For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he never sought to free himself from it. He procured1 from Paris no less than nine large-paper copies of the first edition, and had them bound in different colours, so that they might suit his various moods and the changing fancies of a nature over which he seemed, at times, to have almost entirely2 lost control. The hero, the wonderful young Parisian in whom the romantic and the scientific temperaments4 were so strangely blended, became to him a kind of prefiguring type of himself. And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.
In one point he was more fortunate than the novel's fantastic hero. He never knew--never, indeed, had any cause to know--that somewhat grotesque5 dread6 of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water which came upon the young Parisian so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beau that had once, apparently8, been so remarkable9. It was with an almost cruel joy-- and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that he used to read the latter part of the book, with its really tragic10, if somewhat overemphasized, account of the sorrow and despair of one who had himself lost what in others, and the world, he had most dearly valued.
For the wonderful beauty that had so fascinated Basil Hallward, and many others besides him, seemed never to leave him. Even those who had heard the most evil things against him-- and from time to time strange rumours11 about his mode of life crept through London and became the chatter12 of the clubs-- could not believe anything to his dishonour13 when they saw him. He had always the look of one who had kept himself unspotted from the world. Men who talked grossly became silent when Dorian Gray entered the room. There was something in the purity of his face that rebuked14 them. His mere15 presence seemed to recall to them the memory of the innocence16 that they had tarnished17. They wondered how one so charming and graceful18 as he was could have escaped the stain of an age that was at once sordid19 and sensual.
Often, on returning home from one of those mysterious and prolonged absences that gave rise to such strange conjecture20 among those who were his friends, or thought that they were so, he himself would creep upstairs to the locked room, open the door with the key that never left him now, and stand, with a mirror, in front of the portrait that Basil Hallward had painted of him, looking now at the evil and aging face on the canvas, and now at the fair young face that laughed back at him from the polished glass. The very sharpness of the contrast used to quicken his sense of pleasure. He grew more and more enamoured of his own beauty, more and more interested in the corruption21 of his own soul. He would examine with minute care, and sometimes with a monstrous22 and terrible delight, the hideous23 lines that seared the wrinkling forehead or crawled around the heavy sensual mouth, wondering sometimes which were the more horrible, the signs of sin or the signs of age. He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile. He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.
There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless24 in his own delicately scented25 chamber26, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern28 near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant29 because it was purely30 selfish. But moments such as these were rare. That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification. The more he knew, the more he desired to know. He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous31 as he fed them.
Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society. Once or twice every month during the winter, and on each Wednesday evening while the season lasted, he would throw open to the world his beautiful house and have the most celebrated32 musicians of the day to charm his guests with the wonders of their art. His little dinners, in the settling of which Lord Henry always assisted him, were noted33 as much for the careful selection and placing of those invited, as for the exquisite34 taste shown in the decoration of the table, with its subtle symphonic arrangements of exotic flowers, and embroidered36 cloths, and antique plate of gold and silver. Indeed, there were many, especially among the very young men, who saw, or fancied that they saw, in Dorian Gray the true realization37 of a type of which they had often dreamed in Eton or Oxford38 days, a type that was to combine something of the real culture of the scholar with all the grace and distinction and perfect manner of a citizen of the world. To them he seemed to be of the company of those whom Dante describes as having sought to "make themselves perfect by the worship of beauty." Like Gautier, he was one for whom "the visible world existed."
And, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. Fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination39 for him. His mode of dressing40, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected41, had their marked influence on the young exquisites42 of the Mayfair balls and Pall43 Mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious fopperies.
For, while he was but too ready to accept the position that was almost immediately offered to him on his coming of age, and found, indeed, a subtle pleasure in the thought that he might really become to the London of his own day what to imperial Neronian Rome the author of the Satyricon once had been, yet in his inmost heart he desired to be something more than a mere arbiter44 elegantiarum, to be consulted on the wearing of a jewel, or the knotting of a necktie, or the conduct of a cane45. He sought to elaborate some new scheme of life that would have its reasoned philosophy and its ordered principles, and find in the spiritualizing of the senses its highest realization.
The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried46, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence. But it appeared to Dorian Gray that the true nature of the senses had never been understood, and that they had remained savage47 and animal merely because the world had sought to starve them into submission48 or to kill them by pain, instead of aiming at making them elements of a new spirituality, of which a fine instinct for beauty was to be the dominant49 characteristic. As he looked back upon man moving through history, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! There had been mad wilful50 rejections51, monstrous forms of self-torture and self-denial, whose origin was fear and whose result was a degradation53 infinitely54 more terrible than that fancied degradation from which, in their ignorance, they had sought to escape; Nature, in her wonderful irony55, driving out the anchorite to feed with the wild animals of the desert and giving to the hermit56 the beasts of the field as his companions.
Yes: there was to be, as Lord Henry had prophesied57, a new Hedonism that was to recreate life and to save it from that harsh uncomely puritanism that is having, in our own day, its curious revival58. It was to have its service of the intellect, certainly, yet it was never to accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate60 experience. Its aim, indeed, was to be experience itself, and not the fruits of experience, sweet or bitter as they might be. Of the asceticism61 that deadens the senses, as of the vulgar profligacy62 that dulls them, it was to know nothing. But it was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is itself but a moment.
There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through the chambers63 of the brain sweep phantoms64 more terrible than reality itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks65 in all grotesques66, and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality67, this art being, one might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled with the malady68 of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch69 there. Outside, there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men going forth70 to their work, or the sigh and sob71 of the wind coming down from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it feared to wake the sleepers73 and yet must needs call forth sleep from her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan72 mirrors get back their mimic74 life. The flameless tapers75 stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often. Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of stereotyped76 habits, or a wild longing77, it may be, that our eyelids78 might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate, in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain.
It was the creation of such worlds as these that seemed to Dorian Gray to be the true object, or amongst the true objects, of life; and in his search for sensations that would be at once new and delightful79, and possess that element of strangeness that is so essential to romance, he would often adopt certain modes of thought that he knew to be really alien to his nature, abandon himself to their subtle influences, and then, having, as it were, caught their colour and satisfied his intellectual curiosity, leave them with that curious indifference80 that is not incompatible81 with a real ardour of temperament3, and that, indeed, according to certain modern psychologists, is often a condition of it.
It was rumoured82 of him once that he was about to join the Roman Catholic communion, and certainly the Roman ritual had always a great attraction for him. The daily sacrifice, more awful really than all the sacrifices of the antique world, stirred him as much by its superb rejection52 of the evidence of the senses as by the primitive83 simplicity84 of its elements and the eternal pathos85 of the human tragedy that it sought to symbolize86. He loved to kneel down on the cold marble pavement and watch the priest, in his stiff flowered dalmatic, slowly and with white hands moving aside the veil of the tabernacle, or raising aloft the jewelled, lantern-shaped monstrance with that pallid87 wafer that at times, one would fain think, is indeed the "panis caelestis," the bread of angels, or, robed in the garments of the Passion of Christ, breaking the Host into the chalice88 and smiting89 his breast for his sins. The fuming90 censers that the grave boys, in their lace and scarlet91, tossed into the air like great gilt92 flowers had their subtle fascination for him. As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives.
But he never fell into the error of arresting his intellectual development by any formal acceptance of creed93 or system, or of mistaking, for a house in which to live, an inn that is but suitable for the sojourn94 of a night, or for a few hours of a night in which there are no stars and the moon is in travail95. Mysticism, with its marvellous power of making common things strange to us, and the subtle antinomianism that always seems to accompany it, moved him for a season; and for a season he inclined to the materialistic96 doctrines97 of the Darwinismus movement in Germany, and found a curious pleasure in tracing the thoughts and passions of men to some pearly cell in the brain, or some white nerve in the body, delighting in the conception of the absolute dependence98 of the spirit on certain physical conditions, morbid99 or healthy, normal or diseased. Yet, as has been said of him before, no theory of life seemed to him to be of any importance compared with life itself. He felt keenly conscious of how barren all intellectual speculation100 is when separated from action and experiment. He knew that the senses, no less than the soul, have their spiritual mysteries to reveal.
And so he would now study perfumes and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling102 heavily scented oils and burning odorous gums from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous103 life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one's passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk104 that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination; and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology105 of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots and scented, pollen-laden flowers; of aromatic106 balms and of dark and fragrant107 woods; of spikenard, that sickens; of hovenia, that makes men mad; and of aloes, that are said to be able to expel melancholy108 from the soul.
At another time he devoted109 himself entirely to music, and in a long latticed room, with a vermilion-and-gold ceiling and walls of olive-green lacquer, he used to give curious concerts in which mad gipsies tore wild music from little zithers, or grave, yellow-shawled Tunisians plucked at the strained strings110 of monstrous lutes, while grinning Negroes beat monotonously111 upon copper112 drums and, crouching113 upon scarlet mats, slim turbaned Indians blew through long pipes of reed or brass114 and charmed-- or feigned115 to charm--great hooded116 snakes and horrible horned adders118. The harsh intervals119 and shrill120 discords121 of barbaric music stirred him at times when Schubert's grace, and Chopin's beautiful sorrows, and the mighty122 harmonies of Beethoven himself, fell unheeded on his ear. He collected together from all parts of the world the strangest instruments that could be found, either in the tombs of dead nations or among the few savage tribes that have survived contact with Western civilizations, and loved to touch and try them. He had the mysterious juruparis of the Rio Negro Indians, that women are not allowed to look at and that even youths may not see till they have been subjected to fasting and scourging123, and the earthen jars of the Peruvians that have the shrill cries of birds, and flutes124 of human bones such as Alfonso de Ovalle heard in Chile, and the sonorous125 green jaspers that are found near Cuzco and give forth a note of singular sweetness. He had painted gourds126 filled with pebbles127 that rattled128 when they were shaken; the long clarin of the Mexicans, into which the performer does not blow, but through which he inhales129 the air; the harsh ture of the Amazon tribes, that is sounded by the sentinels who sit all day long in high trees, and can be heard, it is said, at a distance of three leagues; the teponaztli, that has two vibrating tongues of wood and is beaten with sticks that are smeared130 with an elastic131 gum obtained from the milky132 juice of plants; the yotl-bells of the Aztecs, that are hung in clusters like grapes; and a huge cylindrical133 drum, covered with the skins of great serpents, like the one that Bernal Diaz saw when he went with Cortes into the Mexican temple, and of whose doleful sound he has left us so vivid a description. The fantastic character of these instruments fascinated him, and he felt a curious delight in the thought that art, like Nature, has her monsters, things of bestial134 shape and with hideous voices. Yet, after some time, he wearied of them, and would sit in his box at the opera, either alone or with Lord Henry, listening in rapt pleasure to "Tannh?user" and seeing in the prelude135 to that great work of art a presentation of the tragedy of his own soul.
On one occasion he took up the study of jewels, and appeared at a costume ball as Anne de Joyeuse, Admiral of France, in a dress covered with five hundred and sixty pearls. This taste enthralled136 him for years, and, indeed, may be said never to have left him. He would often spend a whole day settling and resettling in their cases the various stones that be had collected, such as the olive-green chrysoberyl that turns red by lamplight, the cymophane with its wirelike line of silver, the pistachio-coloured peridot, rose-pink and wine-yellow topazes, carbuncles of fiery137 scarlet with tremulous, four-rayed stars, flame-red cinnamon-stones, orange and violet spinels, and amethysts139 with their alternate layers of ruby140 and sapphire141. He loved the red gold of the sunstone, and the moonstone's pearly whiteness, and the broken rainbow of the milky opal. He procured from Amsterdam three emeralds of extraordinary size and richness of colour, and had a turquoise142 de la vieille roche that was the envy of all the connoisseurs143.
He discovered wonderful stories, also, about jewels. In Alphonso's Clericalis Disciplina a serpent was mentioned with eyes of real jacinth, and in the romantic history of Alexander, the Conqueror144 of Emathia was said to have found in the vale of Jordan snakes "with collars of real emeralds growing on their backs." There was a gem35 in the brain of the dragon, Philostratus told us, and "by the exhibition of golden letters and a scarlet robe" the monster could be thrown into a magical sleep and slain145. According to the great alchemist, Pierre de Boniface, the diamond rendered a man invisible, and the agate146 of India made him eloquent147. The cornelian appeased148 anger, and the hyacinth provoked sleep, and the amethyst138 drove away the fumes101 of wine. The garnet cast out demons149, and the hydropicus deprived the moon of her colour. The selenite waxed and waned150 with the moon, and the meloceus, that discovers thieves, could be affected only by the blood of kids. Leonardus Camillus had seen a white stone taken from the brain of a newly killed toad151, that was a certain antidote152 against poison. The bezoar, that was found in the heart of the Arabian deer, was a charm that could cure the plague. In the nests of Arabian birds was the aspilates, that, according to Democritus, kept the wearer from any danger by fire.
The King of Ceilan rode through his city with a large ruby in his hand, as the ceremony of his coronation. The gates of the palace of John the Priest were "made of sardius, with the horn of the horned snake inwrought, so that no man might bring poison within." Over the gable were "two golden apples, in which were two carbuncles," so that the gold might shine by day and the carbuncles by night. In Lodge's strange romance A Margarite of America, it was stated that in the chamber of the queen one could behold154 "all the chaste155 ladies of the world, inchased out of silver, looking through fair mirrours of chrysolites, carbuncles, sapphires156, and greene emeraults." Marco Polo had seen the inhabitants of Zipangu place rose-coloured pearls in the mouths of the dead. A sea-monster had been enamoured of the pearl that the diver brought to King Perozes, and had slain the thief, and mourned for seven moons over its loss. When the Huns lured157 the king into the great pit, he flung it away-- Procopius tells the story--nor was it ever found again, though the Emperor Anastasius offered five hundred-weight of gold pieces for it. The King of Malabar had shown to a certain Venetian a rosary of three hundred and four pearls, one for every god that he worshipped.
When the Duke de Valentinois, son of Alexander VI, visited Louis XII of France, his horse was loaded with gold leaves, according to Brantome, and his cap had double rows of rubies158 that threw out a great light. Charles of England had ridden in stirrups hung with four hundred and twenty-one diamonds. Richard II had a coat, valued at thirty thousand marks, which was covered with balas rubies. Hall described Henry VIII, on his way to the Tower previous to his coronation, as wearing "a jacket of raised gold, the placard embroidered with diamonds and other rich stones, and a great bauderike about his neck of large balasses." The favourites of James I wore ear-rings of emeralds set in gold filigrane. Edward II gave to Piers159 Gaveston a suit of red-gold armour160 studded with jacinths, a collar of gold roses set with turquoise-stones, and a skull-cap parsemé with pearls. Henry II wore jewelled gloves reaching to the elbow, and had a hawk-glove sewn with twelve rubies and fifty-two great orients. The ducal hat of Charles the Rash, the last Duke of Burgundy of his race, was hung with pear-shaped pearls and studded with sapphires.
How exquisite life had once been! How gorgeous in its pomp and decoration! Even to read of the luxury of the dead was wonderful.
Then he turned his attention to embroideries161 and to the tapestries162 that performed the office of frescoes163 in the chill rooms of the northern nations of Europe. As he investigated the subject-- and he always had an extraordinary faculty164 of becoming absolutely absorbed for the moment in whatever he took up--he was almost saddened by the reflection of the ruin that time brought on beautiful and wonderful things. He, at any rate, had escaped that. Summer followed summer, and the yellow jonquils bloomed and died many times, and nights of horror repeated the story of their shame, but he was unchanged. No winter marred165 his face or stained his flowerlike bloom. How different it was with material things! Where had they passed to? Where was the great crocus-coloured robe, on which the gods fought against the giants, that had been worked by brown girls for the pleasure of Athena? Where the huge velarium that Nero had stretched across the Colosseum at Rome, that Titan sail of purple on which was represented the starry166 sky, and Apollo driving a chariot drawn167 by white, gilt-reined steeds? He longed to see the curious table-napkins wrought153 for the Priest of the Sun, on which were displayed all the dainties and viands168 that could be wanted for a feast; the mortuary cloth of King Chilperic, with its three hundred golden bees; the fantastic robes that excited the indignation of the Bishop169 of Pontus and were figured with "lions, panthers, bears, dogs, forests, rocks, hunters--all, in fact, that a painter can copy from nature"; and the coat that Charles of Orleans once wore, on the sleeves of which were embroidered the verses of a song beginning "Madame, je suis tout170 joyeux," the musical accompaniment of the words being wrought in gold thread, and each note, of square shape in those days, formed with four pearls. He read of the room that was prepared at the palace at Rheims for the use of Queen Joan of Burgundy and was decorated with "thirteen hundred and twenty-one parrots, made in broidery, and blazoned171 with the king's arms, and five hundred and sixty-one butterflies, whose wings were similarly ornamented172 with the arms of the queen, the whole worked in gold." Catherine de Médicis had a mourning-bed made for her of black velvet173 powdered with crescents and suns. Its curtains were of damask, with leafy wreaths and garlands, figured upon a gold and silver ground, and fringed along the edges with broideries of pearls, and it stood in a room hung with rows of the queen's devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. Louis XIV had gold embroidered caryatides fifteen feet high in his apartment. The state bed of Sobieski, King of Poland, was made of Smyrna gold brocade embroidered in turquoises174 with verses from the Koran. Its supports were of silver gilt, beautifully chased, and profusely176 set with enamelled and jewelled medallions. It had been taken from the Turkish camp before Vienna, and the standard of Mohammed had stood beneath the tremulous gilt of its canopy177.
And so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens178 that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty Delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and stitched over with iridescent179 beetles180' wings; the Dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the East as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from Java; elaborate yellow Chinese hangings; books bound in tawny181 satins or fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs-de-lys, birds and images; veils of lacis worked in Hungary point; Sicilian brocades and stiff Spanish velvets; Georgian work, with its gilt coins, and Japanese Foukousas, with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.
He had a special passion, also, for ecclesiastical vestments, as indeed he had for everything connected with the service of the Church. In the long cedar182 chests that lined the west gallery of his house, he had stored away many rare and beautiful specimens of what is really the raiment of the Bride of Christ, who must wear purple and jewels and fine linen183 that she may hide the pallid macerated body that is worn by the suffering that she seeks for and wounded by self-inflicted pain. He possessed184 a gorgeous cope of crimson185 silk and gold-thread damask, figured with a repeating pattern of golden pomegranates set in six-petalled formal blossoms, beyond which on either side was the pine-apple device wrought in seed-pearls. The orphreys were divided into panels representing scenes from the life of the Virgin186, and the coronation of the Virgin was figured in coloured silks upon the hood117. This was Italian work of the fifteenth century. Another cope was of green velvet, embroidered with heart-shaped groups of acanthus-leaves, from which spread long-stemmed white blossoms, the details of which were picked out with silver thread and coloured crystals. The morse bore a seraph's head in gold-thread raised work. The orphreys were woven in a diaper of red and gold silk, and were starred with medallions of many saints and martyrs187, among whom was St. Sebastian. He had chasubles, also, of amber27-coloured silk, and blue silk and gold brocade, and yellow silk damask and cloth of gold, figured with representations of the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ, and embroidered with lions and peacocks and other emblems188; dalmatics of white satin and pink silk damask, decorated with tulips and dolphins and fleurs-de-lys; altar frontals of crimson velvet and blue linen; and many corporals, chalice-veils, and sudaria. In the mystic offices to which such things were put, there was something that quickened his imagination.
For these treasures, and everything that he collected in his lovely house, were to be to him means of forgetfulness, modes by which he could escape, for a season, from the fear that seemed to him at times to be almost too great to be borne. Upon the walls of the lonely locked room where he had spent so much of his boyhood, he had hung with his own hands the terrible portrait whose changing features showed him the real degradation of his life, and in front of it had draped the purple-and-gold pall as a curtain. For weeks he would not go there, would forget the hideous painted thing, and get back his light heart, his wonderful joyousness189, his passionate absorption in mere existence. Then, suddenly, some night he would creep out of the house, go down to dreadful places near Blue Gate Fields, and stay there, day after day, until he was driven away. On his return he would sit in front of the her times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.
After a few years he could not endure to be long out of England, and gave up the villa190 that he had shared at Trouville with Lord Henry, as well as the little white walled-in house at Algiers where they had more than once spent the winter. He hated to be separated from the picture that was such a part of his life, and was also afraid that during his absence some one might gain access to the room, in spite of the elaborate bars that he had caused to be placed upon the door.
He was quite conscious that this would tell them nothing. It was true that the portrait still preserved, under all the foulness191 and ugliness of the face, its marked likeness192 to himself; but what could they learn from that? He would laugh at any one who tried to taunt193 him. He had not painted it. What was it to him how vile194 and full of shame it looked? Even if he told them, would they believe it?
Yet he was afraid. Sometimes when he was down at his great house in Nottinghamshire, entertaining the fashionable young men of his own rank who were his chief companions, and astounding195 the county by the wanton luxury and gorgeous splendour of his mode of life, he would suddenly leave his guests and rush back to town to see that the door had not been tampered196 with and that the picture was still there. What if it should be stolen? The mere thought made him cold with horror. Surely the world would know his secret then. Perhaps the world already suspected it.
For, while he fascinated many, there were not a few who distrusted him. He was very nearly blackballed at a West End club of which his birth and social position fully175 entitled him to become a member, and it was said that on one occasion, when he was brought by a friend into the smoking-room of the Churchill, the Duke of Berwick and another gentleman got up in a marked manner and went out. Curious stories became current about him after he had passed his twenty-fifth year. It was rumoured that he had been seen brawling197 with foreign sailors in a low den7 in the distant parts of Whitechapel, and that he consorted198 with thieves and coiners and knew the mysteries of their trade. His extraordinary absences became notorious, and, when he used to reappear again in society, men would whisper to each other in corners, or pass him with a sneer199, or look at him with cold searching eyes, as though they were determined200 to discover his secret.
Of such insolences and attempted slights he, of course, took no notice, and in the opinion of most people his frank debonair201 manner, his charming boyish smile, and the infinite grace of that wonderful youth that seemed never to leave him, were in themselves a sufficient answer to the calumnies202, for so they termed them, that were circulated about him. It was remarked, however, that some of those who had been most intimate with him appeared, after a time, to shun203 him. Women who had wildly adored him, and for his sake had braved all social censure204 and set convention at defiance205, were seen to grow pallid with shame or horror if Dorian Gray entered the room.
Yet these whispered scandals only increased in the eyes of many his strange and dangerous charm. His great wealth was a certain element of security. Society--civilized society, at least-- is never very ready to believe anything to the detriment206 of those who are both rich and fascinating. It feels instinctively207 that manners are of more importance than morals, and, in its opinion, the highest respectability is of much less value than the possession of a good chef. And, after all, it is a very poor consolation208 to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable209 in his private life. Even the cardinal210 virtues211 cannot atone212 for half-cold entrées, as Lord Henry remarked once, in a discussion on the subject, and there is possibly a good deal to be said for his view. For the canons of good society are, or should be, the same as the canons of art. Form is absolutely essential to it. It should have the dignity of a ceremony, as well as its unreality, and should combine the insincere character of a romantic play with the wit and beauty that make such plays delightful to us. Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities213.
Such, at any rate, was Dorian Gray's opinion. He used to wonder at the shallow psychology of those who conceive the ego214 in man as a thing simple, permanent, reliable, and of one essence. To him, man was a being with myriad215 lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies216 of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted217 with the monstrous maladies of the dead. He loved to stroll through the gaunt cold picture-gallery of his country house and look at the various portraits of those whose blood flowed in his veins218. Here was Philip Herbert, described by Francis Osborne, in his Memoires on the Reigns219 of Queen Elizabeth and King James, as one who was "caressed220 by the Court for his handsome face, which kept him not long company." Was it young Herbert's life that he sometimes led? Had some strange poisonous germ crept from body to body till it had reached his own? Was it some dim sense of that ruined grace that had made him so suddenly, and almost without cause, give utterance221, in Basil Hallward's studio, to the mad prayer that had so changed his life? Here, in gold-embroidered red doublet, jewelled surcoat, and gilt-edged ruff and wristbands, stood Sir Anthony Sherard, with his silver-and-black armour piled at his feet. What had this man's legacy222 been? Had the lover of Giovanna of Naples bequeathed him some inheritance of sin and shame? Were his own actions merely the dreams that the dead man had not dared to realize? Here, from the fading canvas, smiled Lady Elizabeth Devereux, in her gauze hood, pearl stomacher, and pink slashed223 sleeves. A flower was in her right hand, and her left clasped an enamelled collar of white and damask roses. On a table by her side lay a mandolin and an apple. There were large green rosettes upon her little pointed224 shoes. He knew her life, and the strange stories that were told about her lovers. Had he something of her temperament in him? These oval, heavy-lidded eyes seemed to look curiously225 at him. What of George Willoughby, with his powdered hair and fantastic patches? How evil he looked! The face was saturnine226 and swarthy, and the sensual lips seemed to be twisted with disdain227. Delicate lace ruffles228 fell over the lean yellow hands that were so overladen with rings. He had been a macaroni of the eighteenth century, and the friend, in his youth, of Lord Ferrars. What of the second Lord Beckenham, the companion of the Prince Regent in his wildest days, and one of the witnesses at the secret marriage with Mrs. Fitzherbert? How proud and handsome he was, with his chestnut229 curls and insolent230 pose! What passions had he bequeathed? The world had looked upon him as infamous231. He had led the orgies at Carlton House. The star of the Garter glittered upon his breast. Beside him hung the portrait of his wife, a pallid, thin-lipped woman in black. Her blood, also, stirred within him. How curious it all seemed! And his mother with her Lady Hamilton face and her moist, wine-dashed lips--he knew what he had got from her. He had got from her his beauty, and his passion for the beauty of others. She laughed at him in her loose Bacchante dress. There were vine leaves in her hair. The purple spilled from the cup she was holding. The carnations232 of the painting had withered233, but the eyes were still wonderful in their depth and brilliancy of colour. They seemed to follow him wherever he went.
Yet one had ancestors in literature as well as in one's own race, nearer perhaps in type and temperament, many of them, and certainly with an influence of which one was more absolutely conscious. There were times when it appeared to Dorian Gray that the whole of history was merely the record of his own life, not as he had lived it in act and circumstance, but as his imagination had created it for him, as it had been in his brain and in his passions. He felt that he had known them all, those strange terrible figures that had passed across the stage of the world and made sin so marvellous and evil so full of subtlety234. It seemed to him that in some mysterious way their lives had been his own.
The hero of the wonderful novel that had so influenced his life had himself known this curious fancy. In the seventh chapter he tells how, crowned with laurel, lest lightning might strike him, he had sat, as Tiberius, in a garden at Capri, reading the shameful235 books of Elephantis, while dwarfs236 and peacocks strutted237 round him and the flute-player mocked the swinger of the censer; and, as Caligula, had caroused238 with the green-shirted jockeys in their stables and supped in an ivory manger with a jewel-frontleted horse; and, as Domitian, had wandered through a corridor lined with marble mirrors, looking round with haggard eyes for the reflection of the dagger239 that was to end his days, and sick with that ennui240, that terrible taedium vitae, that comes on those to whom life denies nothing; and had peered through a clear emerald at the red shambles241 of the circus and then, in a litter of pearl and purple drawn by silver-shod mules242, been carried through the Street of Pomegranates to a House of Gold and heard men cry on Nero Caesar as he passed by; and, as Elagabalus, had painted his face with colours, and plied243 the distaff among the women, and brought the Moon from Carthage and given her in mystic marriage to the Sun.
Over and over again Dorian used to read this fantastic chapter, and the two chapters immediately following, in which, as in some curious tapestries or cunningly wrought enamels244, were pictured the awful and beautiful forms of those whom vice59 and blood and weariness had made monstrous or mad: Filippo, Duke of Milan, who slew245 his wife and painted her lips with a scarlet poison that her lover might suck death from the dead thing he fondled; Pietro Barbi, the Venetian, known as Paul the Second, who sought in his vanity to assume the title of Formosus, and whose tiara, valued at two hundred thousand florins, was bought at the price of a terrible sin; Gian Maria Visconti, who used hounds to chase living men and whose murdered body was covered with roses by a harlot who had loved him; the Borgia on his white horse, with Fratricide riding beside him and his mantle246 stained with the blood of Perotto; Pietro Riario, the young Cardinal Archbishop of Florence, child and minion247 of Sixtus IV, whose beauty was equalled only by his debauchery, and who received Leonora of Aragon in a pavilion of white and crimson silk, filled with nymphs and centaurs248, and gilded249 a boy that he might serve at the feast as Ganymede or Hylas; Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine--the son of the Fiend, as was reported, and one who had cheated his father at dice250 when gambling251 with him for his own soul; Giambattista Cibo, who in mockery took the name of Innocent and into whose torpid252 veins the blood of three lads was infused by a Jewish doctor; Sigismondo Malatesta, the lover of Isotta and the lord of Rimini, whose effigy253 was burned at Rome as the enemy of God and man, who strangled Polyssena with a napkin, and gave poison to Ginevra d'Este in a cup of emerald, and in honour of a shameful passion built a pagan church for Christian254 worship; Charles VI, who had so wildly adored his brother's wife that a leper had warned him of the insanity255 that was coming on him, and who, when his brain had sickened and grown strange, could only be soothed256 by Saracen cards painted with the images of love and death and madness; and, in his trimmed jerkin and jewelled cap and acanthuslike curls, Grifonetto Baglioni, who slew Astorre with his bride, and Simonetto with his page, and whose comeliness257 was such that, as he lay dying in the yellow piazza258 of Perugia, those who had hated him could not choose but weep, and Atalanta, who had cursed him, blessed him.
There was a horrible fascination in them all. He saw them at night, and they troubled his imagination in the day. The Renaissance259 knew of strange manners of poisoning-- poisoning by a helmet and a lighted torch, by an embroidered glove and a jewelled fan, by a gilded pomander and by an amber chain. Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book. There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful.
1 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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2 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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3 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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4 temperaments | |
性格( temperament的名词复数 ); (人或动物的)气质; 易冲动; (性情)暴躁 | |
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5 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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6 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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7 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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8 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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9 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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10 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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11 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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12 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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13 dishonour | |
n./vt.拒付(支票、汇票、票据等);vt.凌辱,使丢脸;n.不名誉,耻辱,不光彩 | |
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14 rebuked | |
责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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16 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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17 tarnished | |
(通常指金属)(使)失去光泽,(使)变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 ); 玷污,败坏 | |
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18 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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19 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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20 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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21 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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22 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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23 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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24 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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25 scented | |
adj.有香味的;洒香水的;有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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26 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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27 amber | |
n.琥珀;琥珀色;adj.琥珀制的 | |
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28 tavern | |
n.小旅馆,客栈;小酒店 | |
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29 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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30 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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31 ravenous | |
adj.极饿的,贪婪的 | |
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32 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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33 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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34 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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35 gem | |
n.宝石,珠宝;受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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36 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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37 realization | |
n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
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38 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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39 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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40 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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41 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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42 exquisites | |
n.精致的( exquisite的名词复数 );敏感的;剧烈的;强烈的 | |
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43 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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44 arbiter | |
n.仲裁人,公断人 | |
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45 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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46 decried | |
v.公开反对,谴责( decry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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48 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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49 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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50 wilful | |
adj.任性的,故意的 | |
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51 rejections | |
拒绝( rejection的名词复数 ); 摒弃; 剔除物; 排斥 | |
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52 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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53 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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54 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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55 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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56 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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57 prophesied | |
v.预告,预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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59 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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60 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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61 asceticism | |
n.禁欲主义 | |
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62 profligacy | |
n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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63 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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64 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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65 lurks | |
n.潜在,潜伏;(lurk的复数形式)vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的第三人称单数形式) | |
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66 grotesques | |
n.衣着、打扮、五官等古怪,不协调的样子( grotesque的名词复数 ) | |
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67 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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68 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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69 crouch | |
v.蹲伏,蜷缩,低头弯腰;n.蹲伏 | |
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70 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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71 sob | |
n.空间轨道的轰炸机;呜咽,哭泣 | |
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72 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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73 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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74 mimic | |
v.模仿,戏弄;n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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75 tapers | |
(长形物体的)逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 ); 微弱的光; 极细的蜡烛 | |
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76 stereotyped | |
adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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77 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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78 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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79 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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80 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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81 incompatible | |
adj.不相容的,不协调的,不相配的 | |
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82 rumoured | |
adj.谣传的;传说的;风 | |
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83 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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84 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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85 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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86 symbolize | |
vt.作为...的象征,用符号代表 | |
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87 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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88 chalice | |
n.圣餐杯;金杯毒酒 | |
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89 smiting | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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90 fuming | |
愤怒( fume的现在分词 ); 大怒; 发怒; 冒烟 | |
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91 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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92 gilt | |
adj.镀金的;n.金边证券 | |
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93 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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94 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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95 travail | |
n.阵痛;努力 | |
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96 materialistic | |
a.唯物主义的,物质享乐主义的 | |
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97 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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98 dependence | |
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
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99 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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100 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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101 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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102 distilling | |
n.蒸馏(作用)v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 );从…提取精华 | |
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103 sensuous | |
adj.激发美感的;感官的,感觉上的 | |
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104 musk | |
n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物,香猫 | |
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105 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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106 aromatic | |
adj.芳香的,有香味的 | |
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107 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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108 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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109 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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110 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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111 monotonously | |
adv.单调地,无变化地 | |
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112 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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113 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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114 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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115 feigned | |
a.假装的,不真诚的 | |
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116 hooded | |
adj.戴头巾的;有罩盖的;颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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117 hood | |
n.头巾,兜帽,覆盖;v.罩上,以头巾覆盖 | |
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118 adders | |
n.加法器,(欧洲产)蝰蛇(小毒蛇),(北美产无毒的)猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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119 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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120 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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121 discords | |
不和(discord的复数形式) | |
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122 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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123 scourging | |
鞭打( scourge的现在分词 ); 惩罚,压迫 | |
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124 flutes | |
长笛( flute的名词复数 ); 细长香槟杯(形似长笛) | |
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125 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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126 gourds | |
n.葫芦( gourd的名词复数 ) | |
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127 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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128 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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129 inhales | |
v.吸入( inhale的第三人称单数 ) | |
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130 smeared | |
弄脏; 玷污; 涂抹; 擦上 | |
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131 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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132 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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133 cylindrical | |
adj.圆筒形的 | |
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134 bestial | |
adj.残忍的;野蛮的 | |
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135 prelude | |
n.序言,前兆,序曲 | |
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136 enthralled | |
迷住,吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 ); 使感到非常愉快 | |
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137 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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138 amethyst | |
n.紫水晶 | |
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139 amethysts | |
n.紫蓝色宝石( amethyst的名词复数 );紫晶;紫水晶;紫色 | |
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140 ruby | |
n.红宝石,红宝石色 | |
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141 sapphire | |
n.青玉,蓝宝石;adj.天蓝色的 | |
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142 turquoise | |
n.绿宝石;adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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143 connoisseurs | |
n.鉴赏家,鉴定家,行家( connoisseur的名词复数 ) | |
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144 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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145 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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146 agate | |
n.玛瑙 | |
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147 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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148 appeased | |
安抚,抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 ); 绥靖(满足另一国的要求以避免战争) | |
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149 demons | |
n.恶人( demon的名词复数 );恶魔;精力过人的人;邪念 | |
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150 waned | |
v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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151 toad | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆 | |
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152 antidote | |
n.解毒药,解毒剂 | |
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153 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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154 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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155 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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156 sapphires | |
n.蓝宝石,钢玉宝石( sapphire的名词复数 );蔚蓝色 | |
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157 lured | |
吸引,引诱(lure的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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158 rubies | |
红宝石( ruby的名词复数 ); 红宝石色,深红色 | |
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159 piers | |
n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 );(常设有娱乐场所的)突堤;柱子;墙墩 | |
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160 armour | |
(=armor)n.盔甲;装甲部队 | |
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161 embroideries | |
刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 ); 刺绣品; 刺绣法 | |
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162 tapestries | |
n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 );绣帷,织锦v.用挂毯(或绣帷)装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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163 frescoes | |
n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 );温壁画技法,湿壁画 | |
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164 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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165 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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166 starry | |
adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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167 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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168 viands | |
n.食品,食物 | |
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169 bishop | |
n.主教,(国际象棋)象 | |
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170 tout | |
v.推销,招徕;兜售;吹捧,劝诱 | |
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171 blazoned | |
v.广布( blazon的过去式和过去分词 );宣布;夸示;装饰 | |
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172 ornamented | |
adj.花式字体的v.装饰,点缀,美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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174 turquoises | |
n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 );青绿色 | |
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175 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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176 profusely | |
ad.abundantly | |
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177 canopy | |
n.天篷,遮篷 | |
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178 specimens | |
n.样品( specimen的名词复数 );范例;(化验的)抽样;某种类型的人 | |
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179 iridescent | |
adj.彩虹色的,闪色的 | |
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180 beetles | |
n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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181 tawny | |
adj.茶色的,黄褐色的;n.黄褐色 | |
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182 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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183 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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184 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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185 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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186 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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187 martyrs | |
n.martyr的复数形式;烈士( martyr的名词复数 );殉道者;殉教者;乞怜者(向人诉苦以博取同情) | |
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188 emblems | |
n.象征,标记( emblem的名词复数 ) | |
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189 joyousness | |
快乐,使人喜悦 | |
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190 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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191 foulness | |
n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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192 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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193 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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194 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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195 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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196 tampered | |
v.窜改( tamper的过去式 );篡改;(用不正当手段)影响;瞎摆弄 | |
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197 brawling | |
n.争吵,喧嚷 | |
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198 consorted | |
v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 );交往;相称;调和 | |
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199 sneer | |
v.轻蔑;嘲笑;n.嘲笑,讥讽的言语 | |
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200 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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201 debonair | |
adj.殷勤的,快乐的 | |
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202 calumnies | |
n.诬蔑,诽谤,中伤(的话)( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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203 shun | |
vt.避开,回避,避免 | |
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204 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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205 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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206 detriment | |
n.损害;损害物,造成损害的根源 | |
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207 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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208 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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209 irreproachable | |
adj.不可指责的,无过失的 | |
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210 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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211 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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212 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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213 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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214 ego | |
n.自我,自己,自尊 | |
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215 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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216 legacies | |
n.遗产( legacy的名词复数 );遗留之物;遗留问题;后遗症 | |
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217 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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218 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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219 reigns | |
n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 );君主统治时期;任期;当政期 | |
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220 caressed | |
爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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221 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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222 legacy | |
n.遗产,遗赠;先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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223 slashed | |
v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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224 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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225 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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226 saturnine | |
adj.忧郁的,沉默寡言的,阴沉的,感染铅毒的 | |
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227 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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228 ruffles | |
褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
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229 chestnut | |
n.栗树,栗子 | |
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230 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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231 infamous | |
adj.声名狼藉的,臭名昭著的,邪恶的 | |
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232 carnations | |
n.麝香石竹,康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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233 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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234 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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235 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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236 dwarfs | |
n.侏儒,矮子(dwarf的复数形式)vt.(使)显得矮小(dwarf的第三人称单数形式) | |
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237 strutted | |
趾高气扬地走,高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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238 caroused | |
v.痛饮,闹饮欢宴( carouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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239 dagger | |
n.匕首,短剑,剑号 | |
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240 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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241 shambles | |
n.混乱之处;废墟 | |
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242 mules | |
骡( mule的名词复数 ); 拖鞋; 顽固的人; 越境运毒者 | |
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243 plied | |
v.使用(工具)( ply的过去式和过去分词 );经常供应(食物、饮料);固定往来;经营生意 | |
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244 enamels | |
搪瓷( enamel的名词复数 ); 珐琅; 釉药; 瓷漆 | |
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245 slew | |
v.(使)旋转;n.大量,许多 | |
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246 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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247 minion | |
n.宠仆;宠爱之人 | |
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248 centaurs | |
n.(希腊神话中)半人半马怪物( centaur的名词复数 ) | |
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249 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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250 dice | |
n.骰子;vt.把(食物)切成小方块,冒险 | |
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251 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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252 torpid | |
adj.麻痹的,麻木的,迟钝的 | |
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253 effigy | |
n.肖像 | |
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254 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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255 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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256 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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257 comeliness | |
n. 清秀, 美丽, 合宜 | |
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258 piazza | |
n.广场;走廊 | |
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259 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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