One of the first accidents was that, before dinner, I met Ford7 Obert wandering a little apart with Mrs. Server, and that, as they were known to me as agreeable acquaintances, I should have faced them with confidence had I not immediately drawn8 from their sequestered9 air the fear of interrupting them. Mrs. Server was always lovely and Obert always expert; the latter straightway pulled up, however, making me as welcome as if their converse10 had dropped. She was extraordinarily11 pretty, markedly responsive, conspicuously12 charming, but he gave me a look that really seemed to say: “Don’t — there’s a good fellow — leave me any longer alone with her!” I had met her at Newmarch before — it was indeed only so that I had met her — and I knew how she was valued there. I also knew that an aversion to pretty women — numbers of whom he had preserved for a grateful posterity13 — was his sign neither as man nor as artist; the effect of all of which was to make me ask myself what she could have been doing to him. Making love, possibly — yet from that he would scarce have appealed. She wouldn’t, on the other hand, have given him her company only to be inhuman14. I joined them, at all events, learning from Mrs. Server that she had come by a train previous to my own; and we made a slow trio till, at a turn of the prospect15, we came upon another group. It consisted of Mrs. Froome and Lord Lutley and of Gilbert Long and Lady John — mingled16 and confounded, as might be said, not assorted17 according to tradition. Long and Mrs. Froome came first, I recollect18, together, and his lordship turned away from Lady John on seeing me rather directly approach her. She had become for me, on the spot, as interesting as, while we travelled, I had found my two friends in the train. As the source of the flow of “intellect” that had transmuted19 our young man, she had every claim to an earnest attention; and I should soon have been ready to pronounce that she rewarded it as richly as usual. She was indeed, as Mrs. Briss had said, as pointed5 as a hat-pin, and I bore in mind that lady’s injunction to look in her for the answer to our riddle20.
The riddle, I may mention, sounded afresh to my ear in Gilbert Long’s gay voice; it hovered21 there — before me, beside, behind me, as we all paused — in his light, restless step, a nervous animation22 that seemed to multiply his presence. He became really, for the moment, under this impression, the thing I was most conscious of; I heard him, I felt him even while I exchanged greetings with the sorceress by whose wand he had been touched. To be touched myself was doubtless not quite what I wanted; yet I wanted, distinctly, a glimpse; so that, with the smart welcome Lady John gave me, I might certainly have felt that I was on the way to get it. The note of Long’s predominance deepened during these minutes in a manner I can’t describe, and I continued to feel that though we pretended to talk it was to him only we listened. He had us all in hand; he controlled for the moment all our attention and our relations. He was in short, as a consequence of our attitude, in possession of the scene to a tune23 he couldn’t have dreamed of a year or two before — inasmuch as at that period he could have figured at no such eminence24 without making a fool of himself. And the great thing was that if his eminence was now so perfectly25 graced he yet knew less than any of us what was the matter with him. He was unconscious of how he had “come out” — which was exactly what sharpened my wonder. Lady John, on her side, was thoroughly26 conscious, and I had a fancy that she looked at me to measure how far I was. I cared, naturally, not in the least what she guessed; her interest for me was all in the operation of her influence. I am afraid I watched to catch it in the act — watched her with a curiosity of which she might well have become aware.
What an intimacy27, what an intensity28 of relation, I said to myself, so successful a process implied! It was of course familiar enough that when people were so deeply in love they rubbed off on each other — that a great pressure of soul to soul usually left on either side a sufficient show of tell-tale traces. But for Long to have been so stamped as I found him, how the pliant29 wax must have been prepared and the seal of passion applied30! What an affection the woman working such a change in him must have managed to create as a preface to her influence! With what a sense of her charm she must have paved the way for it! Strangely enough, however — it was even rather irritating — there was nothing more than usual in Lady John to assist my view of the height at which the pair so evoked31 must move. These things — the way other people could feel about each other, the power not one’s self, in the given instance, that made for passion — were of course at best the mystery of mysteries; still, there were cases in which fancy, sounding the depths or the shallows, could at least drop the lead. Lady John, perceptibly, was no such case; imagination, in her presence, was but the weak wing of the insect that bumps against the glass. She was pretty, prompt, hard, and, in a way that was special to her, a mistress at once of “culture” and of slang. She was like a hat — with one of Mrs. Briss’s hat-pins — askew32 on the bust33 of Virgil. Her ornamental34 information — as strong as a coat of furniture-polish — almost knocked you down. What I felt in her now more than ever was that, having a reputation for “point” to keep up, she was always under arms, with absences and anxieties like those of a celebrity35 at a public dinner. She thought too much of her “speech” — of how soon it would have to come. It was none the less wonderful, however, that, as Grace Brissenden had said, she should still find herself with intellect to spare — have lavished36 herself by precept37 and example on Long and yet have remained for each other interlocutor as fresh as the clown bounding into the ring. She cracked, for my benefit, as many jokes and turned as many somersaults as might have been expected; after which I thought it fair to let her off. We all faced again to the house, for dressing38 and dinner were in sight.
I found myself once more, as we moved, with Mrs. Server, and I remember rejoicing that, sympathetic as she showed herself, she didn’t think it necessary to be, like Lady John, always “ready.” She was delightfully39 handsome — handsomer than ever; slim, fair, fine, with charming pale eyes and splendid auburn hair. I said to myself that I hadn’t done her justice; she hadn’t organised her forces, was a little helpless and vague, but there was ease for the weary in her happy nature and her peculiar40 grace. These last were articles on which, five minutes later, before the house, where we still had a margin41, I was moved to challenge Ford Obert.
“What was the matter just now — when, though you were so fortunately occupied, you yet seemed to call me to the rescue?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I was only occupied in being frightened!”
“But at what?”
“Well, at a sort of sense that she wanted to make love to me.”
I reflected. “Mrs. Server? Does Mrs. Server make love?”
“It seemed to me,” my friend replied, “that she began on it to you as soon as she got hold of you. Weren’t you aware?”
I debated afresh; I didn’t know that I had been. “Not to the point of terror. She’s so gentle and so appealing. Even if she took one in hand with violence, moreover,” I added, “I don’t see why terror — given so charming a person — should be the result. It’s flattering.”
“Ah, you’re brave,” said Obert.
“I didn’t know you were ever timid. How can you be, in your profession? Doesn’t it come back to me, for that matter, that — only the other year — you painted her?”
“Yes, I faced her to that extent. But she’s different now.”
I scarcely made it out. “In what way different? She’s as charming as ever.”
As if even for his own satisfaction my friend seemed to think a little. “Well, her affections were not then, I imagine, at her disposal. I judge that that’s what it must have been. They were fixed42 — with intensity; and it made the difference with me. Her imagination had, for the time, rested its wing. At present it’s ready for flight — it seeks a fresh perch43. It’s trying. Take care.”
“Oh, I don’t flatter myself,” I laughed, “that I’ve only to hold out my hand! At any rate,” I went on, “I sha’n’t call for help.”
He seemed to think again. “I don’t know. You’ll see.”
“If I do I shall see a great deal more than I now suspect.” He wanted to get off to dress, but I still held him. “Isn’t she wonderfully lovely?”
“Oh!” he simply exclaimed.
“Isn’t she as lovely as she seems?”
But he had already broken away. “What has that to do with it?”
“What has anything, then?”
“She’s too beastly unhappy.”
“But isn’t that just one’s advantage?”
“No. It’s uncanny.” And he escaped.
The question had at all events brought us indoors and so far up our staircase as to where it branched towards Obert’s room. I followed it to my corridor, with which other occasions had made me acquainted, and I reached the door on which I expected to find my card of designation. This door, however, was open, so as to show me, in momentary44 possession of the room, a gentleman, unknown to me, who, in unguided quest of his quarters, appeared to have arrived from the other end of the passage. He had just seen, as the property of another, my unpacked45 things, with which he immediately connected me. He moreover, to my surprise, on my entering, sounded my name, in response to which I could only at first remain blank. It was in fact not till I had begun to help him place himself that, correcting my blankness, I knew him for Guy Brissenden. He had been put by himself, for some reason, in the bachelor wing and, exploring at hazard, had mistaken the signs. By the time we found his servant and his lodging46 I had reflected on the oddity of my having been as stupid about the husband as I had been about the wife. He had escaped my notice since our arrival, but I had, as a much older man, met him — the hero of his odd union — at some earlier time. Like his wife, none the less, he had now struck me as a stranger, and it was not till, in his room, I stood a little face to face with him that I made out the wonderful reason.
The wonderful reason was that I was not a much older man; Guy Brissenden, at any rate, was not a much younger. It was he who was old — it was he who was older — it was he who was oldest. That was so disconcertingly what he had become. It was in short what he would have been had he been as old as he looked. He looked almost anything — he looked quite sixty. I made it out again at dinner, where, from a distance, but opposite, I had him in sight. Nothing could have been stranger than the way that, fatigued47, fixed, settled, he seemed to have piled up the years. They were there without having had time to arrive. It was as if he had discovered some miraculous48 short cut to the common doom49. He had grown old, in fine, as people you see after an interval50 sometimes strike you as having grown rich — too quickly for the honest, or at least for the straight, way. He had cheated or inherited or speculated. It took me but a minute then to add him to my little gallery — the small collection, I mean, represented by his wife and by Gilbert Long, as well as in some degree doubtless also by Lady John: the museum of those who put to me with such intensity the question of what had happened to them. His wife, on the same side, was not out of my range, and now, largely exposed, lighted, jewelled, and enjoying moreover visibly the sense of these things — his wife, upon my honour, as I soon remarked to the lady next me, his wife (it was too prodigious51!) looked about twenty.
“Yes — isn’t it funny?” said the lady next me.
It was so funny that it set me thinking afresh and that, with the interest of it, which became a positive excitement, I had to keep myself in hand in order not too publicly to explain, not to break out right and left with my reflections. I don’t know why — it was a sense instinctive52 and unreasoned, but I felt from the first that if I was on the scent53 of something ultimate I had better waste neither my wonder nor my wisdom. I was on the scent — that I was sure of; and yet even after I was sure I should still have been at a loss to put my enigma54 itself into words. I was just conscious, vaguely55, of being on the track of a law, a law that would fit, that would strike me as governing the delicate phenomena56 — delicate though so marked — that my imagination found itself playing with. A part of the amusement they yielded came, I daresay, from my exaggerating them — grouping them into a larger mystery (and thereby57 a larger “law”) than the facts, as observed, yet warranted; but that is the common fault of minds for which the vision of life is an obsession58. The obsession pays, if one will; but to pay it has to borrow. After dinner, but while the men were still in the room, I had some talk again with Long, of whom I inquired if he had been so placed as to see “poor Briss.”
He appeared to wonder, and poor Briss, with our shifting of seats, was now at a distance. “I think so — but I didn’t particularly notice. What’s the matter with poor Briss?”
“That’s exactly what I thought you might be able to tell me. But if nothing, in him, strikes you ——!”
He met my eyes a moment — then glanced about. “Where is he?”
“Behind you; only don’t turn round to look, for he knows —— ” But I dropped, having caught something directed toward me in Brissenden’s face. My interlocutor remained blank, simply asking me, after an instant, what it was he knew. On this I said what I meant. “He knows we’ve noticed.”
Long wondered again. “Ah, but I haven’t!” He spoke59 with some sharpness.
“He knows,” I continued, noting the sharpness too, “what’s the matter with him.”
“Then what the devil is it?”
I waited a little, having for the moment an idea on my hands. “Do you see him often?”
Long disengaged the ash from his cigarette. “No. Why should I?”
Distinctly, he was uneasy — though as yet perhaps but vaguely — at what I might be coming to. That was precisely60 my idea, and if I pitied him a little for my pressure my idea was yet what most possessed61 me. “Do you mean there’s nothing in him that strikes you?”
On this, unmistakably, he looked at me hard. “‘Strikes’ me — in that boy? Nothing in him, that I know of, ever struck me in my life. He’s not an object of the smallest interest to me!”
I felt that if I insisted I should really stir up the old Long, the stolid62 coxcomb63, capable of rudeness, with whose redemption, reabsorption, supersession64 — one scarcely knew what to call it — I had been so happily impressed. “Oh, of course, if you haven’t noticed, you haven’t, and the matter I was going to speak of will have no point. You won’t know what I mean.” With which I paused long enough to let his curiosity operate if his denial had been sincere. But it hadn’t. His curiosity never operated. He only exclaimed, more indulgently, that he didn’t know what I was talking about; and I recognised after a little that if I had made him, without intention, uncomfortable, this was exactly a proof of his being what Mrs. Briss, at the station, had called cleverer, and what I had so much remarked while, in the garden before dinner, he held our small company. Nobody, nothing could, in the time of his inanity65, have made him turn a hair. It was the mark of his aggrandisement. But I spared him — so far as was consistent with my wish for absolute certainty; changed the subject, spoke of other things, took pains to sound disconnectedly, and only after reference to several of the other ladies, the name over which we had just felt friction66. “Mrs. Brissenden’s quite fabulous67.”
He appeared to have strayed, in our interval, far. “‘Fabulous’?”
“Why, for the figure that, by candle-light and in cloth-of-silver and diamonds, she is still able to make.”
“Oh dear, yes!” He showed as relieved to be able to see what I meant. “She has grown so very much less plain.”
But that wasn’t at all what I meant. “Ah,” I said, “you put it the other way at Paddington — which was much more the right one.”
He had quite forgotten. “How then did I put it?”
As he had done before, I got rid of my ash. “She hasn’t grown very much less plain. She has only grown very much less old.”
“Ah, well,” he laughed, but as if his interest had quickly dropped, “youth is — comparatively speaking — beauty.”
“Oh, not always. Look at poor Briss himself.”
“Well, if you like better, beauty is youth.”
“Not always, either,” I returned. “Certainly only when it is beauty. To see how little it may be either, look,” I repeated, “at poor Briss.”
“I thought you told me just now not to!” He rose at last in his impatience.
“Well, at present you can.”
I also got up, the other men at the same moment moved, and the subject of our reference stood in view. This indeed was but briefly68, for, as if to examine a picture behind him, the personage in question suddenly turned his back. Long, however, had had time to take him in and then to decide. “I’ve looked. What then?”
“You don’t see anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Not what everyone else must?”
“No, confound you!”
I already felt that, to be so tortuous69, he must have had a reason, and the search for his reason was what, from this moment, drew me on. I had in fact half guessed it as we stood there. But this only made me the more explanatory. “It isn’t really, however, that Brissenden has grown less lovely — it’s only that he has grown less young.”
To which my friend, as we quitted the room, replied simply: “Oh!”
The effect I have mentioned was, none the less, too absurd. The poor youth’s back, before us, still as if consciously presented, confessed to the burden of time. “How old,” I continued, “did we make out this afternoon that he would be?”
“That who would?”
“Why, poor Briss.”
He fairly pulled up in our march. “Have you got him on the brain?”
“Don’t I seem to remember, my dear man, that it was you yourself who knew? He’s thirty at the most. He can’t possibly be more. And there he is: as fine, as swaddled, as royal a mummy, to the eye, as one would wish to see. Don’t pretend! But it’s all right.” I laughed as I took myself up. “I must talk to Lady John.”
I did talk to her, but I must come to it. What is most to the point just here is an observation or two that, in the smoking-room, before going to bed, I exchanged with Ford Obert. I forbore, as I have hinted, to show all I saw, but it was lawfully70 open to me to judge of what other people did; and I had had before dinner my little proof that, on occasion, Obert could see as much as most. Yet I said nothing more to him for the present about Mrs. Server. The Brissendens were new to him, and his experience of every sort of facial accident, of human sign, made him just the touchstone I wanted. Nothing, naturally, was easier than to turn him on the question of the fair and the foul71, type and character, weal and woe72, among our fellow-visitors; so that my mention of the air of disparity in the couple I have just named came in its order and produced its effect. This effect was that of my seeing — which was all I required — that if the disparity was marked for him this expert observer could yet read it quite the wrong way. Why had so fine a young creature married a man three times her age? He was of course astounded73 when I told him the young creature was much nearer three times Brissenden’s, and this led to some interesting talk between us as to the consequences, in general, of such association on such terms. The particular case before us, I easily granted, sinned by over-emphasis, but it was a fair, though a gross, illustration of what almost always occurred when twenty and forty, when thirty and sixty, mated or mingled, lived together in intimacy. Intimacy of course had to be postulated74. Then either the high number or the low always got the upper hand, and it was usually the high that succeeded. It seemed, in other words, more possible to go back than to keep still, to grow young than to remain so. If Brissenden had been of his wife’s age and his wife of Brissenden’s, it would thus be he who must have redescended the hill, it would be she who would have been pushed over the brow. There was really a touching75 truth in it, the stuff of — what did people call such things? — an apologue or a parable76. “One of the pair,” I said, “has to pay for the other. What ensues is a miracle, and miracles are expensive. What’s a greater one than to have your youth twice over? It’s a second wind, another ‘go’ — which isn’t the sort of thing life mostly treats us to. Mrs. Briss had to get her new blood, her extra allowance of time and bloom, somewhere; and from whom could she so conveniently extract them as from Guy himself? She has, by an extraordinary feat77 of legerdemain78, extracted them; and he, on his side, to supply her, has had to tap the sacred fount. But the sacred fount is like the greedy man’s description of the turkey as an ‘awkward’ dinner dish. It may be sometimes too much for a single share, but it’s not enough to go round.”
Obert was at all events sufficiently struck with my view to throw out a question on it. “So that, paying to his last drop, Mr. Briss, as you call him, can only die of the business?”
“Oh, not yet, I hope. But before her — yes: long.”
He was much amused. “How you polish them off!”
“I only talk,” I returned, “as you paint; not a bit worse! But one must indeed wonder,” I conceded, “how the poor wretches79 feel.”
“You mean whether Brissenden likes it?”
I made up my mind on the spot. “If he loves her he must. That is if he loves her passionately80, sublimely81.” I saw it all. “It’s in fact just because he does so love her that the miracle, for her, is wrought82.”
“Well,” my friend reflected, “for taking a miracle coolly ——!”
“She hasn’t her equal? Yes, she does take it. She just quietly, but just selfishly, profits by it.”
“And doesn’t see then how her victim loses?”
“No. She can’t. The perception, if she had it, would be painful and terrible — might even be fatal to the process. So she hasn’t it. She passes round it. It takes all her flood of life to meet her own chance. She has only a wonderful sense of success and well-being83. The other consciousness —— ”
“Is all for the other party?”
“The author of the sacrifice.”
“Then how beautifully ‘poor Briss,’” my companion said, “must have it!”
I had already assured myself. He had gone to bed, and my fancy followed him. “Oh, he has it so that, though he goes, in his passion, about with her, he dares scarcely show his face.” And I made a final induction84. “The agents of the sacrifice are uncomfortable, I gather, when they suspect or fear that you see.”
My friend was charmed with my ingenuity85. “How you’ve worked it out!”
“Well, I feel as if I were on the way to something.”
He looked surprised. “Something still more?”
“Something still more.” I had an impulse to tell him I scarce knew what. But I kept it under. “I seem to snuff up —— ”
“Quoi donc?”
“The sense of a discovery to be made.”
“And of what?”
“I’ll tell you to-morrow. Good-night.”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
renewals
|
|
| 重建( renewal的名词复数 )； 更新； 重生； 合同的续订 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
beguiled
|
|
| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
impatience
|
|
| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
anecdote
|
|
| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
Ford
|
|
| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
sequestered
|
|
| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
converse
|
|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
conspicuously
|
|
| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
posterity
|
|
| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
inhuman
|
|
| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
assorted
|
|
| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
transmuted
|
|
| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
riddle
|
|
| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
hovered
|
|
| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
animation
|
|
| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
eminence
|
|
| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
thoroughly
|
|
| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
intensity
|
|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
pliant
|
|
| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
evoked
|
|
| [医]诱发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
askew
|
|
| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
bust
|
|
| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
ornamental
|
|
| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
celebrity
|
|
| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
lavished
|
|
| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
precept
|
|
| n.戒律；格言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
delightfully
|
|
| 大喜，欣然 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
peculiar
|
|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
margin
|
|
| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
perch
|
|
| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
momentary
|
|
| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
unpacked
|
|
| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
lodging
|
|
| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
fatigued
|
|
| adj. 疲乏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
miraculous
|
|
| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
doom
|
|
| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
prodigious
|
|
| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
instinctive
|
|
| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
scent
|
|
| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
enigma
|
|
| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
phenomena
|
|
| n.现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
obsession
|
|
| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
spoke
|
|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
precisely
|
|
| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
stolid
|
|
| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
coxcomb
|
|
| n.花花公子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
supersession
|
|
| 取代，废弃； 代谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
inanity
|
|
| n.无意义，无聊 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
friction
|
|
| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
fabulous
|
|
| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
briefly
|
|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
tortuous
|
|
| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
lawfully
|
|
| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
foul
|
|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
astounded
|
|
| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
postulated
|
|
| v.假定，假设( postulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
parable
|
|
| n.寓言，比喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
feat
|
|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
legerdemain
|
|
| n.戏法，诈术 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
wretches
|
|
| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
passionately
|
|
| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
sublimely
|
|
| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
wrought
|
|
| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
well-being
|
|
| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
induction
|
|
| n.感应，感应现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
ingenuity
|
|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |