The house was full of pretty things, some not obviously applicable to the purpose; but Miss Macy’s casuistry was equal to the baby’s appetite, and the baby’s mother was no match for them in the art of defending her possessions. There were moments, in fact, when Lizzie almost fell in with Andora’s summary division of her works of art into articles safe or unsafe for the baby to lick, or resisted it only to the extent of occasionally substituting some less precious or less perishable1 object for the particular fragility on which her son’s desire was fixed2. And it was with this intention that, on a certain fair spring morning — which wore the added luster3 of being the baby’s second birthday — she had murmured, with her mouth in his curls, and one hand holding a bit of Chelsea above his dangerous clutch: “Wouldn’t he rather have that beautiful shiny thing over there in Aunt Andorra’s hand?”
The two friends were together in Lizzie’s little morning-room — the room she had chosen, on acquiring the house, because, when she sat there, she could hear Deering’s step as he paced up and down before his easel in the studio she had built for him. His step had been less regularly audible than she had hoped, for, after three years of wedded5 bliss6, he had somehow failed to settle down to the great work which was to result from that privileged state; but even when she did not hear him she knew that he was there, above her head, stretched out on the old divan7 from Passy, and smoking endless cigarettes while he skimmed the morning papers; and the sense of his nearness had not yet lost its first keen edge of bliss.
Lizzie herself, on the day in question, was engaged in a more arduous8 task than the study of the morning’s news. She had never unlearned the habit of orderly activity, and the trait she least understood in her husband’s character was his way of letting the loose ends of life hang as they would. She had been disposed at first to ascribe this to the chronic9 incoherence of his first menage; but now she knew that, though he basked10 under the rule of her beneficent hand, he would never feel any active impulse to further its work. He liked to see things fall into place about him at a wave of her wand; but his enjoyment11 of her household magic in no way diminished his smiling irresponsibility, and it was with one of its least amiable12 consequences that his wife and her friend were now dealing13.
Before them stood two travel-worn trunks and a distended14 portmanteau, which had shed their contents in heterogeneous15 heaps over Lizzie’s rosy16 carpet. They represented the hostages left by her husband on his somewhat precipitate17 departure from a New York boarding-house, and indignantly redeemed18 by her on her learning, in a curt19 letter from his landlady20, that the latter was not disposed to regard them as an equivalent for the arrears21 of Deering’s board.
Lizzie had not been shocked by the discovery that her husband had left America in debt. She had too sad an acquaintance with the economic strain to see any humiliation22 in such accidents; but it offended her sense of order that he should not have liquidated23 his obligation in the three years since their marriage. He took her remonstrance24 with his usual disarming25 grace, and left her to forward the liberating26 draft, though her delicacy27 had provided him with a bank-account which assured his personal independence. Lizzie had discharged the duty without repugnance28, since she knew that his delegating it to her was the result of his good-humored indolence and not of any design on her exchequer29. Deering was not dazzled by money; his altered fortunes had tempted31 him to no excesses: he was simply too lazy to draw the check, as he had been too lazy to remember the debt it canceled.
“No, dear! No!” Lizzie lifted the Chelsea figure higher. “Can’t you find something for him, Andora, among that rubbish over there? Where’s the beaded bag you had in your hand just now? I don’t think it could hurt him to lick that.”
Miss Macy, bag in hand, rose from her knees, and stumbled through the slough32 of frayed33 garments and old studio properties. Before the group of mother and son she fell into a raptured34 attitude.
“Do look at him reach for it, the tyrant35! Isn’t he just like the young Napoleon?”
Lizzie laughed and swung her son in air. “Dangle it before him, Andora. If you let him have it too quickly, he won’t care for it. He’s just like any man, I think.”
Andora slowly lowered the shining bag till the heir of the Deerings closed his masterful fist upon it. “There — my Chelsea’s safe!” Lizzie smiled, setting her boy on the floor, and watching him stagger away with his booty.
Andora stood beside her, watching too. “Have you any idea where that bag came from, Lizzie?”
Mrs. Deering, bent36 above a pile of dis-collared shirts, shook an inattentive head. “I never saw such wicked washing! There isn’t one that’s fit to mend. The bag? No; I’ve not the least idea.”
Andora surveyed her dramatically. “Doesn’t it make you utterly37 miserable38 to think that some woman may have made it for him?”
Lizzie, bowed in anxious scrutiny39 above the shirts, broke into an unruffled laugh. “Really, Andora, really — six, seven, nine; no, there isn’t even a dozen. There isn’t a whole dozen of anything. I don’t see how men live alone!”
Andora broodingly pursued her theme. “Do you mean to tell me it doesn’t make you jealous to handle these things of his that other women may have given him?”
Lizzie shook her head again, and, straightening herself with a smile, tossed a bundle in her friend’s direction. “No, it doesn’t make me the least bit jealous. Here, count these socks for me, like a darling.”
Andora moaned, “Don’t you feel anything at all?” as the socks landed in her hollow bosom40; but Lizzie, intent upon her task, tranquilly41 continued to unfold and sort. She felt a great deal as she did so, but her feelings were too deep and delicate for the simplifying process of speech. She only knew that each article she drew from the trunks sent through her the long tremor42 of Deering’s touch. It was part of her wonderful new life that everything belonging to him contained an infinitesimal fraction of himself — a fraction becoming visible in the warmth of her love as certain secret elements become visible in rare intensities43 of temperature. And in the case of the objects before her, poor shabby witnesses of his days of failure, what they gave out acquired a special poignancy44 from its contrast to his present cherished state. His shirts were all in round dozens now, and washed as carefully as old lace. As for his socks, she knew the pattern of every pair, and would have liked to see the washerwoman who dared to mislay one, or bring it home with the colors “run”! And in these homely45 tokens of his well-being46 she saw the symbol of what her tenderness had brought him. He was safe in it, encompassed47 by it, morally and materially, and she defied the embattled powers of malice48 to reach him through the armor of her love. Such feelings, however, were not communicable, even had one desired to express them: they were no more to be distinguished49 from the sense of life itself than bees from the lime-blossoms in which they murmur4.
“Oh, do look at him, Lizzie! He’s found out how to open the bag!”
Lizzie lifted her head to smile a moment at her son, who sat throned on a heap of studio rubbish, with Andora before him on adoring knees. She thought vaguely50, “Poor Andora!” and then resumed the discouraged inspection51 of a buttonless white waistcoat. The next sound she was aware of was a fluttered exclamation52 from her friend.
“Why, Lizzie, do you know what he used the bag for? To keep your letters in!”
Lizzie looked up more quickly. She was aware that Andora’s pronoun had changed its object, and was now applied53 to Deering. And it struck her as odd, and slightly disagreeable, that a letter of hers should be found among the rubbish abandoned in her husband’s New York lodgings54.
“How funny! Give it to me, please.”
“Give the bag to Aunt Andora, darling! Here — look inside, and see what else a big big boy can find there! Yes, here’s another! Why, why — ”
Lizzie rose with a shade of impatience55 and crossed the floor to the romping56 group beside the other trunk.
“What is it? Give me the letters, please.” As she spoke57, she suddenly recalled the day when, in Mme. Clopin’s pension, she had addressed a similar behest to Andora Macy.
Andora had lifted a look of startled conjecture58. “Why, this one’s never been opened! Do you suppose that awful woman could have kept it from him?”
Lizzie laughed. Andora’s imaginings were really puerile59. “What awful woman? His landlady? Don’t be such a goose, Andora. How can it have been kept back from him, when we’ve found it here among his things?”
“Yes; but then why was it never opened?”
Andora held out the letter, and Lizzie took it. The writing was hers; the envelop60 bore the Passy postmark; and it was unopened. She stood looking at it with a sudden sharp drop of the heart.
“Why, so are the others — all unopened!” Andora threw out on a rising note; but Lizzie, stooping over, stretched out her hand.
“Give them to me, please.”
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie — ” Andora, still on her knees, continued to hold back the packet, her pale face paler with anger and compassion61. “Lizzie, they’re the letters I used to post for you — the letters he never answered! Look!”
“Give them back to me, please.”
The two women faced each other, Andora kneeling, Lizzie motionless before her, the letters in her hand. The blood had rushed to her face, humming in her ears, and forcing itself into the veins62 of her temples like hot lead. Then it ebbed63, and she felt cold and weak.
“It must have been some plot — some conspiracy64!” Andora cried, so fired by the ecstasy65 of invention that for the moment she seemed lost to all but the esthetic66 aspect of the case.
Lizzie turned away her eyes with an effort, and they rested on the boy, who sat at her feet placidly67 sucking the tassels68 of the bag. His mother stooped and extracted them from his rosy mouth, which a cry of wrath69 immediately filled. She lifted him in her arms, and for the first time no current of life ran from his body into hers. He felt heavy and clumsy, like some one else’s child; and his screams annoyed her.
“Take him away, please, Andora.”
“Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!” Andora wailed70.
Lizzie held out the child, and Andora, struggling to her feet, received him.
“I know just how you feel,” she gasped71 out above the baby’s head.
Lizzie, in some dark hollow of herself, heard the echo of a laugh. Andora always thought she knew how people felt!
“Tell Marthe to take him with her when she fetches Juliet home from school.”
“Yes, yes.” Andora gloated over her. “If you’d only give way, my darling!”
The baby, howling, dived over Andora’s shoulder for the bag.
“Oh, take him!” his mother ordered.
Andora, from the door, cried out: “I’ll be back at once. Remember, love, you’re not alone!”
But Lizzie insisted, “Go with them — I wish you to go with them,” in the tone to which Miss Macy had never learned the answer.
The door closed on her outraged72 back, and Lizzie stood alone. She looked about the disordered room, which offered a dreary73 image of the havoc74 of her life. An hour or two ago everything about her had been so exquisitely75 ordered, without and within; her thoughts and emotions had lain outspread before her like delicate jewels laid away symmetrically in a collector’s cabinet. Now they had been tossed down helter-skelter among the rubbish there on the floor, and had themselves turned to rubbish like the rest. Yes, there lay her life at her feet, among all that tarnished77 trash.
She knelt and picked up her letters, ten in all, and examined the flaps of the envelops78. Not one had been opened — not one. As she looked, every word she had written fluttered to life, and every feeling prompting it sent a tremor through her. With vertiginous79 speed and microscopic80 vision she was reliving that whole period of her life, stripping bare again the black ruin over which the drift of three happy years had fallen.
She laughed at Andora’s notion of a conspiracy — of the letters having been “kept back.” She required no extraneous81 aid in deciphering the mystery: her three years’ experience of Deering shed on it all the light she needed. And yet a moment before she had believed herself to be perfectly82 happy! Now it was the worst part of her anguish83 that it did not really surprise her.
She knew so well how it must have happened. The letters had reached him when he was busy, occupied with something else, and had been put aside to be read at some future time — a time which never came. Perhaps on his way to America, on the steamer, even, he had met “some one else” — the “some one” who lurks84, veiled and ominous85, in the background of every woman’s thoughts about her lover. Or perhaps he had been merely forgetful. She had learned from experience that the sensations which he seemed to feel with the most exquisite76 intensity87 left no reverberations in his mind — that he did not relive either his pleasures or his pains. She needed no better proof of that than the lightness of his conduct toward his daughter. He seemed to have taken it for granted that Juliet would remain indefinitely with the friends who had received her after her mother’s death, and it was at Lizzie’s suggestion that the little girl was brought home and that they had established themselves at Neuilly to be near her school. But Juliet once with them, he became the model of a tender father, and Lizzie wondered that he had not felt the child’s absence, since he seemed so affectionately aware of her presence.
Lizzie had noted88 all this in Juliet’s case, but had taken for granted that her own was different; that she formed, for Deering, the exception which every woman secretly supposes herself to form in the experience of the man she loves. Certainly, she had learned by this time that she could not modify his habits, but she imagined that she had deepened his sensibilities, had furnished him with an “ideal” — angelic function! And she now saw that the fact of her letters — her unanswered letters — having, on his own assurance, “meant so much” to him, had been the basis on which this beautiful fabric89 was reared.
There they lay now, the letters, precisely90 as when they had left her hands. He had not had time to read them; and there had been a moment in her past when that discovery would have been the sharpest pang91 imaginable to her heart. She had traveled far beyond that point. She could have forgiven him now for having forgotten her; but she could never forgive him for having deceived her.
She sat down, and looked again vaguely about the room. Suddenly she heard his step overhead, and her heart contracted. She was afraid he was coming down to her. She sprang up and bolted the door; then she dropped into the nearest chair, tremulous and exhausted92, as if the pushing of the bolt had required an immense muscular effort. A moment later she heard him on the stairs, and her tremor broke into a cold fit of shaking. “I loathe93 you — I loathe you!” she cried.
She listened apprehensively94 for his touch on the handle of the door. He would come in, humming a tune30, to ask some idle question and lay a caress95 on her hair. But no, the door was bolted; she was safe. She continued to listen, and the step passed on. He had not been coming to her, then. He must have gone down-stairs to fetch something — another newspaper, perhaps. He seemed to read little else, and she sometimes wondered when he had found time to store the material that used to serve for their famous “literary” talks. The wonder shot through her again, barbed with a sneer96. At that moment it seemed to her that everything he had ever done and been was a lie.
She heard the house-door close, and started up. Was he going out? It was not his habit to leave the house in the morning.
She crossed the room to the window, and saw him walking, with a quick decided97 step, between the budding lilacs to the gate. What could have called him forth98 at that unwonted hour? It was odd that he should not have told her. The fact that she thought it odd suddenly showed her how closely their lives were interwoven. She had become a habit to him, and he was fond of his habits. But to her it was as if a stranger had opened the gate and gone out. She wondered what he would feel if he knew that she felt that.
“In an hour he will know,” she said to herself, with a kind of fierce exultation99; and immediately she began to dramatize the scene. As soon as he came in she meant to call him up to her room and hand him the letters without a word. For a moment she gloated on the picture; then her imagination recoiled100 from it. She was humiliated101 by the thought of humiliating him. She wanted to keep his image intact; she would not see him.
He had lied to her about her letters — had lied to her when he found it to his interest to regain102 her favor. Yes, there was the point to hold fast. He had sought her out when he learned that she was rich. Perhaps he had come back from America on purpose to marry her; no doubt he had come back on purpose. It was incredible that she had not seen this at the time. She turned sick at the thought of her fatuity103 and of the grossness of his arts. Well, the event proved that they were all he needed. But why had he gone out at such an hour? She was irritated to find herself still preoccupied104 by his comings and goings.
Turning from the window, she sat down again. She wondered what she meant to do next. No, she would not show him the letters; she would simply leave them on his table and go away. She would leave the house with her boy and Andora. It was a relief to feel a definite plan forming itself in her mind — something that her uprooted105 thoughts could fasten on. She would go away, of course; and meanwhile, in order not to see him, she would feign106 a headache, and remain in her room till after luncheon107. Then she and Andora would pack a few things, and fly with the child while he was dawdling108 about up-stairs in the studio. When one’s house fell, one fled from the ruins: nothing could be simpler, more inevitable109.
Her thoughts were checked by the impossibility of picturing what would happen next. Try as she would, she could not see herself and the child away from Deering. But that, of course, was because of her nervous weakness. She had youth, money, energy: all the trumps110 were on her side. It was much more difficult to imagine what would become of Deering. He was so dependent on her, and they had been so happy together! The fact struck her as illogical, and even immoral111, and yet she knew he had been happy with her. It never happened like that in novels: happiness “built on a lie” always crumbled112, and buried the presumptuous113 architect beneath the ruins. According to the laws of every novel she had ever read, Deering, having deceived her once, would inevitably114 have gone on deceiving her. Yet she knew he had not gone on deceiving her.
She tried again to picture her new life. Her friends, of course, would rally about her. But the prospect115 left her cold; she did not want them to rally. She wanted only one thing — the life she had been living before she had given her baby the embroidered116 bag to play with. Oh, why had she given him the bag? She had been so happy, they had all been so happy! Every nerve in her clamored for her lost happiness, angrily, unreasonably117, as the boy had clamored for his bag! It was horrible to know too much; there was always blood in the foundations. Parents “kept things” from children — protected them from all the dark secrets of pain and evil. And was any life livable unless it were thus protected? Could any one look in the Medusa’s face and live?
But why should she leave the house, since it was hers? Here, with her boy and Andora, she could still make for herself the semblance118 of a life. It was Deering who would have to go; he would understand that as soon as he saw the letters.
She pictured him in the act of going — leaving the house as he had left it just now. She saw the gate closing on him for the last time. Now her vision was acute enough: she saw him as distinctly as if he were in the room. Ah, he would not like returning to the old life of privations and expedients119! And yet she knew he would not plead with her.
Suddenly a new thought rushed through her mind. What if Andora had rushed to him with the tale of the discovery of the letters — with the “Fly, you are discovered!” of romantic fiction? What if he had left her for good? It would not be unlike him, after all. Under his wonderful gentleness he was always evasive and inscrutable. He might have said to himself that he would forestall120 her action, and place himself at once on the defensive121. It might be that she had seen him go out of the gate for the last time.
She looked about the room again, as if this thought had given it a new aspect. Yes, this alone could explain her husband’s going out. It was past twelve o’clock, their usual luncheon hour, and he was scrupulously122 punctual at meals, and gently reproachful if she kept him waiting. Only some unwonted event could have caused him to leave the house at such an hour and with such marks of haste. Well, perhaps it was better that Andora should have spoken. She mistrusted her own courage; she almost hoped the deed had been done for her. Yet her next sensation was one of confused resentment123. She said to herself, “Why has Andora interfered124?” She felt baffled and angry, as though her prey125 had escaped her. If Deering had been in the house, she would have gone to him instantly and overwhelmed him with her scorn. But he had gone out, and she did not know where he had gone, and oddly mingled126 with her anger against him was the latent instinct of vigilance, the solicitude127 of the woman accustomed to watch over the man she loves. It would be strange never to feel that solicitude again, never to hear him say, with his hand on her hair: “Why, you foolish child, were you worried? Am I late?”
The sense of his touch was so real that she stiffened128 herself against it, flinging back her head as if to throw off his hand. The mere86 thought of his caress was hateful; yet she felt it in all her traitorous129 veins. Yes, she felt it, but with horror and repugnance. It was something she wanted to escape from, and the fact of struggling against it was what made its hold so strong. It was as though her mind were sounding her body to make sure of its allegiance, spying on it for any secret movement of revolt.
To escape from the sensation, she rose and went again to the window. No one was in sight. But presently the gate began to swing back, and her heart gave a leap — she knew not whether up or down. A moment later the gate opened slowly to admit a perambulator, propelled by the nurse and flanked by Juliet and Andora. Lizzie’s eyes rested on the familiar group as if she had never seen it before, and she stood motionless, instead of flying down to meet the children.
Suddenly there was a step on the stairs, and she heard Andora’s agitated130 knock. She unbolted the door, and was strained to her friend’s emaciated131 bosom.
“My darling!” Miss Macy cried. “Remember you have your child — and me!”
Lizzie loosened herself gently. She looked at Andora with a feeling of estrangement132 which she could not explain.
“Have you spoken to my husband?” she asked, drawing coldly back.
“Spoken to him? No.” Andora stared at her in genuine wonder.
“Then you haven’t met him since he left me?”
“No, my love. Is he out? I haven’t met him.”
Lizzie sat down with a confused sense of relief, which welled up to her throat and made speech difficult.
Suddenly light came to Andora. “I understand, dearest. You don’t feel able to see him yourself. You want me to go to him for you.” She looked about her, scenting133 the battle. “You’re right, darling. As soon as he comes in I’ll go to him. The sooner we get it over the better.”
She followed Lizzie, who without answering her had turned mechanically back to the window. As they stood there, the gate moved again, and Deering entered the garden.
“There he is now!” Lizzie felt Andora’s fervent134 clutch upon her arm. “Where are the letters? I will go down at once. You allow me to speak for you? You trust my woman’s heart? Oh, believe me, darling,” Miss Macy panted, “I shall know just what to say to him!”
“What to say to him?” Lizzie absently repeated.
As her husband advanced up the path she had a sudden trembling vision of their three years together. Those years were her whole life; everything before them had been colorless and unconscious, like the blind life of the plant before it reaches the surface of the soil. They had not been exactly what she dreamed; but if they had taken away certain illusions, they had left richer realities in their stead. She understood now that she had gradually adjusted herself to the new image of her husband as he was, as he would always be. He was not the hero of her dream, but he was the man she loved, and who had loved her. For she saw now, in this last wide flash of pity and initiation135, that, as a solid marble may be made out of worthless scraps136 of mortar137, glass and pebbles138, so out of mean mixed substances may be fashioned a love that will bear the stress of life.
More urgently, she felt the pressure of Miss Macy’s hand.
“I shall hand him the letters without a word. You may rely, love, on my sense of dignity. I know everything you’re feeling at this moment!”
Deering had reached the door-step. Lizzie continued to watch him in silence till he disappeared under the glazed139 roof of the porch below the window; then she turned and looked almost compassionately140 at her friend.
“Oh, poor Andora, you don’t know anything — you don’t know anything at all!” she said.
The End
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perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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basked
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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enjoyment
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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dealing
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heterogeneous
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rosy
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precipitate
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redeemed
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curt
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landlady
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arrears
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humiliation
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liquidated
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remonstrance
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disarming
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liberating
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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30
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
raptured
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| 欢天喜地的，狂喜的，销魂的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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36
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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37
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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38
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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40
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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41
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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42
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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43
intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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44
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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45
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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46
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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47
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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48
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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49
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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50
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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51
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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52
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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53
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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54
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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55
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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56
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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57
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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58
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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59
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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60
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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61
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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62
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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63
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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64
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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65
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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66
esthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的；悦目的，雅致的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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68
tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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69
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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70
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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73
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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74
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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75
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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76
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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77
tarnished
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| （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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78
envelops
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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79
vertiginous
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| adj.回旋的；引起头晕的 | |
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80
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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81
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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82
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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83
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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84
lurks
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| 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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85
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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86
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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87
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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88
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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89
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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90
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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91
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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92
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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94
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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95
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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96
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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97
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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98
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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99
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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100
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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101
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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102
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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103
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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104
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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105
uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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106
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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107
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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108
dawdling
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| adj.闲逛的，懒散的v.混（时间）( dawdle的现在分词 ) | |
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109
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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110
trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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111
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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112
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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113
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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114
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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115
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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116
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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117
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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118
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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119
expedients
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| n.应急有效的，权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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120
forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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121
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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122
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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123
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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124
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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125
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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126
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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127
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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128
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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129
traitorous
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| adj. 叛国的, 不忠的, 背信弃义的 | |
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130
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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131
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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132
estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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133
scenting
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| vt.闻到（scent的现在分词形式） | |
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134
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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135
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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136
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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137
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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138
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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139
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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140
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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