When her companion demeaned himself in this manner it was not with a view of strengthening the tie which united him to his childhood’s friend; but the effect followed, on Millicent’s side, and the girl was proud to think that she was in possession of a young man whose knowledge was of so high an order that it was inexpressible. In spite of her vanity she was not so convinced of her perfection as not to be full of ungratified aspirations16; she had an idea that it might be to her advantage some day to exhibit a sample of that learning; and at the same time, when, in consideration, for instance, of a jeweller’s gas-lighted display in Great Portland Street, Hyacinth lingered for five minutes in perfect silence, while she delivered herself according to her wont17 at such junctures18, she was a thousand miles from guessing the feelings which made it impossible for him to speak. She could long for things she was not likely to have; envy other people for possessing them, and say it was a regular shame (she called it a shime); draw brilliant pictures of what she should do with them if she did have them; and pass immediately, with a mind unencumbered by superfluous19 inductions20, to some other topic, equally intimate and personal. The sense of privation, with her, was often extremely acute; but she could always put her finger on the remedy. With the imaginative, irresponsible little bookbinder the case was very different; the remedy, with him, was terribly vague and impracticable. He was liable to moods in which the sense of exclusion21 from all that he would have liked most to enjoy in life settled upon him like a pall22. They had a bitterness, but they were not invidious – they were not moods of vengeance23, of imaginary spoliation: they were simply states of paralysing melancholy24, of infinite sad reflection, in which he felt that in this world of effort and suffering life was endurable, the spirit able to expand, only in the best conditions, and that a sordid25 struggle, in which one should go down to the grave without having tasted them, was not worth the misery26 it would cost, the dull demoralisation it would entail27.
In such hours the great, roaring, indifferent world of London seemed to him a huge organisation28 for mocking at his poverty, at his inanition; and then its vulgarest ornaments29, the windows of third-rate jewellers, the young man in a white tie and a crush-hat who dandled by, on his way to a dinner-party, in a hansom that nearly ran over one – these familiar phenomena30 became symbolic31, insolent32, defiant33, took upon themselves to make him smart with the sense that he was out of it. He felt, moreover, that there was no consolation34 or refutation in saying to himself that the immense majority of mankind were out of it with him, and appeared to put up well enough with the annoyance35. That was their own affair; he knew nothing of their reasons or their resignation, and if they chose neither to rebel nor to compare, he, at least, among the disinherited, would keep up the standard. When these fits were upon the young man, his brothers of the people fared, collectively, badly at his hands; their function then was to represent in massive shape precisely36 the grovelling37 interests which attracted one’s contempt, and the only acknowledgment one owed them was for the completeness of the illustration. Everything which, in a great city, could touch the sentient38 faculty39 of a youth on whom nothing was lost ministered to his conviction that there was no possible good fortune in life of too ‘quiet’ an order for him to appreciate – no privilege, no opportunity, no luxury, to which he should not do justice. It was not so much that he wished to enjoy as that he wished to know; his desire was not to be pampered40, but to be initiated41. Sometimes, of a Saturday, in the long evenings of June and July, he made his way into Hyde Park at the hour when the throng42 of carriages, of riders, of brilliant pedestrians43, was thickest; and though lately, on two or three of these occasions, he had been accompanied by Miss Henning, whose criticism of the scene was rich and distinct, a tremendous little drama had taken place, privately44, in his soul. He wanted to drive in every carriage, to mount on every horse, to feel on his arm the hand of every pretty woman in the place. In the midst of this his sense was vivid that he belonged to the class whom the upper ten thousand, as they passed, didn’t so much as rest their eyes upon for a quarter of a second. They looked at Millicent, who was safe to be looked at anywhere, and was one of the handsomest girls in any company, but they only reminded him of the high human walls, the deep gulfs of tradition, the steep embankments of privilege and dense45 layers of stupidity, which fenced him off from social recognition.
And this was not the fruit of a morbid46 vanity on his part, or of a jealousy47 that could not be intelligent; his personal discomfort48 was the result of an exquisite49 admiration50 for what he had missed. There were individuals whom he followed with his eyes, with his thoughts, sometimes even with his steps; they seemed to tell him what it was to be the flower of a high civilisation51. At moments he was aghast when he reflected that the cause he had secretly espoused52, the cause from which M. Poupin and Paul Muniment (especially the latter) had within the last few months drawn53 aside the curtain, proposed to itself to bring about a state of things in which that particular scene would be impossible. It made him even rather faint to think that he must choose; that he couldn’t (with any respect for his own consistency) work, underground, for the enthronement of the democracy, and continue to enjoy, in however platonic54 a manner, a spectacle which rested on a hideous social inequality. He must either suffer with the people, as he had suffered before, or he must apologise to others, as he sometimes came so near doing to himself, for the rich; inasmuch as the day was certainly near when these two mighty55 forces would come to a death-grapple. Hyacinth thought himself obliged, at present, to have reasons for his feelings; his intimacy56 with Paul Muniment, which had now grown very great, laid a good deal of that sort of responsibility upon him. Muniment laughed at his reasons, whenever he produced them, but he appeared to expect him, nevertheless, to have them ready, on demand, and Hyacinth had an immense desire to do what he expected. There were times when he said to himself that it might very well be his fate to be divided, to the point of torture, to be split open by sympathies that pulled him in different ways; for hadn’t he an extraordinarily57 mingled58 current in his blood, and from the time he could remember was there not one half of him that seemed to be always playing tricks on the other, or getting snubs and pinches from it?
That dim, dreadful, confused legend of his mother’s history, as regards which what Pinnie had been able to tell him when he first began to question her was at once too much and too little – this stupefying explanation had supplied him, first and last, with a hundred different theories of his identity. What he knew, what he guessed, sickened him, and what he didn’t know tormented59 him; but in his illuminated60 ignorance he had fashioned forth61 an article of faith. This had gradually emerged from the depths of darkness in which he found himself plunged62 as a consequence of the challenge he had addressed to Pinnie – while he was still only a child – on the memorable63 day which transformed the whole face of his future. It was one January afternoon. He had come in from a walk; she was seated at her lamp, as usual with her work, and she began to tell him of a letter that one of the lodgers64 had got, describing the manner in which his brother-in-law’s shop, at Nottingham, had been rifled by burglars. He listened to her story, standing65 in front of her, and then, by way of response, he said to her, “Who was that woman you took me to see ever so long ago?” The expression of her white face, as she looked up at him, her fear of such an attack all dormant66, after so many years – her strange, scared, sick glance was a thing he could never forget, any more than the tone, with her breath failing her, in which she had repeated, “That woman?”
“That woman, in the prison, years ago – how old was I? – who was dying, and who kissed me so – as I have never been kissed, as I never shall be again! Who was she, who WAS she?” Poor Pinnie, to do her justice, had made, after she recovered her breath, a gallant67 fight: it lasted a week; it was to leave her spent and sore for evermore, and before it was over Anastasius Vetch had been called in. At his instance she retracted68 the falsehoods with which she had tried to put him off, and she made, at last, a confession69, a report, which he had reason to believe was as complete as her knowledge. Hyacinth could never have told you why the crisis occurred on such a day, why his question broke out at that particular moment. The strangeness of the matter to himself was that the germ of his curiosity should have developed so slowly; that the haunting wonder, which now, as he looked back, appeared to fill his whole childhood, should only after so long an interval70 have crept up to the air. It was only, of course, little by little that he had recovered his bearings in his new and more poignant71 consciousness; little by little that he reconstructed his antecedents, took the measure, so far as was possible, of his heredity. His having the courage to disinter, in the Times, in the reading-room of the British Museum, a report of his mother’s trial for the murder of Lord Frederick Purvis, which was very copious72, the affair having been quite a cause célèbre; his resolution in sitting under that splendid dome73, and, with his head bent74 to hide his hot eyes, going through every syllable75 of the ghastly record, had been an achievement of comparatively recent years. There were certain things that Pinnie knew which appalled76 him; and there were others, as to which he would have given his hand to have some light, that it made his heart ache supremely77 to find she was honestly ignorant of. He scarcely knew what sort of favour Mr Vetch wished to make with him (as a compensation for the precious part he had played in the business years before), when the fiddler permitted himself to pass judgment on the family of the wretched young nobleman for not having provided in some manner for the infant child of his assassin. Why should they have provided, when it was evident that they refused absolutely to recognise his lordship’s responsibility? Pinnie had to admit this, under Hyacinth’s terrible cross-questioning; she could not pretend, with any show of evidence, that Lord Whiteroy and the other brothers (there had been no less than seven, most of them still living) had, at the time of the trial, given any symptom of believing Florentine Vivier’s asseverations. That was their affair; he had long since made up his mind that his own was very different. One couldn’t believe at will, and fortunately, in the case, he had no effort to make; for from the moment he began to consider the established facts (few as they were, and poor and hideous) he regarded himself, irresistibly78, as the son of the recreant79, sacrificial Lord Frederick.
He had no need to reason about it; all his nerves and pulses pleaded and testified. His mother had been a daughter of the wild French people (all that Pinnie could tell him of her parentage was that Florentine had once mentioned that in her extreme childhood her father had fallen, in the blood-stained streets of Paris, on a barricade80, with his gun in his hand); but on the other side it took an English aristocrat81 – though a poor specimen82, apparently83, had to suffice – to account for him. This, with its further implications, became Hyacinth’s article of faith; the reflection that he was a bastard84 involved in a remarkable85 manner the reflection that he was a gentleman. He was conscious that he didn’t hate the image of his father, as he might have been expected to do; and he supposed this was because Lord Frederick had paid so tremendous a penalty. It was in the exaction86 of that penalty that the moral proof, for Hyacinth, resided; his mother would not have armed herself on account of any injury less cruel than the episode of which her miserable87 baby was the living sign. She had avenged88 herself because she had been thrown over, and the bitterness of that wrong had been in the fact that he, Hyacinth, lay there in her lap. He was the one to have been killed: that remark our young man often made to himself. That his attitude on this whole subject was of a tolerably exalted89, transcendent character, and took little account of any refutation that might be based on a vulgar glance at three or four obtrusive90 items, is proved by the importance that he attached, for instance, to the name by which his mother had told poor Pinnie (when this excellent creature consented to take him) that she wished him to be called. Hyacinth had been the name of her father, a republican clockmaker, the martyr91 of his opinions, whose memory she professed92 to worship; and when Lord Frederick insinuated93 himself into her confidence he had reasons for preferring to be known as plain Mr Robinson – reasons, however, which, in spite of the light thrown upon them at the trial, it was difficult, after so many years, to enter into.
Hyacinth never knew that Mr Vetch had said more than once to Pinnie, “If her contention94 as regards that dissolute young swell95 was true, why didn’t she make the child bear his real name, instead of his false one?” – an inquiry96 which the dressmaker answered with some ingenuity97, by remarking that she couldn’t call him after a man she had murdered, and that she supposed the unhappy girl didn’t wish to publish to every one the boy’s connection with a crime that had been so much talked about. If Hyacinth had assisted at this little discussion it is needless to say that he would have sided with Miss Pynsent; though that his judgment was independently formed is proved by the fact that Pinnie’s fearfully indiscreet attempts at condolence should not have made him throw up his version in disgust. It was after the complete revelation that he understood the romantic innuendoes98 with which his childhood had been surrounded, and of which he had never caught the meaning; they having seemed but part and parcel of the habitual99 and promiscuous100 divagations of his too constructive101 companion. When it came over him that, for years, she had made a fool of him, to himself and to others, he could have beaten her, for grief and shame; and yet, before he administered this rebuke102 he had to remember that she only chattered103 (though she professed to have been extraordinarily dumb) about a matter which he spent nine-tenths of his time in brooding over. When she tried to console him for the horror of his mother’s history by descanting on the glory of the Purvises, and reminding him that he was related, through them, to half the aristocracy of England, he felt that she was turning the tragedy of his life into a monstrous104 farce105; and yet he none the less continued to cherish the belief that he was a gentleman born. He allowed her to tell him nothing about the family in question, and his stoicism on this subject was one of the reasons of the deep dejection of her later years. If he had only let her idealise him a little to himself she would have felt that she was making up, by so much, for her grand mistake. He sometimes saw the name of his father’s relations in the newspaper, but he always turned away his eyes from it. He had nothing to ask of them, and he wished to prove to himself that he could ignore them (who had been willing to let him die like a rat) as completely as they ignored him. Decidedly, he cried to himself at times, he was with the people, and every possible vengeance of the people, as against such shameless egoism as that; but all the same he was happy to feel that he had blood in his veins106 which would account for the finest sensibilities.
He had no money to pay for places at a theatre in the Strand107; Millicent Henning having made it clear to him that on this occasion she expected something better than the pit. “Should you like the royal box, or a couple of stalls at ten shillings apiece?” he asked of her, with a frankness of irony108 which, with this young lady, fortunately, it was perfectly109 possible to practise. She had answered that she would content herself with a seat in the second balcony, in the very front; and as such a position involved an expenditure110 which he was still unable to meet, he waited one night upon Mr Vetch, to whom he had already, more than once, had recourse in moments of pecuniary111 embarrassment112. His relations with the caustic113 fiddler were peculiar114; they were much better in fact than they were in theory. Mr Vetch had let him know – long before this, and with the purpose of covering Pinnie to the utmost – the part he had played when the question of the child’s being taken to Mrs Bowerbank’s institution was so distressingly115 presented; and Hyacinth, in the face of this information, had inquired, with some sublimity116, what the devil the fiddler had to do with his private affairs. Anastasius Vetch had replied that it was not as an affair of his, but as an affair of Pinnie’s, that he had considered the matter; and Hyacinth afterwards had let the question drop, though he had never been formally reconciled to his officious neighbour. Of course his feeling about him had been immensely modified by the trouble Mr Vetch had taken to get him a place with old Crookenden; and at the period of which I write it had long been familiar to him that the fiddler didn’t care a straw what he thought of his advice at the famous crisis, and entertained himself with watching the career of a youth put together of such queer pieces. It was impossible to Hyacinth not to perceive that the old man’s interest was kindly117; and to-day, at any rate, our hero would have declared that nothing could have made up to him for not knowing the truth, horrible as the truth might be. His miserable mother’s embrace seemed to furnish him with an inexhaustible fund of motive118, and under the circumstances that was a benefit. What he chiefly objected to in Mr Vetch was a certain air of still regarding him as extremely juvenile119; he would have got on with him much better if the fiddler had consented to recognise the degree in which he was already a man of the world. Vetch knew an immense deal about society, and he seemed to know the more because he never swaggered – it was only little by little you discovered it; but that was no reason for his looking as if his chief entertainment resided in a private, diverting commentary on the conversation of his young friend. Hyacinth felt that he himself gave considerable evidence of liking120 his fellow-resident in Lomax Place when he asked him to lend him half-a-crown. Somehow, circumstances, of old, had tied them together, and though this partly vexed121 the little bookbinder it also touched him; he had more than once solved the problem of deciding how to behave (when the fiddler exasperated122 him) by simply asking him some service. The old man had never refused. It was satisfactory to Hyacinth to remember this, as he knocked at his door, very late, after he had allowed him time to come home from the theatre. He knew his habits: Mr Vetch never went straight to bed, but sat by his fire an hour, smoking his pipe, mixing a grog, and reading some old book. Hyacinth knew when to go up by the light in his window, which he could see from a court behind.
“Oh, I know I haven’t been to see you for a long time,” he said, in response to the remark with which the fiddler greeted him; “and I may as well tell you immediately what has brought me at present – in addition to the desire to ask after your health. I want to take a young lady to the theatre.”
Mr Vetch was habited in a tattered123 dressing-gown; his apartment smelt124 strongly of the liquor he was consuming. Divested125 of his evening-gear he looked to our hero so plucked and blighted126 that on the spot Hyacinth ceased to hesitate as to his claims in the event of a social liquidation127; he, too, was unmistakably a creditor128. “I’m afraid you find your young lady rather expensive.”
“I find everything expensive,” said Hyacinth, as if to finish that subject.
“Especially, I suppose, your secret societies.”
“What do you mean by that?” the young man asked, staring.
“Why, you told me, in the autumn, that you were just about to join a few.”
“A few? How many do you suppose?” And Hyacinth checked himself. “Do you suppose if I had been serious I would tell?”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Mr Vetch murmured, with a sigh. Then he went on: “You want to take her to my shop, eh?”
“I’m sorry to say she won’t go there. She wants something in the Strand: that’s a great point. She wants very much to see the Pearl of Paraguay. I don’t wish to pay anything, if possible; I am sorry to say I haven’t a penny. But as you know people at the other theatres, and I have heard you say that you do each other little favours, from place to place – à charge de revanche, as the French say – it occurred to me that you might be able to get me an order. The piece has been running a long time, and most people (except poor devils like me) must have seen it: therefore there probably isn’t a rush.”
Mr Vetch listened in silence, and presently he said, “Do you want a box?”
“Oh no; something more modest.”
“Why not a box?” asked the fiddler, in a tone which Hyacinth knew.
“Because I haven’t got the clothes that people wear in that sort of place, if you must have such a definite reason.”
“And your young lady – has she got the clothes?”
“Oh, I dare say; she seems to have everything.”
“Where does she get them?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She belongs to a big shop; she has to be fine.”
“Won’t you have a pipe?” Mr Vetch asked, pushing an old tobacco-pouch across the table to his visitor; and while the young man helped himself he puffed129 a while in silence. “What will she do with you?” he inquired at last.
“What will who do with me?”
“Your big beauty – Miss Henning. I know all about her from Pinnie.”
“Then you know what she’ll do with me!” Hyacinth returned, with rather a scornful laugh.
“Yes, but, after all, it doesn’t very much matter.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Hyacinth.
“Well, now the other matter – the International – are you very deep in that?” the fiddler went on, as if he had not heard him.
“Did Pinnie tell you all about that?” his visitor asked.
“No, our friend Eustace has told me a good deal. He knows you have put your head into something. Besides, I see it,” said Mr Vetch.
“How do you see it, pray?”
“You have got such a speaking eye. Any one can tell, to look at you, that you have become a nihilist, that you’re a member of a secret society. You seem to say to every one, ‘Slow torture won’t induce me to tell where it meets!’”
“You won’t get me an order, then?” Hyacinth said, in a moment.
“My dear boy, I offer you a box. I take the greatest interest in you.”
They smoked together a while, and at last Hyacinth remarked, “It has nothing to do with the International.”
“Is it more terrible – more deadly secret?” his companion inquired, looking at him with extreme seriousness.
“I thought you pretended to be a radical,” answered Hyacinth.
“Well, so I am – of the old-fashioned, constitutional, milk-and-water, jog-trot sort. I’m not an exterminator130.”
“We don’t know what we may be when the time comes,” Hyacinth rejoined, more sententiously than he intended.
“Is the time coming, then, my dear boy?”
“I don’t think I have a right to give you any more of a warning than that,” said our hero, smiling.
“It’s very kind of you to do so much, I’m sure, and to rush in here at the small hours for the purpose. Meanwhile, in the few weeks, or months, or years, or whatever they are, that are left, you wish to put in as much enjoyment131 as you can squeeze, with the young ladies: that’s a very natural inclination132.” Then, irrelevantly133, Mr Vetch inquired, “Do you see many foreigners?”
“Yes, I see a good many.”
“And what do you think of them?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. I rather like Englishmen better.”
“Mr Muniment, for example?”
“I say, what do you know about him?” Hyacinth asked.
“I’ve seen him at Eustace’s. I know that you and he are as thick as thieves.”
“He will distinguish himself some day, very much,” said Hyacinth, who was perfectly willing, and indeed very proud, to be thought a close ally of the chemist’s assistant.
“Very likely – very likely. And what will he do with you?” the fiddler inquired.
Hyacinth got up; the two men looked at each other for an instant. “Do get me two good places in the second balcony,” said Hyacinth.
Mr Vetch replied that he would do what he could, and three days afterwards he gave the coveted134 order to his young friend. As he placed it in his hands he said, “You had better put in all the fun you can, you know!”
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1
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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5
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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affronted
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| adj.被侮辱的，被冒犯的v.勇敢地面对( affront的过去式和过去分词 )；相遇 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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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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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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junctures
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| n.时刻，关键时刻( juncture的名词复数 )；接合点 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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inductions
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| 归纳（法）( induction的名词复数 )； （电或磁的）感应； 就职； 吸入 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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34
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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35
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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36
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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37
grovelling
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| adj.卑下的，奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 )；趴 | |
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38
sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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39
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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40
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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42
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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43
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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44
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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45
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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46
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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47
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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48
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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49
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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52
espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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54
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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55
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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56
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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57
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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58
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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59
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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60
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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61
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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62
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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63
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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64
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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65
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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66
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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67
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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68
retracted
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| v.撤回或撤消( retract的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝执行或遵守；缩回；拉回 | |
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69
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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70
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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71
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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72
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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73
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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74
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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75
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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76
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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77
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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78
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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79
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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80
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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81
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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82
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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83
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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84
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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85
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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86
exaction
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| n.强求，强征；杂税 | |
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87
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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88
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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89
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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90
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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91
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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92
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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93
insinuated
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| v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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94
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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95
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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96
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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97
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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98
innuendoes
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| n.影射的话( innuendo的名词复数 )；讽刺的话；含沙射影；暗讽 | |
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99
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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100
promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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101
constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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102
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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103
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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104
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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105
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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106
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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107
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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108
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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109
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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110
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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111
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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112
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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113
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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114
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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115
distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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116
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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117
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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118
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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119
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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120
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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121
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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122
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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123
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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124
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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125
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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126
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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127
liquidation
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| n.清算，停止营业 | |
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128
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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129
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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130
exterminator
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| n.扑灭的人，害虫驱除剂 | |
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131
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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132
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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133
irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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134
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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