, and touch hands, and part again, and never guess the mystery of the future, which wraps them round like a cloud, never say of each other, There is my fate; and then they meet again, and again, as hazard wills, and never know that they are drifting to their doom68.’
Mary rang bells and gave orders, just as she had done in that summer gloaming a year ago. The young men had arrived just at the same hour, on the stroke of nine, when the eight o’clock dinner was over and done with; for a tête-à-tête meal with Fr?ulein Müller was not a feast to be prolonged on account of its felicity. Perhaps they had so contrived69 as to arrive exactly at this hour.
Lady Maulevrier received them both with extreme cordiality. But the young men saw a change for the worse in the invalid since the spring. The face was thinner, the eyes too bright, the flush upon the hollow cheek had a hectic70 tinge71, the voice was feebler. Hammond was reminded of a falcon or an eagle pining and wasting in a cage.
‘I am very glad to see you, Mr. Hammond,’ said Lady Maulevrier, giving him her hand, and addressing him with unwonted cordiality. ‘It was a happy thought that brought you and Maulevrier here. When an old woman is as near the grave as I am her relatives ought to look after her. I shall be glad to have a little private conversation with you to-morrow, Mr. Hammond, if you can spare me a few minutes.’
‘As many hours, if your ladyship pleases,’ said Hammond. ‘My time is entirely72 at your service.’
‘Oh, no, you will want to be roaming about the hills with Mary, discussing your plans for the future. I shall not encroach too much on your time. But I am very glad you are here.’
‘We shall only trespass73 on you for a few days,’ said Maulevrier, ‘just a flying visit.’
‘How is it that you are not both at Henley?’ asked Mary. ‘I thought all the world was at Henley.’
‘Who is Henley? what is Henley?’ demanded Maulevrier, pretending ignorance.
‘I believe Maulevrier has lost so much money backing, his college boat on previous occasions that he is glad to run away from the regatta this year,’ said Hammond.
‘I have a sister there,’ replied his friend. ‘That’s an all-sufficient explanation. When a fellow’s women-kind take to going to races and regattas it is high time for him to stop away.’
‘Have you seen Lesbia lately?’ asked his grandmother.
‘About ten days ago.’
‘And did she seem happy?’
Maulevrier shrugged74 his shoulders.
‘She was vacillating between the refusal or the acceptance of a million of money and four or five fine houses. I don’t know whether that condition of mind means happiness. I should call it an intermediate state.’
‘Why do you make silly jokes about serious questions? Do you think Lesbia means to accept this Mr. Smithson?’
‘All London thinks so.’
‘And is he a good man?’
‘Good for a hundred thousand pounds at half an hour’s notice.’
‘Is he worthy of your sister?’
Maulevrier paused, looked at his grandmother with a curious expression, and then replied —
‘I think he is — quite.’
‘Then I am content that she should marry him,’ said Lady Maulevrier, ‘although he is a nobody.’
‘Oh, but he is a very important nobody, a nobody who can get a peerage next year, backed by the Maulevrier influence, which I suppose would count for something.’
‘Most of my friends are dead,’ said Lady Maulevrier, ‘but there are a few survivors75 of the past who might help me.’
‘I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty or doubt about the peerage. Smithson stumped76 up very handsomely at the last General Election, and the Conservatives are not strong enough to be ungrateful. “These have, no master.”’
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
azure
|
|
| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
monotonous
|
|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
solitude
|
|
| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
descending
|
|
| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
pinnacle
|
|
| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
fervently
|
|
| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
betrothed
|
|
| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
worthy
|
|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
inscriptions
|
|
| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
toiled
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
adept
|
|
| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
discomfited
|
|
| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
arena
|
|
| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
gorged
|
|
| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
repeal
|
|
| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
ballot
|
|
| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
repel
|
|
| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
falcon
|
|
| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
oculist
|
|
| n.眼科医生 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
ineffable
|
|
| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
ebbing
|
|
| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
faltered
|
|
| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
consolation
|
|
| n.安慰，慰问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
ingrate
|
|
| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
syllable
|
|
| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
ingratitude
|
|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
infancy
|
|
| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
well-being
|
|
| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
rhetoric
|
|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
oratory
|
|
| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
kindling
|
|
| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
wedded
|
|
| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
consolatory
|
|
| adj.慰问的，可藉慰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
softened
|
|
| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
seclusion
|
|
| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
Oxford
|
|
| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
manlier
|
|
| manly（有男子气概的）的比较级形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
premature
|
|
| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
vices
|
|
| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
dotage
|
|
| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
elegance
|
|
| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
mingle
|
|
| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
raptures
|
|
| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
wry
|
|
| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
arid
|
|
| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
shrug
|
|
| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
sordid
|
|
| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
mansion
|
|
| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
enraptured
|
|
| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
crumbs
|
|
| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
maiden
|
|
| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
pouting
|
|
| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
contrived
|
|
| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
hectic
|
|
| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
tinge
|
|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
trespass
|
|
| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
shrugged
|
|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
survivors
|
|
| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
stumped
|
|
| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |