TIMON OF ATHENS.
YOUNG people must for ever be trying to fall in love, and in this ancient sport young women are every bit as active as young men. For the matter of that, the greater part of humanity remain adolescent in this affair, that is, hemmed3 in by a thick-set hedge of prejudice and unsatisfied emotion and convention and childish theory, so that they are for ever in a state of uneasy curiosity about love, always ready to put salt on its tail, but unable to come within reach of it. For that reason they are always confusing love with being in love, an active state of living which can be permanent with an emotional condition which must be transitory.
Mrs. Folyat had the most beautiful illusions about her household. She was not entirely4 deceived by them when she came face to face with herself, but in her relations with her husband, her friends and her daughters she always exhibited the most profound faith in them. Though her daughters were grown women she never troubled to discover the state of their minds, but assumed their innocence5 and purity, and she never referred back to her own state of mind at the same age and the same maiden6 condition. In short, she burked the difficulty and the responsibility, though she was secretly alarmed at their slowness in finding husbands. She had no notion of their finding any career outside marriage, and took no steps to prepare them even for that.
There was a constant stream of young men passing through the house, and they all seemed to do their best [Pg 59]to fall in love with Gertrude and Mary, but they either fell victims to Minna, who played with them and squeezed their young hearts dry between her finger and thumb, or they disappeared and were caught in the toils7 elsewhere. There were so many young women and so few eligible8 young men. They flirted9, they danced, they paid visits to the theatres, and Gertrude sang and Mary played her violin, but nothing happened. It was very annoying. The Clibran-Bell girls did not marry either, but there was no comfort in that. They had such large noses; and they were not Folyats. They had not the charm of high gentility. . . . Neither Gertrude nor Mary was pretty, but they could be amusing and they seemed to attract attention. Minna was decidedly pretty, with a wide delightful10 grin and a mocking humour. The most serious and solemn young men were devoted11 to her. They were always proposing to her, but she always refused them or became engaged to them for about a week. Her betrothals hardly ever seemed to survive the visit to their families. She invariably seemed to see them in caricature, and had amassed12 quite a large collection of mental pictures of North-country families who received her at high tea and welcomed her with shy effusiveness13.
Mrs. Folyat was fonder of Minna than of her other daughters. She was easier to get on with and much less expensive. Mary and Gertrude had acquired the habit of visiting relations in the South much richer than themselves, and every year they demanded an exorbitant14 outlay15 on clothes, and they came back rather scornful of life in Fern Square and rather rebellious16 at having to resume their household duties or work in the church and Sunday-school. Also, for a time, they would assume a lofty tone with the young men of their acquaintance, and they used to prick17 at Frederic and tell him he was becoming provincial18. Minna used to lash19 them with her tongue, dealing20 out the wickedest malice21 with the most urbane22 good-humour, and deliberately23 annex24 any young men whom they brought to the house. She called Gertrude “Mother Bub” and Mary “Mottle-tooth.” From their superiority in years they affected25 to ignore her, but they lost no opportunity [Pg 60]of annoying her and upsetting her plans for her own comfort and enjoyment27.
The money-cloud had grown darker over Francis. It seemed impossible to make his expenditure28 acknowledge even a bowing acquaintance with his income. He had credit with the tradespeople but it was abused. Fifty pounds had become a large sum of money to him, because the payment of it meant dislocation of his finances. Frederic was always sending in small bills that were too large for his slender earnings29. The girls—Mary and Gertrude were still called “the girls”—were always wanting money. Annette in Edinburgh hardly ever wrote without wanting money, and Mrs. Folyat seemed to have no notion of the decreasing elasticity30 of his resources. It was perfectly31 clear to him that a change must be made, and quickly. He went into his accounts, found that he owed three hundred and fifty pounds—nearly a year’s stipend—and wrote the figures down on a scrap32 of paper and laid it before his wife.
“We owe that,” he said. “It’s a lot of money.”
Mrs. Folyat turned the piece of paper round and round in her fingers, and Francis stood above her pulling at his beard.
“It’s a big sum,” he said.
Mrs. Folyat pulled out her handkerchief and began to whimper, as she always did when Francis was masterful.
“I’m sure,” she said, “I’m sure it’s not my fault. I’m sure I wish we’d never come to this hateful pace. I don’t know why we did.”
Francis felt a gust33 of exasperation34.
“We came here,” he said, “to marry the girls. They’re not married.”
Mrs. Folyat saw reproach in what was only a statement of fact, and she protested with some vehemence35. The failure of her daughters hurt her. She felt it as keenly as Sarah, the wife of Abraham, felt her barrenness, for she saw life altogether in terms of marriage, romantic marriage. Her own life had fallen into the lines laid down by the fiction with which she refreshed herself—as a girl she had dreamed of a romantic lover—he had come—a parson, [Pg 61]a creature of noble birth—and she had married him. She had borne him a truly biblical number of children and looked for them to follow a similar destiny. She had regarded it as a thing that happened automatically, for she was in mind a child, and life was to her a toy presented to her by a beneficent Creator, already wound up and prepared to go indefinitely. When apparently36 it ran down she could do nothing but weep and make things as uncomfortable as possible for those nearest her. She hated facts, and Francis, her husband, had the most odious37 habit of plumping them down in front of her.
Always before when they had been presented with any financial difficulty they had sold a house at Potsham, for the reduction of their private income by twenty or thirty pounds had seemed no great matter. But they had already sold five houses, and the loss of one hundred and fifty pounds a year had, as Francis now pointed38 out, played a considerable part in bringing them to their present quandary39. He was loth to sacrifice another house and more income, and nervously40 proposed that they should raise the required sum by selling some of their valuable china and perhaps a piece or two of Martha’s jewellery. She hardly ever wore her jewellery, but she loved to hoard41 it, and whenever she was particularly pleased with her women friends she used to reward them by displaying the contents of her treasure-drawers, jewels, old lace, silks and brocades and fans, acquired and inherited—things valuable and trumpery42 all lying higgledy-piggledy.
Her husband’s suggestion acted like salt rubbed into the wounds occasioned by his statement of fact. She asked why she should always be the sufferer for the delinquencies of her family, and almost persuaded herself that she was their scapegoat43. She went back over the years and raked over the ashes of old resentments44 and grievances45, even going so far as to disinter the sacrifice of her carriage at St. Withans.
“The fact remains,” said Francis, “that we owe a large sum of money. I am a clergyman, and my house should be free of the sordid47 troubles that beset48 the laity49. It is not free of them and I am ashamed.”
[Pg 62]
“Very well, then,” said Martha, “Let us sell everything, spend everything—the girls will do that easily enough—and then go into the workhouse.”
“Please be reasonable,” rejoined Francis. “We must pay our debts and reduce our expenditure. If necessary, the girls must go out and earn what they can.”
“The girls!”
“There is no shame in honest work, whatever it may be.”
“But they will never marry if they work.”
“Half the women I marry are working women.”
“I won’t discuss it. You have never been the same since we came to this hateful place.”
“I was thinking chiefly of Mary. She could teach music. And Annette has had a better education than the others. She could . . .”
“What?”
“She could obtain a situation as a governess.”
“A governess! Annette! A governess!”
In Mrs. Folyat’s eyes to send your daughter out as a governess was a confession50 of poverty. There could be no glossing51 it over. Of course the clergy46 were miserably52 paid, but Francis had always risen superior to that reproach in public opinion by the general belief in the amplitude53 of his private means. It could be little short of disaster then to confess to inadequacy54. And a governess! Poor Annette! though to be sure when she was a child her godmother had looked at her sadly and observed that she must assuredly be prepared for a convent. She was so plain—a remark which Minna had never ceased to brandish55 over poor Annette’s head whenever their wills clashed. . . .
Francis at length cut short his wife’s protestations with a sigh and said:
“My dear, I’m sorry. That’s the position. We have to swallow it. We can’t give the girls the opportunities they ought to have. We must let them fight their own way. At present anything is better than the sort of life they are leading. We’ll sell another house, but that shall be the last. We’ll make a fresh start. Be patient with me, my dear.”
[Pg 63]
“And am I to tell Mary?”
“No. I’ll do that, and I’ll find a family for Annette.”
Francis went away feeling that there was a great deal to be said for the celibacy56 of the clergy. Other men, of course, did not see so much of their families, and perhaps, for that reason, could understand them better, be better friends with them, and not so acutely conscious of their irritating peculiarities57. The relation between a father and daughter should be a very beautiful thing, and indeed there were moments when the house in Fern Square was a place of happiness and affectionate unity26. Only—only, there was the future. Martha growing more and more helpless, and the household duties and responsibilities devolving more and more upon Gertrude and Mary, and they losing their bloom.
Francis had a vague feeling of injustice58 which was harshly in disaccord with his professional teaching of acceptance—“Whatever is, is right” and “It’s all for the best.” At any rate there was still abundant laughter in his house, and that was better than the grim smile which was all these Northerners would for the most part allow themselves. The days of violent opposition59 were gone, but the Puritans still looked askance at the Proud Priest—for the nickname clung—and his family. The grocer with an off-licence round the corner spread tales of the large quantities of beer that were consumed in the parson’s house.
Mary took the suggestion very well, and soon she had five pupils, little boys and girls, whom she taught to fumble60 on the piano and to extract horrible noises from the violin. She went to their houses and enjoyed making new friends. Annette was brought home from Edinburgh at the end of the term and was found a situation with an ironmaster’s family named Fender. She had one pupil, a little hunchbacked girl who alternately adored her and bullied61 her. Annette was very happy. At home she had been so mercilessly teased by Minna that she was glad to get away. The Fenders lived in Burnley, ten miles away, and in summer they moved to a lovely house they had in Westmoreland, high-perched on a hill looking [Pg 64]down on Grasmere and Rydal. She read enormous quantities of novels, and devoured62 the pounds and pounds of sweets and chocolates that were lavished63 on her pupil. Once a week she wrote dutiful letters to her parents and surreptitiously she began to write a novel in the manner of Mr. James Payn. She wrote three chapters, and then found the labour of writing too exhausting and continued the story mentally in her many idle moments.
At home in Fern Square the conduct of Gertrude had been causing some astonishment64 and alarm. For five consecutive65 Sundays she failed to put in an appearance at morning service, and once she neglected her Sunday-school class. When questioned about it—she was a woman in years, but Mrs. Folyat was not the mother to relax her authority until it was wrested66 from her—she replied that she was making a tour of the High Churches in our town—with a friend. The answer was found satisfactory, but Minna looked into the facts and found that her elder sister had spent every one of those five Sundays in St. Saviour’s, where there was a young acolyte67 who had a beautiful profile and soulful eyes. He wore the most exquisite68 garments, and his expression was as near monkish69 as anything you can find in the Church of England. His face was lean and pale, and his whole bearing was mournful in the extreme.
For two Sundays after the inquisition Gertrude went to service in St. Paul’s. On the third she disappeared again, and Minna pleaded headache, watched the others go off with their prayer-books and Sunday clothes, and then hurried to St. Saviour’s, a little church built on a slag-heap above the Jewish quarter. She crept in just before eleven and found Gertrude sitting far up near the steps of the nave70 gazing in rapt and religious devotion at the young acolyte as with almost theatrical71 solemnity he performed his rites72. If he was conscious of her he gave no sign. With an almost yearning73 intensity74 he crept noiselessly about ministering to the priest. Gertrude’s great moment came after the sermon when, the churchwardens and sidesmen moving lugubriously75 from pew to pew, the acolyte came down to the altar steps and stood [Pg 65]with a large brass76 plate in his hands waiting for the offertory. He stood there proudly with his pale face upturned, his whole soul seeming to be borne aloft on the hymn77 sung by the congregation. On this occasion it was:
O God our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home.
Minna had come in a mischievous78 spirit, but even she was impressed. There was a soulfulness in the young man, the look of one hopelessly atoning79 for all the sins of the world, and, above all, there was artistry in his movements. Everything that he did seemed to be immensely important and pregnant with meaning. When he stooped and the churchwardens and sidesmen laid their little bags in the great brass plate, he did it with the air of one accepting a worthless gift for the grace of the giving. To him at least it did seem to be true that it is more blessed to give than to receive. His humility80 was so great, so moving, that Minna wished she had put sixpence into the bag instead of a penny.
She could not see Gertrude’s face, but she was familiar enough with her back to be able to gauge81 her feelings. Gertrude had rather a poor figure, with high shoulders and a very short waist. Now her shoulders were higher than ever, and she was leaning forward and her elbows were trembling ever so slightly. Minna smiled and thought maliciously82 of all she knew about Gertrude, and that was not a little.
Before the service was over she left the church, and was lying in the study with a wet handkerchief over her head and a volume of Tennyson on her knees when the rest of the family came home from St. Paul’s and Gertrude from St. Saviour’s.
“Where did you go to, my dear?” asked Mrs. Folyat.
“Oh! To St. Benedict’s,” replied Gertrude. “They have the most lovely altar-cloth I ever saw. But the curate intones very badly.”
“As badly as pa?” asked Minna.
[Pg 66]
“That’s impossible,” said Francis with a long chuckle83.
There was some chatter84, circulation of gossip got at the church door, and then with some anxiety Mrs. Folyat looked across the long table at her husband and said:
“Are you going to tell them, Frank?”
Francis had his mouth full and could only say “Hum! Ha!”
“What is it?” Frederic turned a little pale and wondered what was coming. His misdeeds, taken collectively, were very trivial, but he knew from experience that any one of them taken singly, robbed of its context and placed under the scrutiny85 of other eyes, would assume gigantic proportions.
“Have all the Folkestone Folyats died and left us all their money? Or has uncle William come back from India with a gigantic fortune?” Minna was rushing wildly ahead on all the strangest possibilities when Francis finished his mouthful and cleared his throat.
“No,” he said. “I have heard from your brother Serge.”
“Serge!” said Mary.
“Serge!” said Gertrude, snatched from her tender dreams.
“Is he rich?” asked Minna.
“I don’t know. He talks of coming home.”
“Where is he?” This came from Frederic.
“He wrote from Durban in South Africa.”
“Oh! Then of course he’s a millionaire. Hurrah86! He’ll buy Frederic a partnership87, and me a husband—catch me marrying a poor man—and Mary a genuine Strad, and Gertie a—an acolyte.”
Gertrude flushed hotly and looked daggers88 across the table.
“He merely writes that he is coming home, as though he had only been away a week.”
“Some of you children can hardly remember him,” said Martha.
Minna said she could just recollect89 his putting her into a bassinette and letting her go flying down a hill into a pond.
[Pg 67]
Francis went on:
“He sent your mother some water-colour drawings.”
“Any good?” asked Frederic.
“I think they’re quite good. But I don’t know anything about these things.”
“I’ll take them to old Lawrie. He’ll know,” said Frederic.
“Lawrie?” murmured Gertrude.
“Yes. D’you know him?”
“No. No.”
Minna winked90 at Frederic. He had often talked to her about old Lawrie, and she had discovered that the name of the young acolyte at St. Saviour’s was Bennett Lawrie, old James’ third son.
“I say,” said Frederic, “does Serge know we’re here?”
“No. The letter was forwarded from St. Withans.”
“Don’t you think you ought to let him know what he’s in for?”
“I can’t do that. He gave no address.”
“It won’t matter to him if he’s rich,” said Minna, and they all fell to and rummaged91 their memories for recollections of Serge as a boy. Minna invented lavishly92 and suddenly she shouted:
“Did he say whether he’d got a wife?”
“I bet it’s a blackamoor like old Nicholas Folyat,” said Frederic.
“Even if she is black,” said Mrs. Folyat solemnly, “if he is married to her she will be my daughter-in-law and I shall receive her.”
The conversation took on a broad complexion93 which is more permissible94 in the family circle than in the printed page.
That evening Frederic took Serge’s drawings with him and sought out old Lawrie in the Arts Club, where always on a Sunday evening there was a gathering95 of old warriors96 and choice spirits—Joshua Yeo, Elihu Beecroft, the painter, Peter Maitland, who wrote pantomimes, and Warlock Clynes, the photographer, and B. J. Strutt, the manager of the old theatre, where, as a young man, Henry Irving had been a member of the stock company. They [Pg 68]were smoking and drinking and yarning97. They had vast stores of anecdotes98 of the great Bohemians in London. Beecroft had twice had pictures in the Academy, and B. J. Strutt had begun life as a call-boy at the Haymarket Theatre. Old James Lawrie had been to London three times and had shaken hands with J. L. Toole and Helen Faucit, and Clement99 Scott had sent him a copy of his Ballads100, of which he had produced many gross parodies101.
The club was simply three rooms in a dark block of offices—a bar, an eating room, and a smoke-room. Frederic was shown in by the grubby boy whom he found at the door reading a penny “blood,” and he stood foolishly in the middle of the room realising dreadfully that old Lawrie did not remember who he was.
“Mr. Lawrie. . .” he said.
“Eh?”
“I—I—My name’s Folyat. I—I acted. You asked me to—to look you up here some day.”
“Eh? Oh, yes. Come and sit down. What’ll you have? I can’t pay for your drink, but some one will.”
Frederic sat down, and the little group of old men were embarrassed by his presence.
“So. . . so you act, do you? Here’s B. J. Strutt. Get him to give you a job in his next pantomime.”
“I’m—I’m not a pro,” said Frederic. “I’m a solicitor102.” And, as he said it, he felt that it was a small thing to be among these free men who practised the arts. Frederic was a chameleon103 who took his colour from his surroundings. He had a queer capacity for enthusiasm, which came and went and was altogether beyond his control. He drank a little whiskey and he felt that he was in the company of very wonderful beings. They talked of things and men that were glorious dreams to him, and they spoke104 of them with such ease and familiarity, like giants playing marbles with the mountains. His own little celebrity105, which had been very dear to him, dwindled106 into nothing, and it was to protect himself that he produced Serge’s drawings and began to talk of his brother.
Beecroft took the drawings and looked them through. He had a huge red beard and a glistening107 bald head and [Pg 69]round spectacles that made him look like a benevolent108 spider. He clapped his hands to his bald pink head and with immense fervour said:
“By God!”
“Are they good?” rasped Lawrie.
“No. Damn bad.”
Frederic felt very small.
“I don’t know,” said B. J. Strutt. “I like that one all yellow in the foreground and blue in the distance. And I like that one with the niggers filing through the orange-trees with the pinky-white house beyond.”
“So do I,” cried Beecroft. “I like ’em all. The man can’t draw, but he can feel colour and big distances and lots and lots of air.”
Frederic began to feel better. The old men gathered round the drawings and gave grunts109 of satisfaction. (They had been very bored all the evening and were glad of something to interest them).
“Where is he?” said Beecroft. “This brother of yours.”
“In Africa. He’s coming home.”
“He’s a genius. Do you know that? A genius.”
“Be careful, Beecroft,” put in Lawrie. “There have been about twenty men of genius—real genius—in forty, or is it sixty?—thousand years.”
“A genius,” reiterated110 Beecroft. “We’ll give a show. You can ram111 him down their throats week by week, Yeo.”
“It’s no good running a genius in this place,” growled112 Lawrie.—He was always discovering poets and seeing them go to ruin.—“They don’t want genius. They’re so used to imitations.”
“At any rate,” protested Beecroft, “they haven’t had anything like this for years, and I don’t think we ought to let ’em off.”
“My brother’s coming home now. I’ll tell him what you said. It’s rather funny. I haven’t seen him since we were boys, and then he was much older than I.”
“We’ll have a show,” repeated Beecroft. “He’s a local man?”
[Pg 70]
“We weren’t born here. But my father’s been rector of St. Paul’s, Bide113 Street, for some years now.”
“That’s good enough. The stinking114 rotters here like to think they’ve had a hand in anything produced in the place—if people talk about it enough. Have some more whiskey?”
Frederic was beyond saying “no.” The drink went to his head, inflated115 him, and he offered to sing. Strutt played his accompaniments, and they kept him at it for an hour until he was hoarse116, and they shouted the choruses in cracked, beery voices.
It was very late when Frederic left the club, after shaking hands all round and promising117 tearfully to bring his brother, the genius, as soon as he arrived. He forgot the drawings altogether, and old Lawrie, being the soberest of the party, gathered them together and took them home with him.
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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toils
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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effusiveness
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exorbitant
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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rebellious
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prick
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provincial
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lash
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dealing
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malice
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urbane
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deliberately
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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affected
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unity
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enjoyment
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expenditure
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earnings
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elasticity
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perfectly
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scrap
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gust
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exasperation
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vehemence
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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37
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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38
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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39
quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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40
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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41
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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42
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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43
scapegoat
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| n.替罪的羔羊，替人顶罪者；v.使…成为替罪羊 | |
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44
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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45
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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46
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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47
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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48
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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49
laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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50
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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51
glossing
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| v.注解( gloss的现在分词 )；掩饰（错误）；粉饰；把…搪塞过去 | |
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52
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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53
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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54
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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55
brandish
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| v.挥舞，挥动；n.挥动，挥舞 | |
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56
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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57
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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58
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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59
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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60
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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61
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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63
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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65
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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66
wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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67
acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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68
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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69
monkish
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| adj.僧侣的，修道士的，禁欲的 | |
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70
nave
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| n.教堂的中部；本堂 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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72
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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73
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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74
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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75
lugubriously
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76
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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77
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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79
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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81
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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82
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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83
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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84
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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85
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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86
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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87
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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88
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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89
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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90
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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92
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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93
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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94
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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95
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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96
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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97
yarning
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的现在分词形式） | |
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98
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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99
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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100
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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101
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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103
chameleon
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| n.变色龙，蜥蜴；善变之人 | |
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104
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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105
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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106
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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108
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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109
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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110
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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111
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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112
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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113
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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114
stinking
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| adj.臭的，烂醉的，讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 )；发臭味；名声臭；糟透 | |
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115
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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116
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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117
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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