Miss Pynsent turned round, in a flash, but kept silent; then, very white and trembling, took up her work again and seated herself in her window.
Hyacinth Robinson stood staring; then he blushed all over. He knew who she was, but he didn’t say so; he only asked, in a voice which struck the girl as quite different from the old one – the one in which he used to tell her she was beastly tiresome7 – “Is it of me you were speaking just now?”
“When I asked where you had come from? That was because we ’eard you in the ’all,” said Millicent, smiling. “I suppose you have come from your work.”
“You used to live in the Place – you always wanted to kiss me,” the young man remarked, with an effort not to show all the surprise and agitation8 that he felt. “Didn’t she live in the Place, Pinnie!”
Pinnie, for all answer, fixed9 a pair of strange, pleading eyes upon him, and Millicent broke out, with her recurrent laugh, in which the dressmaker had been right in discovering the note of affectation, “Do you want to know what you look like? You look for all the world like a little Frenchman! Don’t he look like a little Frenchman, Miss Pynsent?” she went on, as if she were on the best possible terms with the mistress of the establishment.
Hyacinth exchanged a look with that afflicted10 woman; he saw something in her face which he knew very well by this time, and the sight of which always gave him an odd, perverse11, unholy satisfaction. It seemed to say that she prostrated12 herself, that she did penance13 in the dust, that she was his to trample14 upon, to spit upon. He did neither of these things, but she was constantly offering herself, and her permanent humility15, her perpetual abjection16, was a sort of counter-irritant to the soreness lodged17 in his own heart for ever, which had often made him cry with rage at night, in his little room under the roof. Pinnie meant that, to-day, as a matter of course, and she could only especially mean it in the presence of Miss Henning’s remark about his looking like a Frenchman. He knew he looked like a Frenchman, he had often been told so before, and a large part of the time he felt like one – like one of those he had read about in Michelet and Carlyle. He had picked up the French tongue with the most extraordinary facility, with the aid of one of his mates, a refugee from Paris, in the workroom, and of a second-hand18 dog’s-eared dictionary, bought for a shilling in the Brompton Road, in one of his interminable, restless, melancholy19, moody20, yet all-observant strolls through London. He spoke21 it (as he believed) as if by instinct, caught the accent, the gesture, the movement of eyebrow22 and shoulder; so that if it should become necessary in certain contingencies23 that he should pass for a foreigner he had an idea that he might do so triumphantly24, once he could borrow a blouse. He had never seen a blouse in his life, but he knew exactly the form and colour of such a garment, and how it was worn. What these contingencies might be which should compel him to assume the disguise of a person of a social station lower still than his own, Hyacinth would not for the world have mentioned to you; but as they were very present to the mind of our imaginative, ingenious youth we shall catch a glimpse of them in the course of a further acquaintance with him. At the present moment, when there was no question of masquerading, it made him blush again that such a note should be struck by a loud, laughing, handsome girl, who came back out of his past. There was more in Pinnie’s weak eyes, now, than her usual profession; there was a dumb intimation, almost as pathetic as the other, that if he cared to let her off easily he would not detain their terrible visitor very long. He had no wish to do that; he kept the door open, on purpose; he didn’t enjoy talking to girls under Pinnie’s eyes, and he could see that this one had every disposition25 to talk. So without responding to her observation about his appearance he said, not knowing exactly what to say, “Have you come back to live in the Place?”
“Heaven forbid I should ever do that!” cried Miss Henning, with genuine emotion. “I have to live near the establishment in which I’m employed.”
“And what establishment is that, now?” the young man asked, gaining confidence and perceiving, in detail, how handsome she was. He hadn’t roamed about London for nothing, and he knew that when a girl was so handsome as that, a jocular tone of address, a pleasing freedom, was de rigueur; so he added, “Is it the Bull and Gate, or the Elephant and Castle?”
“A public house! Well, you haven’t got the politeness of a Frenchman, at all events!” Her good-nature had come back to her perfectly26, and her resentment27 of his imputation28 of her looking like a bar-maid – a blowzy beauty who handled pewter – was tempered by her more and more curious consideration of Hyacinth’s form. He was exceedingly ‘rum’, but this quality took her fancy, and since he remembered so well that she had been fond of kissing him, in their early days she would have liked to say to him that she stood prepared to repeat this form of attention. But she reminded herself, in time, that her line should be, religiously, the ladylike, and she was content to exclaim, simply, “I don’t care what a man looks like so long as he’s clever. That’s the form I like!”
Miss Pynsent had promised herself the satisfaction of taking no further notice of her brilliant invader29; but the temptation was great to expose her to Hyacinth, as a mitigation of her brilliancy, by remarking sarcastically30, according to opportunity, “Miss ’Enning wouldn’t live in Lomax Place for the world. She thinks it too abominably31 low.”
“So it is; it’s a beastly hole,” said the young man.
The poor dressmaker’s little dart32 fell to the ground, and Millicent exclaimed, jovially33, “Right you are!” while she directed to the object of her childhood’s admiration34 a smile that put him more and more at his ease.
“Don’t you suppose I’m clever?” he asked, planted before her with his little legs slightly apart, while, with his hands behind him, he made the open door waver to and fro.
“You? Oh, I don’t care whether you are or not!” said Millicent Henning; and Hyacinth was at any rate quick-witted enough to see what she meant by that. If she meant he was so good-looking that he might pass on this score alone her judgment35 was conceivable, though many women would strongly have dissented36 from it. He was as small as he had threatened – he had never got his growth – and she could easily see that he was not what she, at least, would call strong. His bones were small, his chest was narrow, his complexion37 pale, his whole figure almost childishly slight; and Millicent perceived afterward38 that he had a very delicate hand – the hand, as she said to herself, of a gentleman. What she liked was his face, and something jaunty39 and entertaining, almost theatrical40 in his whole little person. Miss Henning was not acquainted with any member of the dramatic profession, but she supposed, vaguely41, that that was the way an actor would look in private life. Hyacinth’s features were perfect; his eyes, large and much divided, had as their usual expression a kind of witty42 candour, and a small, soft, fair moustache disposed itself upon his upper lip in a way that made him look as if he were smiling even when his heart was heavy. The waves of his dense43, fine hair clustered round a forehead which was high enough to suggest remarkable44 things, and Miss Henning had observed that when he first appeared he wore his little soft circular hat in a way that left these frontal locks very visible. He was dressed in an old brown velveteen jacket, and wore exactly the bright-coloured necktie which Miss Pynsent’s quick fingers used of old to shape out of hoarded45 remnants of silk and muslin. He was shabby and work-stained, but the observant eye would have noted46 an idea in his dress (his appearance was plainly not a matter of indifference47 to himself), and a painter (not of the heroic) would have liked to make a sketch48 of him. There was something exotic about him, and yet, with his sharp young face, destitute49 of bloom, but not of sweetness, and a certain conscious cockneyism which pervaded50 him, he was as strikingly as Millicent, in her own degree, a product of the London streets and the London air. He looked both ingenuous51 and slightly wasted, amused, amusing, and indefinably sad. Women had always found him touching52; yet he made them – so they had repeatedly assured him – die of laughing.
“I think you had better shut the door,” said Miss Pynsent, meaning that he had better shut their departing visitor out.
“Did you come here on purpose to see us?” Hyacinth asked, not heeding53 this injunction, of which he divined the spirit, and wishing the girl would take her leave, so that he might go out again with her. He should like talking with her much better away from Pinnie, who evidently was ready to stick a bodkin into her, for reasons he perfectly understood. He had seen plenty of them before, Pinnie’s reasons, even where girls were concerned who were not nearly so good-looking as this one. She was always in a fearful ‘funk’ about some woman getting hold of him, and persuading him to make a marriage beneath his station. His station! – poor Hyacinth had often asked himself, and Miss Pynsent, what it could possibly be. He had thought of it bitterly enough, and wondered how in the world he could marry ‘beneath’ it. He would never marry at all – to that his mind was absolutely made up; he would never hand on to another the burden which had made his own young spirit so intolerably sore, the inheritance which had darkened the whole threshold of his manhood. All the more reason why he should have his compensation; why, if the soft society of women was to be enjoyed on other terms, he should cultivate it with a bold, free mind.
“I thought I would just give a look at the old shop; I had an engagement not far off,” Millicent said. “But I wouldn’t have believed any one who had told me I should find you just where I left you.”
“We needed you to look after us!” Miss Pynsent exclaimed, irrepressibly.
“Oh, you’re such a swell54 yourself!” Hyacinth observed, without heeding the dressmaker.
“None of your impudence55! I’m as good a girl as there is in London!” And to corroborate56 this, Miss Henning went on: “If you were to offer to see me a part of the way home, I should tell you I don’t knock about that way with gentlemen.”
“I’ll go with you as far as you like,” Hyacinth replied, simply, as if he knew how to treat that sort of speech.
“Well, it’s only because I knew you as a baby!” And they went out together, Hyacinth careful not to look at poor Pinnie at all (he felt her glaring whitely and tearfully at him out of her dim corner – it had by this time grown too dusky to work without a lamp), and his companion giving her an outrageously57 friendly nod of farewell over her shoulder.
It was a long walk from Lomax Place to the quarter of the town in which (to be near the haberdasher’s in the Buckingham Palace Road) Miss Henning occupied a modest back-room; but the influences of the hour were such as to make the excursion very agreeable to our young man, who liked the streets at all times, but especially at nightfall, in the autumn, of a Saturday, when, in the vulgar districts, the smaller shops and open-air industries were doubly active, and big, clumsy torches flared58 and smoked over hand-carts and costermongers’ barrows, drawn59 up in the gutters60. Hyacinth had roamed through the great city since he was an urchin61, but his imagination had never ceased to be stirred by the preparations for Sunday that went on in the evening among the toilers and spinners, his brothers and sisters, and he lost himself in all the quickened crowding and pushing and staring at lighted windows and chaffering at the stalls of fishmongers and hucksters. He liked the people who looked as if they had got their week’s wage and were prepared to lay it out discreetly62; and even those whose use of it would plainly be extravagant63 and intemperate64; and, best of all, those who evidently hadn’t received it at all and who wandered about, disinterestedly65, vaguely, with their hands in empty pockets, watching others make their bargains and fill their satchels66, or staring at the striated67 sides of bacon, at the golden cubes and triangles of cheese, at the graceful68 festoons of sausage, in the most brilliant of the windows. He liked the reflection of the lamps on the wet pavements, the feeling and smell of the carboniferous London damp; the way the winter fog blurred69 and suffused70 the whole place, made it seem bigger and more crowded, produced halos and dim radiations, trickles71 and evaporations, on the plates of glass. He moved in the midst of these impressions this evening, but he enjoyed them in silence, with an attention taken up mainly by his companion, and pleased to be already so intimate with a young lady whom people turned round to look at. She herself affected72 to speak of the rush and crush of the week’s end with disgust: she said she liked the streets, but she liked the respectable ones; she couldn’t abide73 the smell of fish, and the whole place seemed full of it, so that she hoped they would soon get into the Edgware Road, towards which they tended and which was a proper street for a lady. To Hyacinth she appeared to have no connection with the long-haired little girl who, in Lomax Place, years before, was always hugging a smutty doll and courting his society; she was like a stranger, a new acquaintance, and he observed her curiously74, wondering by what transitions she had reached her present pitch.
She enlightened him but little on this point, though she talked a great deal on a variety of subjects, and mentioned to him her habits, her aspirations75, her likes and dislikes. The latter were very numerous. She was tremendously particular, difficult to please, he could see that; and she assured him that she never put up with anything a moment after it had ceased to be agreeable to her. Especially was she particular about gentlemen’s society, and she made it plain that a young fellow who wanted to have anything to say to her must be in receipt of wages amounting at the least to fifty shillings a week. Hyacinth told her that he didn’t earn that, as yet; and she remarked again that she made an exception for him, because she knew all about him (or if not all, at least a great deal), and he could see that her good-nature was equal to her beauty. She made such an exception that when, after they were moving down the Edgware Road (which had still the brightness of late closing, but with more nobleness), he proposed that she should enter a coffee-house with him and ‘take something’ (he could hardly tell himself, afterwards, what brought him to this point), she acceded76 without a demur77 – without a demur even on the ground of his slender earnings78. Slender as they were, Hyacinth had them in his pocket (they had been destined79 in some degree for Pinnie), and he felt equal to the occasion. Millicent partook profusely80 of tea and bread and butter, with a relish81 of raspberry jam, and thought the place most comfortable, though he himself, after finding himself ensconced, was visited by doubts as to its respectability, suggested, among other things, by photographs, on the walls, of young ladies in tights. Hyacinth himself was hungry, he had not yet had his tea, but he was too excited, too preoccupied82, to eat; the situation made him restless and gave him palpitations; it seemed to be the beginning of something new. He had never yet ‘stood’ even a glass of beer to a girl of Millicent’s stamp – a girl who rustled83 and glittered and smelt84 of musk85 – and if she should turn out as jolly a specimen86 of the sex as she seemed it might make a great difference in his leisure hours, in his evenings, which were often very dull. That it would also make a difference in his savings87 (he was under a pledge to Pinnie and to Mr Vetch to put by something every week) it didn’t concern him, for the moment, to reflect; and indeed, though he thought it odious88 and insufferable to be poor, the ways and means of becoming rich had hitherto not greatly occupied him. He knew what Millicent’s age must be, but felt, nevertheless, as if she were older, much older, than himself – she appeared to know so much about London and about life; and this made it still more of a sensation to be entertaining her like a young swell. He thought of it, too, in connection with the question of the respectability of the establishment; if this element was deficient89 she would perceive it as soon as he, and very likely it would be a part of the general initiation90 she had given him an impression of that she shouldn’t mind it so long as the tea was strong and the bread and butter thick. She described to him what had passed between Miss Pynsent and herself (she didn’t call her Pinnie, and he was glad, for he wouldn’t have liked it) before he came in, and let him know that she should never dare to come to the place again, as his mother would tear her eyes out. Then she checked herself. “Of course she ain’t your mother! How stupid I am! I keep forgetting.”
Hyacinth had long since convinced himself that he had acquired a manner with which he could meet allusions91 of this kind: he had had, first and last, so many opportunities to practise it. Therefore he looked at his companion very steadily92 while he said, “My mother died many years ago; she was a great invalid93. But Pinnie has been awfully94 good to me.”
“My mother’s dead, too,” Miss Henning remarked. “She died very suddenly. I dare say you remember her in the Place.” Then, while Hyacinth disengaged from the past the wavering figure of Mrs Henning, of whom he mainly remembered that she used to strike him as dirty, the girl added, smiling, but with more sentiment, “But I have had no Pinnie.”
“You look as if you could take care of yourself.”
“Well, I’m very confiding,” said Millicent Henning. Then she asked what had become of Mr Vetch. “We used to say that if Miss Pynsent was your mamma, he was your papa. In our family we used to call him Miss Pynsent’s young man.”
“He’s her young man still,” Hyacinth said. “He’s our best friend – or supposed to be. He got me the place I’m in now. He lives by his fiddle95, as he used to do.”
Millicent looked a little at her companion, after which she remarked, “I should have thought he would have got you a place at his theatre.”
“At his theatre? That would have been no use. I don’t play any instrument.”
“I don’t mean in the orchestra, you gaby! You would look very nice in a fancy costume.” She had her elbows on the table, and her shoulders lifted, in an attitude of extreme familiarity. He was on the point of replying that he didn’t care for fancy costumes, he wished to go through life in his own character; but he checked himself, with the reflection that this was exactly what, apparently, he was destined not to do. His own character? He was to cover that up as carefully as possible; he was to go through life in a mask, in a borrowed mantle96; he was to be, every day and every hour, an actor. Suddenly, with the utmost irrelevance97, Miss Henning inquired, “Is Miss Pynsent some relation? What gave her any right over you?”
Hyacinth had an answer ready for this question; he had determined98 to say, as he had several times said before, “Miss Pynsent is an old friend of my family. My mother was very fond of her, and she was very fond of my mother.” He repeated the formula now, looking at Millicent with the same inscrutable calmness (as he fancied), though what he would have liked to say to her would have been that his mother was none of her business. But she was too handsome to talk that way to, and she presented her large fair face to him, across the table, with an air of solicitation99 to be cosy100 and comfortable. There were things in his heart and a torment101 and a hidden passion in his life which he should be glad enough to lay open to some woman. He believed that perhaps this would be the cure ultimately; that in return for something he might drop, syllable102 by syllable, into a listening feminine ear, certain other words would be spoken to him which would make his pain for ever less sharp. But what woman could he trust, what ear would be safe? The answer was not in this loud, fresh laughing creature, whose sympathy couldn’t have the fineness he was looking for, since her curiosity was vulgar. Hyacinth objected to the vulgar as much as Miss Pynsent herself; in this respect she had long since discovered that he was after her own heart. He had not taken up the subject of Mrs Henning’s death; he felt himself incapable103 of inquiring about that lady, and had no desire for knowledge of Millicent’s relationships. Moreover he always suffered, to sickness, when people began to hover104 about the question of his origin, the reasons why Pinnie had had the care of him from a baby. Mrs Henning had been untidy, but at least her daughter could speak of her. “Mr Vetch has changed his lodgings105: he moved out of No. 17, three years ago,” he said, to vary the topic. “He couldn’t stand the other people in the house; there was a man that played the accordeon.”
Millicent, however, was but moderately interested in this anecdote106, and she wanted to know why people should like Mr Vetch’s fiddle any better. Then she added, “And I think that while he was about it he might have put you into something better than a bookbinder’s.”
“He wasn’t obliged to put me into anything. It’s a very good place.”
“All the same, it isn’t where I should have looked to find you,” Millicent declared, not so much in the tone of wishing to pay him a compliment as of resentment at having miscalculated.
“Where should you have looked to find me? In the House of Commons? It’s a pity you couldn’t have told me in advance what you would have liked me to be.”
She looked at him, over her cup, while she drank, in several sips108. “Do you know what they used to say in the Place? That your father was a lord.”
“Very likely. That’s the kind of rot they talk in that precious hole,” the young man said, without blenching109.
“Well, perhaps he was,” Millicent ventured.
“He may have been a prince, for all the good it has done me.”
“Fancy your talking as if you didn’t know!” said Millicent.
“Finish your tea – don’t mind how I talk.”
“Well, you ’ave got a temper!” the girl exclaimed, archly. “I should have thought you’d be a clerk at a banker’s.”
“Do they select them for their tempers?”
“You know what I mean. You used to be too clever to follow a trade.”
“Well, I’m not clever enough to live on air.”
“You might be, really, for all the tea you drink! Why didn’t you go in for some high profession?”
“How was I to go in? Who the devil was to help me?” Hyacinth inquired, with a certain vibration110.
“Haven’t you got any relations?” said Millicent, after a moment.
“What are you doing? Are you trying to make me swagger?”
When he spoke sharply she only laughed, not in the least ruffled111, and by the way she looked at him seemed to like it. “Well, I’m sorry you’re only a journeyman,” she went on, pushing away her cup.
“So am I,” Hyacinth rejoined; but he called for the bill as if he had been an employer of labour. Then, while it was being brought, he remarked to his companion that he didn’t believe she had an idea of what his work was and how charming it could be. “Yes, I get up books for the shops,” he said, when she had retorted that she perfectly understood. “But the art of the binder107 is an exquisite112 art.”
“So Miss Pynsent told me. She said you had some samples at home. I should like to see them.”
“You wouldn’t know how good they are,” said Hyacinth, smiling.
He expected that she would exclaim, in answer, that he was an impudent113 wretch114, and for a moment she seemed to be on the point of doing so. But the words changed on her lips, and she replied, almost tenderly, “That’s just the way you used to speak to me, years ago in the Plice.”
“I don’t care about that. I hate all that time.”
“Oh, so do I, if you come to that,” said Millicent, as if she could rise to any breadth of view. And then she returned to her idea that he had not done himself justice. “You used always to be reading: I never thought you would work with your ’ands.”
This seemed to irritate him, and, having paid the bill and given threepence, ostentatiously, to the young woman with a languid manner and hair of an unnatural115 yellow, who had waited on them, he said, “You may depend upon it I shan’t do it an hour longer than I can help.”
“What will you do then?”
“Oh, you’ll see, some day.” In the street, after they had begun to walk again, he went on, “You speak as if I could have my pick. What was an obscure little beggar to do, buried in a squalid corner of London, under a million of idiots? I had no help, no influence, no acquaintance of any kind with professional people, and no means of getting at them. I had to do something; I couldn’t go on living on Pinnie. Thank God, I help her now, a little. I took what I could get.” He spoke as if he had been touched by the imputation of having derogated.
Millicent seemed to imply that he defended himself successfully when she said, “You express yourself like a gentleman” – a speech to which he made no response. But he began to talk again afterwards, and, the evening having definitely set in, his companion took his arm for the rest of the way home. By the time he reached her door he had confided116 to her that, in secret, he wrote: he had a dream of literary distinction. This appeared to impress her, and she branched off to remark, with an irrelevance that characterised her, that she didn’t care anything about a man’s family if she liked the man himself; she thought families were played out. Hyacinth wished she would leave his alone; and while they lingered in front of her house, before she went in, he said –
“I have no doubt you’re a jolly girl, and I am very happy to have seen you again. But you have awfully little tact117.”
“I have little tact? You should see me work off an old jacket!”
He was silent a moment, standing before her with his hands in his pockets. “It’s a good job you’re so handsome.”
Millicent didn’t blush at this compliment, and probably didn’t understand all it conveyed, but she looked into his eyes a while, with a smile that showed her teeth, and then said, more inconsequently than ever, “Come now, who are you?”
“Who am I? I’m a wretched little bookbinder.”
“I didn’t think I ever could fancy any one in that line!” Miss Henning exclaimed. Then she let him know that she couldn’t ask him in, as she made it a point not to receive gentlemen, but she didn’t mind if she took another walk with him and she didn’t care if she met him somewhere – if it were handy. As she lived so far from Lomax Place she didn’t care if she met him half-way. So, in the dusky by-street in Pimlico, before separating, they took a casual tryst118; the most interesting, the young man felt, that had yet been – he could scarcely call it granted him.
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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afflicted
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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penance
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trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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humility
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abjection
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| n. 卑鄙, 落魄 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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second-hand
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melancholy
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moody
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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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eyebrow
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contingencies
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| n.偶然发生的事故，意外事故( contingency的名词复数 )；以备万一 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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25
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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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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27
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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28
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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29
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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30
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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31
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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32
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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33
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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34
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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35
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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36
dissented
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| 不同意，持异议( dissent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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38
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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39
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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40
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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41
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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42
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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43
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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44
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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45
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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47
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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48
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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49
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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50
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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52
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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53
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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54
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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55
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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56
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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57
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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59
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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60
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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61
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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62
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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63
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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64
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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disinterestedly
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66
satchels
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| n.书包( satchel的名词复数 ) | |
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striated
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| adj.有纵线，条纹的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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70
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
trickles
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| n.细流( trickle的名词复数 )；稀稀疏疏缓慢来往的东西v.滴( trickle的第三人称单数 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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72
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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73
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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74
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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75
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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76
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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77
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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78
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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79
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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81
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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82
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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83
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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85
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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86
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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87
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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88
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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89
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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90
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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91
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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92
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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93
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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94
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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95
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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96
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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97
irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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98
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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99
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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100
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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101
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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102
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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103
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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104
hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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105
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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106
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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107
binder
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| n.包扎物，包扎工具；[法]临时契约；粘合剂；装订工 | |
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108
sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
blenching
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| v.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸( blench的现在分词 )；（使）变白，（使）变苍白 | |
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110
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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111
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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112
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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113
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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114
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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115
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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116
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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117
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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118
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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