“Well, hanged if I understand!” poor Mr. Dosson had said. “I thought you liked the piece — you think it’s so queer THEY don’t like it.” “They,” in the parlance6 of the Dossons, now never meant anything but the Proberts in congress assembled.
“I don’t think anything’s queer but you!” Delia had retorted; and she had let her father know that she had left Francie in the very act of “handling” Mr. Flack.
“Is that so?” the old gentleman had quavered in an impotence that made him wince7 with a sense of meanness — meanness to his bold initiator of so many Parisian hours.
Francie’s visitor came down a few minutes later and passed through the court and out of the hotel without looking at them. Mr. Dosson had been going to call after him, but Delia checked him with a violent pinch. The unsociable manner of the young journalist’s departure deepened Mr. Dosson’s dull ache over the mystery of things. I think this may be said to have been the only incident in the whole business that gave him a personal pang8. He remembered how many of his cigars he had smoked with Mr. Flack and how universal a participant he had made him. This haughtiness9 struck him as the failure of friendship — not the publication of details about the Proberts. Interwoven with Mr. Dosson’s nature was the view that if these people had done bad things they ought to be ashamed of themselves and he couldn’t pity them, and that if they hadn’t done them there was no need of making such a rumpus about other people’s knowing. It was therefore, in spite of the young man’s rough exit, still in the tone of American condonation10 that he had observed to Delia: “He says that’s what they like over there and that it stands to reason that if you start a paper you’ve got to give them what they like. If you want the people with you, you’ve got to be with the people.”
“Well, there are a good many people in the world. I don’t think the Proberts are with us much.”
“Oh he doesn’t mean them,” said Mr. Dosson.
“Well, I do!” cried Delia.
At one of the ormolu tables, near a lamp with a pink shade, Gaston insisted on making at least a partial statement. He didn’t say that he might never have another chance, but Delia felt with despair that this idea was in his mind. He was very gentle, very polite, but distinctly cold, she thought; he was intensely depressed11 and for half an hour uttered not the least little pleasantry. There was no particular occasion for that when he talked about “preferred bonds” with her father. This was a language Delia couldn’t translate, though she had heard it from childhood. He had a great many papers to show Mr. Dosson, records of the mission of which he had acquitted12 himself, but Mr. Dosson pushed them into the drawer of the ormolu table with the remark that he guessed they were all right. Now, after the fact, he appeared to attach but little importance to Gaston’s achievements — an attitude which Delia perceived to be slightly disconcerting to their visitor. Delia understood it: she had an instinctive13 sense that her father knew a great deal more than Gaston could tell him even about the work he had committed to him, and also that there was in such punctual settlements an eagerness, a literalism, totally foreign to Mr. Dosson’s domestic habits and to which he would even have imputed14 a certain pettifogging provinciality15 — treatable however with dry humour. If Gaston had cooled off he wanted at least to be able to say that he had rendered them services in America; but now her father, for the moment at least, scarcely appeared to think his services worth speaking of: an incident that left him with more of the responsibility for his cooling. What Mr. Dosson wanted to know was how everything had struck him over there, especially the Pickett Building and the parlour-cars and Niagara and the hotels he had instructed him to go to, giving him an introduction in two or three cases to the gentleman in charge of the office. It was in relation to these themes that Gaston was guilty of a want of spring, as the girl phrased it to herself; that he could produce no appreciative16 expression. He declared however, repeatedly, that it was a most extraordinary country — most extraordinary and far beyond anything he had had any conception of. “Of course I didn’t like EVERYTHING,” he said, “any more than I like everything anywhere.”
“Well, what didn’t you like?” Mr. Dosson enquired17, at this, after a short silence.
Gaston Probert made his choice. “Well, the light for instance.”
“The light — the electric?”
“No, the solar! I thought it rather hard, too much like the scratching of a slate-pencil.” As Mr. Dosson hereupon looked vague and rather as if the reference were to some enterprise (a great lamp company) of which he had not heard — conveying a suggestion that he was perhaps staying away too long, Gaston immediately added: “I really think Francie might come in. I wrote to her that I wanted particularly to see her.”
“I’ll go and call her — I’ll make her come,” said Delia at the door. She left her companions together and Gaston returned to the subject of Mr. Munster, Mr. Dosson’s former partner, to whom he had taken a letter and who had shown him every sort of civility. Mr. Dosson was pleased at this; nevertheless he broke out suddenly:
“Look here, you know; if you’ve got anything to say that you don’t think very acceptable you had better say it to ME.” Gaston changed colour, but his reply was checked by Delia’s quick return. She brought the news that her sister would be obliged if he would go into the little dining-room — he would find her there. She had something for his ear that she could mention only in private. It was very comfortable; there was a lamp and a fire. “Well, I guess she CAN take care of herself!” Mr. Dosson, at this, commented with a laugh. “What does she want to say to him?” he asked when Gaston had passed out.
“Gracious knows! She won’t tell me. But it’s too flat, at his age, to live in such terror.”
“In such terror?”
“Why of your father. You’ve got to choose.”
“How, to choose?”
“Why if there’s a person you like and he doesn’t like.”
“You mean you can’t choose your father,” said Mr. Dosson thoughtfully.
“Of course you can’t.”
“Well then please don’t like any one. But perhaps I should like him,” he added, faithful to his easier philosophy.
“I guess you’d have to,” said Delia.
In the small salle-a-manger, when Gaston went in, Francie was standing18 by the empty table, and as soon as she saw him she began.
“You can’t say I didn’t tell you I should do something. I did nothing else from the first — I mean but tell you. So you were warned again and again. You knew what to expect.”
“Ah don’t say THAT again; if you knew how it acts on my nerves!” the young man groaned19. “You speak as if you had done it on purpose — to carry out your absurd threat.”
“Well, what does it matter when it’s all over?”
“It’s not all over. Would to God it were!”
The girl stared. “Don’t you know what I sent for you to come in here for? To bid you good-bye.”
He held her an instant as if in unbelievable view, and then “Francie, what on earth has got into you?” he broke out. “What deviltry, what poison?” It would have been strange and sad to an observer, the opposition20 of these young figures, so fresh, so candid21, so meant for confidence, but now standing apart and looking at each other in a wan2 defiance22 that hardened their faces.
“Don’t they despise me — don’t they hate me? You do yourself! Certainly you’ll be glad for me to break off and spare you decisions and troubles impossible to you.”
“I don’t understand; it’s like some hideous23 dream!” Gaston Probert cried. “You act as if you were doing something for a wager24, and you make it worse by your talk. I don’t believe it — I don’t believe a word of it.”
“What don’t you believe?” she asked.
“That you told him — that you told him knowingly. If you’ll take that back (it’s too monstrous25!) if you’ll deny it and give me your assurance that you were practised upon and surprised, everything can still be arranged.”
“Do you want me to lie?” asked Francie Dosson. “I thought you’d like pleasant words.”
“Oh Francie, Francie!” moaned the wretched youth with tears in his eyes.
“What can be arranged? What do you mean by everything?” she went on.
“Why they’ll accept it; they’ll ask for nothing more. It’s your participation26 they can’t forgive.”
“THEY can’t? Why do you talk to me of ‘them’? I’m not engaged to ‘them’!” she said with a shrill27 little laugh.
“Oh Francie I am! And it’s they who are buried beneath that filthy28 rubbish!”
She flushed at this characterisation of Mr. Flack’s epistle, but returned as with more gravity: “I’m very sorry — very sorry indeed. But evidently I’m not delicate.”
He looked at her, helpless and bitter. “It’s not the newspapers in your country that would have made you so. Lord, they’re too incredible! And the ladies have them on their tables.”
“You told me we couldn’t here — that the Paris ones are too bad,” said Francie.
“Bad they are, God knows; but they’ve never published anything like that — poured forth29 such a flood of impudence30 on decent quiet people who only want to be left alone.”
Francie sank to a chair by the table as if she were too tired to stand longer, and with her arms spread out on the lamplit plush she looked up at him. “Was it there you saw it?”
He was on his feet opposite, and she made at this moment the odd reflexion that she had never “realised” he had such fine lovely uplifted eyebrows31. “Yes, a few days before I sailed. I hated them from the moment I got there — I looked at them very little. But that was a chance. I opened the paper in the hall of an hotel — there was a big marble floor and spittoons! — and my eyes fell on that horror. It made me ill.”
“Did you think it was me?” she patiently gaped32.
“About as soon as I supposed it was my father. But I was too mystified, too tormented34.”
“Then why didn’t you write to me, if you didn’t think it was me?”
“Write to you? I wrote to you every three days,” he cried.
“Not after that.”
“Well, I may have omitted a post at the last — I thought it might be Delia,” Gaston added in a moment.
“Oh she didn’t want me to do it — the day I went with him, the day I told him. She tried to prevent me,” Francie insisted.
“Would to God then she had!” he wailed35.
“Haven’t you told them she’s delicate too?” she asked in her strange tone.
He made no answer to this; he only continued: “What power, in heaven’s name, has he got over you? What spell has he worked?”
“He’s a gay old friend — he helped us ever so much when we were first in Paris.”
“But, my dearest child, what ‘gaieties,’ what friends — what a man to know!”
“If we hadn’t known him we shouldn’t have known YOU. Remember it was Mr. Flack who brought us that day to Mr. Waterlow’s.”
“Oh you’d have come some other way,” said Gaston, who made nothing of that.
“Not in the least. We knew nothing about any other way. He helped us in everything — he showed us everything. That was why I told him — when he asked me. I liked him for what he had done.”
Gaston, who had now also seated himself, listened to this attentively36. “I see. It was a kind of delicacy37.”
“Oh a ‘kind’!” She desperately38 smiled.
He remained a little with his eyes on her face. “Was it for me?”
“Of course it was for you.”
“Ah how strange you are!” he cried with tenderness. “Such contradictions — on s’y perd. I wish you’d say that to THEM, that way. Everything would be right.”
“Never, never!” said the girl. “I’ve wronged them, and nothing will ever be the same again. It was fatal. If I felt as they do I too would loathe39 the person who should have done such a thing. It doesn’t seem to me so bad — the thing in the paper; but you know best. You must go back to them. You know best,” she repeated.
“They were the last, the last people in France, to do it to. The sense of desecration40, of pollution, you see”— he explained as if for conscience.
“Oh you needn’t tell me — I saw them all there!” she answered.
“It must have been a dreadful scene. But you DIDN’T brave them, did you?”
“Brave them — what are you talking about? To you that idea’s incredible!” she then hopelessly sighed.
But he wouldn’t have this. “No, no — I can imagine cases.” He clearly had SOME vision of independence, though he looked awful about it.
“But this isn’t a case, hey?” she demanded. “Well then go back to them — go back,” she repeated. At this he half-threw himself across the table to seize her hands, but she drew away and, as he came nearer, pushed her chair back, springing up. “You know you didn’t come here to tell me you’re ready to give them up.”
“To give them up?” He only echoed it with all his woe41 at first. “I’ve been battling with them till I’m ready to drop. You don’t know how they feel — how they MUST feel.”
“Oh yes I do. All this has made me older, every hour.”
“It has made you — so extraordinarily42! — more beautiful,” said Gaston Probert.
“I don’t care. Nothing will induce me to consent to any sacrifice.”
“Some sacrifice there must be. Give me time — give me time, I’ll manage it. I only wish they hadn’t seen you there in the Bois.”
“In the Bois?”
“That Marguerite hadn’t seen you — with that lying blackguard. That’s the image they can’t get over.”
Well, it was as if it had been the thing she had got herself most prepared for — so that she must speak accordingly. “I see you can’t either, Gaston. Anyhow I WAS there and I felt it all right. That’s all I can say. You must take me as I am,” said Francie Dosson.
“Don’t — don’t; you infuriate me!” he pleaded, frowning.
She had seemed to soften43, but she was in a sudden flame again. “Of course I do, and I shall do it again. We’re too terribly different. Everything makes you so. You CAN’T give them up — ever, ever. Good-bye — good-bye! That’s all I wanted to tell you.”
“I’ll go and throttle44 him!” the young man almost howled.
“Very well, go! Good-bye.” She had stepped quickly to the door and had already opened it, vanishing as she had done the other time.
“Francie, Francie!” he supplicated45, following her into the passage. The door was not the one that led to the salon46; it communicated with the other apartments. The girl had plunged47 into these — he already heard her push a sharp bolt. Presently he went away without taking leave of Mr. Dosson and Delia.
“Why he acts just like Mr. Flack,” said the old man when they discovered that the interview in the dining-room had come to an end.
The next day was a bad one for Charles Waterlow, his work in the Avenue de Villiers being terribly interrupted. Gaston Probert invited himself to breakfast at noon and remained till the time at which the artist usually went out — an extravagance partly justified48 by the previous separation of several weeks. During these three or four hours Gaston walked up and down the studio while Waterlow either sat or stood before his easel. He put his host vastly out and acted on his nerves, but this easy genius was patient with him by reason of much pity, feeling the occasion indeed more of a crisis in the history of the troubled youth than the settlement of one question would make it. Waterlow’s compassion49 was slightly tinged50 with contempt, for there was being settled above all, it seemed to him, and, alas51, in the wrong sense, the question of his poor friend’s character. Gaston was in a fever; he broke out into passionate52 pleas — he relapsed into gloomy silences. He roamed about continually, his hands in his pockets and his hair in a tangle53; he could take neither a decision nor a momentary54 rest. It struck his companion more than ever before that he was after all essentially55 a foreigner; he had the foreign sensibility, the sentimental56 candour, the need for sympathy, the communicative despair. A true young Anglo–Saxon would have buttoned himself up in his embarrassment57 and been dry and awkward and capable, and, however conscious of a pressure, unconscious of a drama; whereas Gaston was effusive58 and appealing and ridiculous and graceful59 — natural above all and egotistical. Indeed a true young Anglo–Saxon wouldn’t have known the particular acuteness of such a quandary60, for he wouldn’t have parted to such an extent with his freedom of spirit. It was the fact of this surrender on his visitor’s part that excited Waterlow’s secret scorn: family feeling was all very well, but to see it triumph as a superstition61 calling for the blood-sacrifice made him feel he would as soon be a blackamoor on his knees before a fetish. He now measured for the first time the root it had taken in Gaston’s nature. To act like a man the hope of the Proberts must pull up the root, even if the operation should be terribly painful, should be attended with cries and tears and contortions62, with baffling scruples63 and a sense of sacrilege, the sense of siding with strangers against his own flesh and blood. Now and again he broke out: “And if you should see her as she looks just now — she’s too lovely, too touching64! — you’d see how right I was originally, when I found her such a revelation of that rare type, the French Renaissance65, you know, the one we talked about.” But he reverted66 with at least equal frequency to the oppression he seemed unable to throw off, the idea of something done of cruel purpose and malice67, with a refinement68 of outrage69: such an accident to THEM, of all people on earth, the very last, the least thinkable, those who, he verily believed, would feel it more than any family in the world. When Waterlow asked what made them of so exceptionally fine a fibre he could only answer that they just happened to be-not enviably, if one would; it was his father’s influence and example, his very genius, the worship of privacy and good manners, a hatred70 of all the new familiarities and profanations. The artist sought to know further, at last and rather wearily, what in two words was the practical question his friend desired he should consider. Whether he should be justified in throwing the girl over — was that the issue?
“Gracious goodness, no! For what sort of sneak71 do you take me? She made a mistake, but any innocent young creature might do that. It’s whether it strikes you I should be justified in throwing THEM over.”
“It depends upon the sense you attach to justification72.”
“I mean should I be miserably73 unhappy? Would it be in their power to make me so?”
“To try — certainly, if they’re capable of anything so nasty. The only fair play for them is to let you alone,” Waterlow wound up.
“Ah, they won’t do that — they like me too much!” Gaston ingenuously74 cried.
“It’s an odd way of liking75! The best way to show their love will be to let you marry where your affections, and so many other charming things, are involved.”
“Certainly — only they question the charming things. They feel she represents, poor little dear, such dangers, such vulgarities, such possibilities of doing other dreadful things, that it’s upon THEM— I mean on those things — my happiness would be shattered.”
“Well,” the elder man rather dryly said, “if you yourself have no secrets for persuading them of the contrary I’m afraid I can’t teach you one.”
“Yes, I ought to do it myself,” Gaston allowed in the candour of his meditations76. Then he went on in his torment33 of hesitation77: “They never believed in her from the first. My father was perfectly78 definite about it. At heart they never accepted her; they only pretended to do so because I guaranteed her INSTINCTS— that’s what I did, heaven help me! and that she was incapable79 of doing a thing that could ever displease80 them. Then no sooner was my back turned than she perpetrated that!”
“That was your folly81,” Waterlow remarked, painting away.
“My folly — to turn my back?”
“No, no — to guarantee.”
“My dear fellow, wouldn’t you?”— and Gaston stared.
“Never in the world.”
“You’d have thought her capable —?”
“Capabilissima! And I shouldn’t have cared.”
“Do you think her then capable of breaking out again in some new way that’s as bad?”
“I shouldn’t care if she was. That’s the least of all questions.”
“The least?”
“Ah don’t you see, wretched youth,” cried the artist, pausing from his work and looking up —“don’t you see that the question of her possibilities is as nothing compared to that of yours? She’s the sweetest young thing I ever saw; but even if she happened not to be I should still urge you to marry her, in simple self-preservation.”
Gaston kept echoing. “In self-preservation?”
“To save from destruction the last scrap82 of your independence. That’s a much more important matter even than not treating her shabbily. They’re doing their best to kill you morally — to render you incapable of individual life.”
Gaston was immensely struck. “They are — they are!” he declared with enthusiasm.
“Well then, if you believe it, for heaven’s sake go and marry her tomorrow!” Waterlow threw down his implements83 and added: “And come out of this — into the air.”
Gaston, however, was planted in his path on the way to the door. “And if she goes again and does the very same?”
“The very same —?” Waterlow thought.
“I mean something else as barbarous and as hard to bear.”
“Well,” said Waterlow, “you’ll at least have got rid of your family.”
“Yes, if she lets me in again I shall be glad they’re not there! They’re right, pourtant, they’re right,” Gaston went on, passing out of the studio with his friend.
“They’re right?”
“It was unimaginable that she should.”
“Yes, thank heaven! It was the finger of providence84 — providence taking you off your guard to give you your chance.” This was ingenious, but, though he could glow for a moment in response to it, Francie’s lover — if lover he may in his so infirm aspect be called — looked as if he mistrusted it, thought it slightly sophistical. What really shook him however was his companion’s saying to him in the vestibule, when they had taken their hats and sticks and were on the point of going out: “Lord, man, how can you be so impenetrably dense85? Don’t you see that she’s really of the softest finest material that breathes, that she’s a perfect flower of plasticity, that everything you may have an apprehension86 about will drop away from her like the dead leaves from a rose and that you may make of her any perfect and enchanting87 thing you yourself have the wit to conceive?”
“Ah my dear friend!”— and poor Gaston, with another of his revulsions, panted for gratitude88.
“The limit will be yours, not hers,” Waterlow added.
“No, no, I’ve done with limits,” his friend ecstatically cried.
That evening at ten o’clock Gaston presented himself at the Hotel de l’Univers et de Cheltenham and requested the German waiter to introduce him into the dining-room attached to Mr. Dosson’s apartments and then go and tell Miss Francina he awaited her there.
“Oh you’ll be better there than in the zalon — they’ve villed it with their luccatch,” said the man, who always addressed him in an intention of English and wasn’t ignorant of the tie that united the visitor to the amiable89 American family, or perhaps even of the modifications90 it had lately undergone.
“With their luggage?”
“They leave tomorrow morning — ach I don’t think they themselves know for where, sir.”
“Please then say to Miss Francina that I’ve called on the most urgent business and am extraordinarily pressed.”
The special ardour possessing Gaston at that moment belonged to the order of the communicative, but perhaps the vividness with which the waiter placed this exhibition of it before the young lady is better explained by the fact that her lover slipped a five-franc piece into his hand. She at any rate entered his place of patience sooner than Gaston had ventured to hope, though she corrected her promptitude a little by stopping short and drawing back when she saw how pale he was and how he looked as if he had been crying.
“I’ve chosen — I’ve chosen,” he said expressively91, smiling at her in denial of these indications.
“You’ve chosen?”
“I’ve had to give them up. But I like it so better than having to give YOU up! I took you first with their assent92. That was well enough — it was worth trying for. But now I take you without it. We can live that way too.”
“Ah I’m not worth it. You give up too much!” Francie returned. “We’re going away — it’s all over.” She averted93 herself quickly, as if to carry out her meaning, but he caught her more quickly still and held her — held her fast and long. She had only freed herself when her father and sister broke in from the salon, attracted apparently94 by the audible commotion95.
“Oh I thought you had at least knocked over the lamp!” Delia exclaimed.
“You must take me with you if you’re going away, Mr. Dosson,” Gaston said. “I’ll start whenever you like.”
“All right — where shall we go?” that amiable man asked.
“Hadn’t you decided96 that?”
“Well, the girls said they’d tell me.”
“We were going home,” Francie brought out.
“No we weren’t — not a wee mite97!” Delia professed98.
“Oh not THERE” Gaston murmured, with a look of anguish99 at Francie.
“Well, when you’ve fixed100 it you can take the tickets,” Mr. Dosson observed with detachment.
“To some place where there are no newspapers, darling,” Gaston went on.
“I guess you’ll have hard work to find one,” Mr. Dosson pursued.
“Dear me, we needn’t read them any more. We wouldn’t have read that one if your family hadn’t forced us,” Delia said to her prospective101 brother-inlaw.
“Well, I shall never be forced — I shall never again in my life look at one,” he very gravely declared.
“You’ll see, sir — you’ll have to!” Mr. Dosson cheerfully persisted.
“No, you’ll tell us enough.”
Francie had kept her eyes on the ground; the others were all now rather unnaturally102 smiling. “Won’t they forgive me ever?” she asked, looking up.
“Yes, perfectly, if you can persuade me not to stick to you. But in that case what good will their forgiveness do you?”
“Well, perhaps it’s better to pay for it,” the girl went on.
“To pay for it?”
“By suffering something. For it WAS dreadful,” she solemnly gloomily said.
“Oh for all you’ll suffer —!” Gaston protested, shining down on her.
“It was for you — only for you, as I told you,” Francie returned.
“Yes, don’t tell me again — I don’t like that explanation! I ought to let you know that my father now declines to do anything for me,” the young man added to Mr. Dosson.
“To do anything for you?”
“To make me any allowance.”
“Well, that makes me feel better. We don’t want your father’s money, you know,” this more soothable parent said with his mild sturdiness.
“There’ll be enough for all; especially if we economise in newspapers”— Delia carried it elegantly off.
“Well, I don’t know, after all — the Reverberator103 came for nothing,” her father as gaily104 returned.
“Don’t you be afraid he’ll ever send it now!” she shouted in her return of confidence.
“I’m very sorry — because they were all lovely,” Francie went on to Gaston with sad eyes.
“Let us wait to say that till they come back to us,” he answered somewhat sententiously. He really cared little at this moment whether his relatives were lovely or not.
“I’m sure you won’t have to wait long!” Delia remarked with the same cheerfulness.
“‘Till they come back’?” Mr. Dosson repeated. “Ah they can’t come back now, sir. We won’t take them in!” The words fell from his lips with a fine unexpected austerity which imposed itself, producing a momentary silence, and it is a sign of Gaston’s complete emancipation105 that he didn’t in his heart resent this image of eventual106 favours denied his race. The resentment107 was rather Delia’s, but she kept it to herself, for she was capable of reflecting with complacency that the key of the house would after all be hers, so that she could open the door for the Proberts if the Proberts should knock. Now that her sister’s marriage was really to take place her consciousness that the American people would have been resoundingly told so was still more agreeable. The party left the Hotel de l’Univers et de Cheltenham on the morrow, but it appeared to the German waiter, as he accepted another five-franc piece from the happy and now reckless Gaston, that they were even yet not at all clear as to where they were going.
The End
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
transacted
|
|
| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
wan
|
|
| (wide area network)广域网 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
descended
|
|
| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
detested
|
|
| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
parlance
|
|
| n.说法；语调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
wince
|
|
| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
pang
|
|
| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
haughtiness
|
|
| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
condonation
|
|
| n.容忍，宽恕，原谅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
11
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
acquitted
|
|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
imputed
|
|
| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
provinciality
|
|
| n.乡下习气，粗鄙；偏狭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
appreciative
|
|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
enquired
|
|
| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
groaned
|
|
| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
candid
|
|
| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
defiance
|
|
| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
wager
|
|
| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
monstrous
|
|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
participation
|
|
| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
shrill
|
|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
filthy
|
|
| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
impudence
|
|
| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
eyebrows
|
|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
gaped
|
|
| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
torment
|
|
| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
tormented
|
|
| 饱受折磨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
wailed
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
attentively
|
|
| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
loathe
|
|
| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
desecration
|
|
| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
soften
|
|
| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
throttle
|
|
| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
supplicated
|
|
| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
plunged
|
|
| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
justified
|
|
| a.正当的，有理的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
compassion
|
|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
tinged
|
|
| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
tangle
|
|
| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
embarrassment
|
|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
effusive
|
|
| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
quandary
|
|
| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
superstition
|
|
| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
contortions
|
|
| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
scruples
|
|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
renaissance
|
|
| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
reverted
|
|
| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
refinement
|
|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
outrage
|
|
| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
sneak
|
|
| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
justification
|
|
| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
miserably
|
|
| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
ingenuously
|
|
| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
liking
|
|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
meditations
|
|
| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
hesitation
|
|
| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
displease
|
|
| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
scrap
|
|
| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
implements
|
|
| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
providence
|
|
| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
apprehension
|
|
| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
enchanting
|
|
| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
amiable
|
|
| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
modifications
|
|
| n.缓和( modification的名词复数 )；限制；更改；改变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
expressively
|
|
| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
assent
|
|
| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
averted
|
|
| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
commotion
|
|
| n.骚动，动乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
mite
|
|
| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
anguish
|
|
| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
prospective
|
|
| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
unnaturally
|
|
| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
reverberator
|
|
| 反射器，反射灯，反射炉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
104
gaily
|
|
| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
emancipation
|
|
| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
eventual
|
|
| adj.最后的，结局的，最终的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |