All my materials — my whole stock of beads2 and silk — were used up before the chain assumed the length and richness I wished; I had wrought3 it double, as I knew, by the rule of contraries, that to, suit the particular taste whose gratification was in view, an effective appearance was quite indispensable. As a finish to the ornament4, a little gold clasp was needed; fortunately I possessed5 it in the fastening of my sole necklace; I duly detached and re-attached it, then coiled compactly the completed guard; and enclosed it in a small box I had bought for its brilliancy, made of some tropic shell of the colour called “nacarat,” and decked with a little coronal of sparkling blue stones. Within the lid of the box, I carefully graved with my scissors’ point certain initials.
The reader will, perhaps, remember the description of Madame Beck’s fête; nor will he have forgotten that at each anniversary, a handsome present was subscribed7 for and offered by the school. The observance of this day was a distinction accorded to none but Madame, and, in a modified form, to her kinsman8 and counsellor, M. Emanuel. In the latter case it was an honour spontaneously awarded, not plotted and contrived9 beforehand, and offered an additional proof, amongst many others, of the estimation in which — despite his partialities, prejudices, and irritabilities — the professor of literature was held by his pupils. No article of value was offered to him: he distinctly gave it to be understood, that he would accept neither plate nor jewellery. Yet he liked a slight tribute; the cost, the money-value, did not touch him: a diamond ring, a gold snuff-box, presented, with pomp, would have pleased him less than a flower, or a drawing, offered simply and with sincere feelings. Such was his nature. He was a man, not wise in his generation, yet could he claim a filial sympathy with “the dayspring on high.”
M. Paul’s fête fell on the first of March and a Thursday. It proved a fine sunny day; and being likewise the morning on which it was customary to attend mass; being also otherwise distinguished10 by the half-holiday which permitted the privilege of walking out, shopping, or paying visits in the afternoon: these combined considerations induced a general smartness and freshness of dress. Clean collars were in vogue11; the ordinary dingy12 woollen classe-dress was exchanged for something lighter13 and clearer. Mademoiselle Zélie St. Pierre, on this particular Thursday, even assumed a “robe de soie,” deemed in economical Labassecour an article of hazardous14 splendour and luxury; nay15, it was remarked that she sent for a “coiffeur” to dress her hair that morning; there were pupils acute enough to discover that she had bedewed her handkerchief and her hands with a new and fashionable perfume. Poor Zélie! It was much her wont16 to declare about this time, that she was tired to death of a life of seclusion17 and labour; that she longed to have the means and leisure for relaxation18; to have some one to work for her — a husband who would pay her debts (she was woefully encumbered20 with debt), supply her wardrobe, and leave her at liberty, as she said, to “go?ter un peu les plaisirs.” It had long been rumoured21, that her eye was upon M. Emanuel. Monsieur Emanuel’s eye was certainly often upon her. He would sit and watch her perseveringly22 for minutes together. I have seen him give her a quarter-of-an-hour’s gaze, while the class was silently composing, and he sat throned on his estrade, unoccupied. Conscious always of this basilisk attention, she would writhe23 under it, half-flattered, half-puzzled, and Monsieur would follow her sensations, sometimes looking appallingly24 acute; for in some cases, he had the terrible unerring penetration25 of instinct, and pierced in its hiding-place the last lurking26 thought of the heart, and discerned under florid veilings the bare; barren places of the spirit: yes, and its perverted28 tendencies, and its hidden false curves — all that men and women would not have known — the twisted spine29, the malformed limb that was born with them, and far worse, the stain or disfigurement they have perhaps brought on themselves. No calamity30 so accursed but M. Emanuel could pity and forgive, if it were acknowledged candidly32; but where his questioning eyes met dishonest denial — where his ruthless researches found deceitful concealment33 — oh, then, he could be cruel, and I thought wicked! he would exultantly34 snatch the screen from poor shrinking wretches35, passionately36 hurry them to the summit of the mount of exposure, and there show them all naked, all false — poor living lies — the spawn37 of that horrid38 Truth which cannot be looked on unveiled. He thought he did justice; for my part I doubt whether man has a right to do such justice on man: more than once in these his visitations, I have felt compelled to give tears to his victims, and not spared ire and keen reproach to himself. He deserved it; but it was difficult to shake him in his firm conviction that the work was righteous and needed.
Breakfast being over and mass attended, the school-bell rang and the rooms filled: a very pretty spectacle was presented in classe. Pupils and teachers sat neatly39 arrayed, orderly and expectant, each bearing in her hand the bouquet40 of felicitation — the prettiest spring-flowers all fresh, and filling the air with their fragrance41: I only had no bouquet. I like to see flowers growing, but when they are gathered, they cease to please. I look on them as things rootless and perishable42; their likeness43 to life makes me sad. I never offer flowers to those I love; I never wish to receive them from hands dear to me. Mademoiselle St. Pierre marked my empty hands — she could not believe I had been so remiss44; with avidity her eye roved over and round me: surely I must have some solitary45 symbolic46 flower somewhere: some small knot of violets, something to win myself praise for taste, commendation for ingenuity47. The unimaginative “Anglaise” proved better than the Parisienne’s fears: she sat literally48 unprovided, as bare of bloom or leaf as the winter tree. This ascertained49, Zélie smiled, well pleased.
“How wisely you have acted to keep your money, Miss Lucie,” she said: “silly I have gone and thrown away two francs on a bouquet of hot-house flowers!”
And she showed with pride her splendid nosegay.
But hush50! a step: the step. It came prompt, as usual, but with a promptitude, we felt disposed to flatter ourselves, inspired by other feelings than mere51 excitability of nerve and vehemence52 of intent. We thought our Professor’s “foot-fall” (to speak romantically) had in it a friendly promise this morning; and so it had.
He entered in a mood which made him as good as a new sunbeam to the already well-lit first classe. The morning light playing amongst our plants and laughing on our walls, caught an added lustre53 from M. Paul’s all-benignant salute54. Like a true Frenchman (though I don’t know why I should say so, for he was of strain neither French nor Labassecourien), he had dressed for the “situation” and the occasion. Not by the vague folds, sinister55 and conspirator-like, of his soot-dark palet?t were the outlines of his person obscured; on the contrary, his figure (such as it was, I don’t boast of it) was well set off by a civilized56 coat and a silken vest quite pretty to behold57. The defiant58 and pagan bonnet-grec had vanished: bare-headed, he came upon us, carrying a Christian59 hat in his gloved hand. The little man looked well, very well; there was a clearness of amity31 in his blue eye, and a glow of good feeling on his dark complexion60, which passed perfectly61 in the place of beauty: one really did not care to observe that his nose, though far from small, was of no particular shape, his cheek thin, his brow marked and square, his mouth no rose-bud: one accepted him as he was, and felt his presence the reverse of damping or insignificant62.
He passed to his desk; he placed on the same his hat and gloves. “Bon jour, mes amies,” said he, in a tone that somehow made amends63 to some amongst us for many a sharp snap and savage64 snarl65: not a jocund66, good-fellow tone, still less an unctuous67 priestly, accent, but a voice he had belonging to himself — a voice used when his heart passed the words to his lips. That same heart did speak sometimes; though an irritable68, it was not an ossified69 organ: in its core was a place, tender beyond a man’s tenderness; a place that humbled70 him to little children, that bound him to girls and women to whom, rebel as he would, he could not disown his affinity71, nor quite deny that, on the whole, he was better with them than with his own sex.
“We all wish Monsieur a good day, and present to him our congratulations on the anniversary of his fête,” said Mademoiselle Zélie, constituting herself spokeswoman of the assembly; and advancing with no more twists of affectation than were with her indispensable to the achievement of motion, she laid her costly73 bouquet before him. He bowed over it.
The long train of offerings followed: all the pupils, sweeping74 past with the gliding75 step foreigners practise, left their tributes as they went by. Each girl so dexterously76 adjusted her separate gift, that when the last bouquet was laid on the desk, it formed the apex77 to a blooming pyramid — a pyramid blooming, spreading, and towering with such exuberance78 as, in the end, to eclipse the hero behind it. This ceremony over, seats were resumed, and we sat in dead silence, expectant of a speech.
I suppose five minutes might have elapsed, and the hush remained unbroken; ten — and there was no sound.
Many present began, doubtless, to wonder for what Monsieur waited; as well they might. Voiceless and viewless, stirless and wordless, he kept his station behind the pile of flowers.
At last there issued forth79 a voice, rather deep, as if it spoke72 out of a hollow:—
“Est-ce là tout80?”
Mademoiselle Zélie looked round.
“You have all presented your bouquets81?” inquired she of the pupils.
Yes; they had all given their nosegays, from the eldest82 to the youngest, from the tallest to the most diminutive83. The senior mistress signified as much.
“Est-ce là tout?” was reiterated84 in an intonation85 which, deep before, had now descended86 some notes lower.
“Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle St. Pierre, rising, and this time speaking with her own sweet smile, “I have the honour to tell you that, with a single exception, every person in classe has offered her bouquet. For Meess Lucie, Monsieur will kindly87 make allowance; as a foreigner she probably did not know our customs, or did not appreciate their significance. Meess Lucie has regarded this ceremony as too frivolous88 to be honoured by her observance.”
“Famous!” I muttered between my teeth: “you are no bad speaker, Zélie, when you begin.”
The answer vouchsafed89 to Mademoiselle St Pierre from the estrade was given in the gesticulation of a hand from behind the pyramid. This manual action seemed to deprecate words, to enjoin90 silence.
A form, ere long, followed the hand. Monsieur emerged from his eclipse; and producing himself on the front of his estrade, and gazing straight and fixedly91 before him at a vast “mappe-monde” covering the wall opposite, he demanded a third time, and now in really tragic92 tones —
“Est-ce là tout?”
I might yet have made all right, by stepping forwards and slipping into his hand the ruddy little shell-box I at that moment held tight in my own. It was what I had fully6 purposed to do; but, first, the comic side of Monsieur’s behaviour had tempted93 me to delay, and now, Mademoiselle St. Pierre’s affected94 interference provoked contumacity. The reader not having hitherto had any cause to ascribe to Miss Snowe’s character the most distant pretensions95 to perfection, will be scarcely surprised to learn that she felt too perverse96 to defend herself from any imputation97 the Parisienne might choose to insinuate98 and besides, M. Paul was so tragic, and took my defection so seriously, he deserved to be vexed99. I kept, then, both my box and my countenance100, and sat insensate as any stone.
“It is well!” dropped at length from the lips of M. Paul; and having uttered this phrase, the shadow of some great paroxysm — the swell101 of wrath102, scorn, resolve — passed over his brow, rippled103 his lips, and lined his cheeks. Gulping104 down all further comment, he launched into his customary “discours.”
I can’t at all remember what this “discours” was; I did not listen to it: the gulping-down process, the abrupt105 dismissal of his mortification106 or vexation, had given me a sensation which half-counteracted the ludicrous effect of the reiterated “Est-ce là tout?”
Towards the close of the speech there came a pleasing diversion my attention was again amusingly arrested.
Owing to some little accidental movement — I think I dropped my thimble on the floor, and in stooping to regain107 it, hit the crown of my head against the sharp corner of my desk; which casualties (exasperating to me, by rights, if to anybody) naturally made a slight bustle108 — M. Paul became irritated, and dismissing his forced equanimity109, and casting to the winds that dignity and self-control with which he never cared long to encumber19 himself, he broke forth into the strain best calculated to give him ease.
I don’t know how, in the progress of his “discours,” he had contrived to cross the Channel and land on British ground; but there I found him when I began to listen.
Casting a quick, cynical110 glance round the room — a glance which scathed112, or was intended to scathe111, as it crossed me — he fell with fury upon “les Anglaises.”
Never have I heard English women handled as M. Paul that morning handled them: he spared nothing — neither their minds, morals, manners, nor personal appearance. I specially113 remember his abuse of their tall stature114, their long necks, their thin arms, their slovenly115 dress, their pedantic116 education, their impious scepticism(!), their insufferable pride, their pretentious117 virtue118: over which he ground his teeth malignantly119, and looked as if, had he dared, he would have said singular things. Oh! he was spiteful, acrid120, savage; and, as a natural consequence, detestably ugly.
“Little wicked venomous man!” thought I; “am I going to harass121 myself with fears of displeasing122 you, or hurting your feelings? No, indeed; you shall be indifferent to me, as the shabbiest bouquet in your pyramid”
I grieve to say I could not quite carry out this resolution. For some time the abuse of England and the English found and left me stolid123: I bore it some fifteen minutes stoically enough; but this hissing124 cockatrice was determined125 to sting, and he said such things at last — fastening not only upon our women, but upon our greatest names and best men; sullying, the shield of Britannia, and dabbling126 the union jack127 in mud — that I was stung. With vicious relish128 he brought up the most spicy129 current continental130 historical falsehoods — than which nothing can be conceived more offensive. Zélie, and the whole class, became one grin of vindictive131 delight; for it is curious to discover how these clowns of Labassecour secretly hate England. At last, I struck a sharp stroke on my desk, opened my lips, and let loose this cry:—
“Vive l’Angleterre, l’Histoire et les Héros! A bas la France, la Fiction et les Faquins!”
The class was struck of a heap. I suppose they thought me mad. The Professor put up his handkerchief, and fiendishly smiled into its folds. Little monster of malice132! He now thought he had got the victory, since he had made me angry. In a second he became good-humoured. With great blandness133 he resumed the subject of his flowers; talked poetically134 and symbolically135 of their sweetness, perfume, purity, etcetera; made Frenchified comparisons between the “jeunes filles” and the sweet blossoms before him; paid Mademoiselle St. Pierre a very full-blown compliment on the superiority of her bouquet; and ended by announcing that the first really fine, mild, and balmy morning in spring, he intended to take the whole class out to breakfast in the country. “Such of the class, at least,” he added, with emphasis, “as he could count amongst the number of his friends.”
“Donc je n’y serai pas,” declared I, involuntarily.
“Soit!” was his response; and, gathering136 his flowers in his arms, he flashed out of classe; while I, consigning137 my work, scissors, thimble, and the neglected little box, to my desk, swept up-stairs. I don’t know whether he felt hot and angry, but I am free to confess that I did.
Yet with a strange evanescent anger, I had not sat an hour on the edge of my bed, picturing and repicturing his look, manner, words ere I smiled at the whole scene. A little pang138 of regret I underwent that the box had not been offered. I had meant to gratify him. Fate would not have it so.
In the course of the afternoon, remembering that desks in classe were by no means inviolate139 repositories, and thinking that it was as well to secure the box, on account of the initials in the lid, P. C. D. E., for Paul Carl (or Carlos) David Emanuel — such was his full name — these foreigners must always have a string of baptismals — I descended to the schoolroom.
It slept in holiday repose140. The day pupils were all gone home, the boarders were out walking, the teachers, except the surveillante of the week, were in town, visiting or shopping; the suite141 of divisions was vacant; so was the grande salle, with its huge solemn globe hanging in the midst, its pair of many-branched chandeliers, and its horizontal grand piano closed, silent, enjoying its mid-week Sabbath. I rather wondered to find the first classe door ajar; this room being usually locked when empty, and being then inaccessible142 to any save Madame Beck and myself, who possessed a duplicate key. I wondered still more, on approaching, to hear a vague movement as of life — a step, a chair stirred, a sound like the opening of a desk.
“It is only Madame Beck doing inspection143 duty,” was the conclusion following a moment’s reflection. The partially-opened door gave opportunity for assurance on this point. I looked. Behold! not the inspecting garb144 of Madame Beck — the shawl and the clean cap — but the coat, and the close-shorn, dark head of a man. This person occupied my chair; his olive hand held my desk open, his nose was lost to view amongst my papers. His back was towards me, but there could not be a moment’s question about identity. Already was the attire145 of ceremony discarded: the cherished and ink-stained palet?t was resumed; the perverse bonnet-grec lay on the floor, as if just dropped from the hand, culpably146 busy.
Now I knew, and I had long known, that that hand of M. Emanuel’s was on the most intimate terms with my desk; that it raised and lowered the lid, ransacked147 and arranged the contents, almost as familiarly as my own. The fact was not dubious148, nor did he wish it to be so: he left signs of each visit palpable and unmistakable; hitherto, however, I had never caught him in the act: watch as I would, I could not detect the hours and moments of his coming. I saw the brownie’s work in exercises left overnight full of faults, and found next morning carefully corrected: I profited by his capricious good-will in loans full welcome and refreshing149. Between a sallow dictionary and worn-out grammar would magically grow a fresh interesting new work, or a classic, mellow150 and sweet in its ripe age. Out of my work-basket would laughingly peep a romance, under it would lurk27 the pamphlet, the magazine, whence last evening’s reading had been extracted. Impossible to doubt the source whence these treasures flowed: had there been no other indication, one condemning151 and traitor152 peculiarity153, common to them all, settled the question — they smelt154 of cigars. This was very shocking, of course: I thought so at first, and used to open the window with some bustle, to air my desk, and with fastidious finger and thumb, to hold the peccant brochures forth to the purifying breeze. I was cured of that formality suddenly. Monsieur caught me at it one day, understood the inference, instantly relieved my hand of its burden, and, in another moment, would have thrust the same into the glowing stove. It chanced to be a book, on the perusal155 of which I was bent156; so for once I proved as decided157 and quicker than himself; recaptured the spoil, and — having saved this volume — never hazarded a second. With all this, I had never yet been able to arrest in his visits the freakish, friendly, cigar-loving phantom158.
But now at last I had him: there he was — the very brownie himself; and there, curling from his lips, was the pale blue breath of his Indian darling: he was smoking into my desk: it might well betray him. Provoked at this particular, and yet pleased to surprise him — pleased, that is, with the mixed feeling of the housewife who discovers at last her strange elfin ally busy in the dairy at the untimely churn — I softly stole forward, stood behind him, bent with precaution over his shoulder.
My heart smote159 me to see that — after this morning’s hostility160, after my seeming remissness161, after the puncture162 experienced by his feelings, and the ruffling163 undergone by his temper — he, all willing to forget and forgive, had brought me a couple of handsome volumes, of which the title and authorship were guarantees for interest. Now, as he sat bending above the desk, he was stirring up its contents; but with gentle and careful hand; disarranging indeed, but not harming. My heart smote me: as I bent over him, as he sat unconscious, doing me what good he could, and I daresay not feeling towards me unkindly, my morning’s anger quite melted: I did not dislike Professor Emanuel.
I think he heard me breathe. He turned suddenly: his temperament164 was nervous, yet he never started, and seldom changed colour: there was something hardy165 about him.
“I thought you were gone into town with the other teachers,” said he, taking a grim gripe of his self-possession, which half-escaped him — “It is as well you are not. Do you think I care for being caught? Not I. I often visit your desk.”
“Monsieur, I know it.”
“You find a brochure or tome now and then; but you don’t read them, because they have passed under this?”— touching166 his cigar.
“They have, and are no better for the process; but I read them.”
“Without pleasure?”
“Monsieur must not be contradicted.”
“Do you like them, or any of them? — are they acceptable?” “Monsieur has seen me reading them a hundred times, and knows I have not so many recreations as to undervalue those he provides.”
“I mean well; and, if you see that I mean well, and derive167 some little amusement from my efforts, why can we not be friends?”
“A fatalist would say — because we cannot.”
“This morning,” he continued, “I awoke in a bright mood, and came into classe happy; you spoiled my day.”
“No, Monsieur, only an hour or two of it, and that unintentionally.”
“Unintentionally! No. It was my fête-day; everybody wished me happiness but you. The little children of the third division gave each her knot of violets, lisped each her congratulation:— you — nothing. Not a bud, leaf, whisper — not a glance. Was this unintentional?”
“I meant no harm.”
“Then you really did not know our custom? You were unprepared? You would willingly have laid out a few centimes on a flower to give me pleasure, had you been aware that it was expected? Say so, and all is forgotten, and the pain soothed168.”
“I did know that it was expected: I was prepared; yet I laid out no centimes on flowers.”
“It is well — you do right to be honest. I should almost have hated you had you flattered and lied. Better declare at once ‘Paul Carl Emanuel — je te déteste, mon gar?on!’— than smile an interest, look an affection, and be false and cold at heart. False and cold I don’t think you are; but you have made a great mistake in life, that I believe; I think your judgment169 is warped170 — that you are indifferent where you ought to be grateful — and perhaps devoted171 and infatuated, where you ought to be cool as your name. Don’t suppose that I wish you to have a passion for me, Mademoiselle; Dieu vous en garde! What do you start for? Because I said passion? Well, I say it again. There is such a word, and there is such a thing — though not within these walls, thank heaven! You are no child that one should not speak of what exists; but I only uttered the word — the thing, I assure you, is alien to my whole life and views. It died in the past — in the present it lies buried — its grave is deep-dug, well-heaped, and many winters old: in the future there will be a resurrection, as I believe to my souls consolation172; but all will then be changed — form and feeling: the mortal will have put on immortality173 — it will rise, not for earth, but heaven. All I say to you, Miss Lucy Snowe, is — that you ought to treat Professor Paul Emanuel decently.”
I could not, and did not contradict such a sentiment.
“Tell me,” he pursued, “when it is your fête-day, and I will not grudge174 a few centimes for a small offering.”
“You will be like me, Monsieur: this cost more than a few centimes, and I did not grudge its price.”
And taking from the open desk the little box, I put it into his hand.
“It lay ready in my lap this morning,” I continued; “and if Monsieur had been rather more patient, and Mademoiselle St. Pierre less interfering175 — perhaps I should say, too, if I had been calmer and wiser — I should have given it then.”
He looked at the box: I saw its clear warm tint176 and bright azure177 circlet, pleased his eyes. I told him to open it.
“My initials!” said he, indicating the letters in the lid. “Who told you I was called Carl David?”
“A little bird, Monsieur.”
“Does it fly from me to you? Then one can tie a message under its wing when needful.”,
He took out the chain — a trifle indeed as to value, but glossy178 with silk and sparkling with beads. He liked that too — admired it artlessly, like a child.
“For me?”
“Yes, for you.”
“This is the thing you were working at last night?”
“The same.”
“You finished it this morning?”
“I did.”
“You commenced it with the intention that it should be mine?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And offered on my fête-day?”
“Yes.”
“This purpose continued as you wove it?”
Again I assented179.
“Then it is not necessary that I should cut out any portion — saying, this part is not mine: it was plaited under the idea and for the adornment180 of another?”
“By no means. It is neither necessary, nor would it be just.”
“This object is all mine?”
“That object is yours entirely181.”
Straightway Monsieur opened his palet?t, arranged the guard splendidly across his chest, displaying as much and suppressing as little as he could: for he had no notion of concealing182 what he admired and thought decorative183. As to the box, he pronounced it a superb bonbonnière — he was fond of bonbons184, by the way — and as he always liked to share with others what pleased himself, he would give his “dragées” as freely as he lent his books. Amongst the kind brownie’s gifts left in my desk, I forgot to enumerate185 many a paper of chocolate comfits. His tastes in these matters were southern, and what we think infantine. His simple lunch consisted frequently of a “brioche,” which, as often as not, to shared with some child of the third division.
“A présent c’est un fait accompli,” said he, re-adjusting his palet?t; and we had no more words on the subject. After looking over the two volumes he had brought, and cutting away some pages with his penknife (he generally pruned186 before lending his books, especially if they were novels, and sometimes I was a little provoked at the severity of his censorship, the retrenchments interrupting the narrative), he rose, politely touched his bonnet-grec, and bade me a civil good-day.
“We are friends now,” thought I, “till the next time we quarrel.”
We might have quarrelled again that very same evening, but, wonderful to relate, failed, for once, to make the most of our opportunity.
Contrary to all expectation, M. Paul arrived at the study-hour. Having seen so much of him in the morning, we did not look for his presence at night. No sooner were we seated at lessons, however, than he appeared. I own I was glad to see him, so glad that I could not help greeting his arrival with a smile; and when he made his way to the same seat about which so serious a misunderstanding had formerly187 arisen, I took good care not to make too much room for him; he watched with a jealous, side-long look, to see whether I shrank away, but I did not, though the bench was a little crowded. I was losing the early impulse to recoil188 from M. Paul. Habituated to the palet?t and bonnet-grec, the neighbourhood of these garments seemed no longer uncomfortable or very formidable. I did not now sit restrained, “asphyxiée” (as he used to say) at his side; I stirred when I wished to stir, coughed when it was necessary, even yawned when I was tired — did, in short, what I pleased, blindly reliant upon his indulgence. Nor did my temerity189, this evening at least, meet the punishment it perhaps merited; he was both indulgent and good-natured; not a cross glance shot from his eyes, not a hasty word left his lips. Till the very close of the evening, he did not indeed address me at all, yet I felt, somehow, that he was full of friendliness190. Silence is of different kinds, and breathes different meanings; no words could inspire a pleasanter content than did M. Paul’s worldless presence. When the tray came in, and the bustle of supper commenced, he just said, as he retired191, that he wished me a good night and sweet dreams; and a good night and sweet dreams I had.
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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subscribed
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| v.捐助( subscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；签署，题词；订阅；同意 | |
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kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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14
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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15
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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16
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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17
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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18
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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19
encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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20
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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22
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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23
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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24
appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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25
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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26
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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27
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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28
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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29
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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30
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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31
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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32
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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33
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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34
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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35
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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36
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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37
spawn
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|
| n.卵，产物，后代，结果；vt.产卵，种菌丝于，产生，造成；vi.产卵，大量生产 | |
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38
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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39
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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40
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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41
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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42
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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43
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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44
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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47
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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48
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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49
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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53
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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54
salute
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|
| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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55
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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56
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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57
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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58
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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59
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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60
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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62
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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63
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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64
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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65
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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66
jocund
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| adj.快乐的，高兴的 | |
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67
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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68
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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69
ossified
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|
| adj.已骨化[硬化]的v.骨化，硬化，使僵化( ossify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
humbled
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|
| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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71
affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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72
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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73
costly
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|
| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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74
sweeping
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|
| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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75
gliding
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|
| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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76
dexterously
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|
| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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77
apex
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|
| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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78
exuberance
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|
| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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79
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
tout
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|
| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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81
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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82
eldest
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|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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83
diminutive
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|
| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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84
reiterated
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|
| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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86
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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87
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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88
frivolous
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|
| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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89
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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90
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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91
fixedly
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|
| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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92
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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93
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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94
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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95
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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96
perverse
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|
| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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97
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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98
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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99
vexed
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|
| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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100
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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101
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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102
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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103
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
gulping
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|
| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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105
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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106
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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107
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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108
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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109
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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110
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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111
scathe
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| v.损伤；n.伤害 | |
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112
scathed
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| v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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114
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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115
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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116
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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117
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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118
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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119
malignantly
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| 怀恶意地； 恶毒地； 有害地； 恶性地 | |
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120
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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121
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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122
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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123
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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124
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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125
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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126
dabbling
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| v.涉猎( dabble的现在分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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127
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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128
relish
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|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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129
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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130
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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131
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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132
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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133
blandness
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| n.温柔，爽快 | |
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134
poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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135
symbolically
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| ad.象征地，象征性地 | |
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136
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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137
consigning
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的现在分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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138
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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139
inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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140
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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141
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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142
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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143
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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144
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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145
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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146
culpably
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| adv.该罚地，可恶地 | |
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147
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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148
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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149
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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150
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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151
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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152
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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153
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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154
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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155
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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156
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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157
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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158
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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159
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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160
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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161
remissness
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| n.玩忽职守；马虎；怠慢；不小心 | |
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162
puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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163
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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164
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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165
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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166
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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167
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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168
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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169
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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170
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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171
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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172
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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173
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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174
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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175
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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176
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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177
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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178
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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179
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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181
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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182
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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183
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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184
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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185
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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186
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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187
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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188
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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189
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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190
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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191
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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