Here they are—the farmers and livestock raisers beside the elegant Dakota doing their chores, the kids playing, the animals foraging10 for whatever they could find among patches of half-melted snow. I could hardly believe it, and when my rough was done, I walked on a block or so toward the Museum—now, in daylight, I could see that it was only a single building—and I stared out over a strange astonishing view of farm after tiny farm clear to the Hudson. Even stranger, the streets were all here; in places they were a great raised gridiron of block after block of new streets all graded up to uniform level, the land between the streets lying far below. And down in those uniformly rectangular block-square hollows lay hundreds of acres of farmlands. From here at street level I could see the regular lines of old cultivations under the thin layer of snow. On a few of these miniature farms, people were desultorily11 scratching at the wet ground with hoes, I don't know why. I sketched12 that scene, too, of course: That's Seventy-fifth Street there at the left, and you can see the Ninth Avenue El in the background, and as I stood sketching13 I heard the lowing of cows, the baaing of sheep, heard pigs squeal14, geese honk15, and at the same time the distant, familiar, incongruous clatter16 of the El. Then I left, to cross Central Park toward the Third Avenue El, then on downtown to Gunnery Park.
Nineteen Gramercy Park was a house I'd seen before. It still exists, far into the twentieth century, and I'd occasionally walked past it and the other fine old houses around the little square of park. As well as I could remember, it looked the same now: a plain three-story brownstone with white-painted window frames and a short flight of scrubbed stone steps with a black wrought-iron railing. In a corner of a first-floor window a small blue-and-white sign said BOARD AND LODGING17. I stood on the walk looking up at the house, holding my packed carpetbag, and I was like a man on a diving board far higher than any oilier he's ever dared. I was about to begin something much more than addressing a few words to a stranger and moving on. However cautiously and tentatively, I was about to participate in the life of these times, and I stood looking at that sign, enormously excited and curious but not quite able to find the nerve to start. I had to move; that door might open, and someone step out to see me loitering here. I made myself step forward, climb the stairs quickly, and before I could hesitate I reached out and twisted the polished brass18 knob at the center of the door, a bell jangled on the other side, and then I heard steps. I'd done it now; for better or worse, I'd joined this time. I watched the knob turn, saw the door move back as it opened, made myself look up. In the doorway19, looking inquiringly at me, stood a girl in her early twenties wearing a gray cotton dress and a long green apron20; a white dustcloth folded into a turban covered her upswept hair, and she held a cloth in her hand. "Yes?" Once again the wonder of what was happening seized me, and I stood staring at her. She started to frown, about to speak again, and I said quickly, "I'm looking for a room." "And board? That's all we offer.""Yes. And board." I made myself nod and smile. "Well, we have two vacancies," she said doubtfully, as though not sure she shouldn't get rid of me. "One at the front overlooking the park at nine dollars a week. The other's at the back; it's seven dollars and twenty-five cents. Both with breakfast and supper." I said I'd like to see them, and she stepped aside to gesture me into the black-and-white-tiled hall; it was wallpapered and dominated by an enormous hatrack and umbrella stand, the middle section of which was a full-length mirror. In it, as she turned to close the door, I glimpsed the slim back of her neck and a wisp of dark hair escaping her turban. Nervous as I was, I smiled; there's something innocent and appealing about the back of a girl's neck when her hair is up. She was pretty, I realized. I followed her up the carpeted stairs at the end of the hall. In order to climb them, she gathered her skirts at the knees, raising them to the ankles, and I saw that she wore black button shoes with slightly run-down heels, and thick cotton stockings striped blue and white. I glimpsed her calves22, full and rounded, and, in spite of the handicap of those shoes and stockings, realized that she had very handsome legs. She's dead, you know—the thought spoke23 itself in my mind. Dead and gone for decades past I shook my head hard, trying to force the thought away; then she turned at the top of the stairs to gesture me into a room, and as I walked past her she smiled, and I saw—very close —the living reality of her complexion24, the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes, the split-second motion of her eyelashes as she blinked, and she was so clearly young and alive that the thought lost all meaning. I stood looking around the room, and she waited, standing just inside the doorway. It was big and clean, well lighted from two tall rectangular windows at the front. The room was furnished in an old-fashioned... but of course it wasn't old-fashioned. The wooden rocking chair, heavy carved-wood bedstead, the little table between the windows with a green felt tassel-fringed cloth, were probably no more than a dozen years old. There was a green-and-pink carpet, worn in a few places, and patterned with huge roses or cabbages, take your choice. Under one window was a window seat cushioned in red velvet25, and the windows were hung with starched26 lace curtains, mended here and there. A gilt27-framed engraving28 of a shepherd in a smock, knee-deep in sheep, hung beside the door, and the wallpaper was a ferocious29 brown-and-green pattern of tormented30 doodads. There was a dark-wood dresser with porcelain31 knobs and a white marble top on which stood a pitcher32 in a bowl. The bathroom, shared with other roomers, was down the hall, she said. I said, "I like it. Very much. I'll take it, if I may." "Would you have references?" "I'm awfully33 sorry, but I haven't. I just arrived in New York, and don't know a soul. Except you." I smiled but she didn't smile back. She stood hesitating, and I said, "It's true that I'm an escaped convict, an active counterfeiter35, and occasional murderer. And I howl during the full of the moon. But I'm neat.""In that case, welcome." Now she smiled. "Your name?" "Simon Morley, and very pleased to meet you." "I am Miss Julia Charbonneau." She was suddenly reserved, almost cool, but I knew we were friends. "This house belongs to my great-aunt; you will meet her at suppertime, which is six." She turned to leave, hand on the knob to pull it closed behind her; then she stopped, and turned to look back at me. "Since you're from out of town, remember these are gaslights"—she nodded at the globed overhead lights, and at the gas jet projecting from the wall over the bed—"not kerosene36 or candle. Don't ever blow them out; turn the flame off." "I'll remember." She nodded, stood looking about the room for a moment longer, found nothing more to add, and turned toward the doorway. "Miss Charbonneau." She looked back, and for a moment I had nothing to say, then I found something. "Please excuse any ignorance. This is my first visit to New York, and I don't know the customs." "I don't expect they're much different from anywhere else." She smiled again, a little mockingly now. "Anyhow, you don't look as though you'd stay a greeny for long." She walked out, pulling the door closed. Over at the window I stood looking down at little Gramercy Park a story below, its benches, bushes and grass covered with snow. I couldn't recall when it was that I'd seen the park last, and couldn't tell whether it looked the same; it seemed to. Around the park three sides of the square were just as I'd always seen them; old old houses of brownstone, brick, gray stone. But on the fourth side, Twenty-First Street, there apartments now, just more old houses. The sidewalksandpathsoftheparkwereshoveled(were) cle(no) ar, but the snow was piled high in the gutters37 at the far sides of the street beside the park. It was speckled black with soot38; this was still a dirty city, especially in the winter, I supposed, with tens of thousands of coal and wood fires pouring carbon into the air. At least it wasn't radioactive. Before every house stood hitching39 posts of black-painted cast iron; the tops of some were horses' heads with rings through the noses. Before each post stood a broad stone block for stepping up into carriages, every one clean of snow and ready for use. Otherwise it was the Gramercy Park I was used to. A movement caught my eye across the square, and I located it through the intervening bare black branches: A door had opened, and a woman stepped out. Now she was pulling the door closed. Now she reached for the railing and, cautiously for fear of ice, walked down the steps. She turned left on the walk, and at Twentieth Street turned the corner, walking toward me. Free of the intervening trees, I saw her clearly now, Her shoulders, under a dark cape34, were hunched40 against the cold, her hands deep in a glossy41 fur muff; her pillbox bonnet42 was tied under her chin; her brown cutaway coat was edged with a broad band of black lamb's wool; and the tips of her shoes appeared and disappeared under her skirt hem7 as she walked. And once more the truth welled up in me; this was New York City, January 1882, and I was here and a part of it.
In almost that moment it began to snow, the flakes43 tiny and scarce. But within half a minute, in only the time it took the woman walking toward me to reach Irving Place and turn into it, disappearing from my sight, the flakes had thickened. Then they flew fast, swirling44, beginning to cover the walks, the paths, the stone steps and stoops, beginning to mound45 on the heads of the iron horses. It was too much, I can't really say why, and I turned from the window and lay down on the long single bed, careful to keep my feet off the plain white bedspread. And I closed my eyes, suddenly more homesick than any child. It occurred to me that I literally46 did not know a single person on the face of the earth, and that everything and everyone I knew was impossibly far away. For an hour, maybe a little less, I was asleep. Then occasional voices, the sounds of doors opening, closing, and footsteps in the hall pulled me awake. The room was dark now, but the slim rectangles of the windows beyond the foot of my bed were luminous47 from the new snow outside. I knew where I was, swung my legs to the floor, and crossed the room to the windows. Streetlamps glowed around the square, the snow sparkling in the circles of light at their bases. To my right and just around the corner of the square a carriage door slammed, and I turned to see the reins48 flick49 on the backs of two slim gray horses. Then the carriage started toward me, its sides shiny-black in the light of its own side lamps. Almost immediately, its high thin wheels leaving blade-thin tracks, it entered a cone50 of lamplight, bursting into black-enamel and plate-glass glitter. Through the glass of my windowpane I heard the faint jingle52 of harness and the muffled53 clippetyclop of shod hoofs54 in new snow. The carriage turned the corner, and I stared down at the foreshortened figure of the driver, high on the open front seat, neatly55 blanket-wrapped to the waist, reins and whip in his gloved hands. Horses, driver, and carriage passed directly under my window; I looked straight down onto the harnessed gray backs, the jiggling top of the driver's silk hat, and the dull black of the carriage roof. Once again horses and carriage moved glitteringly through a cone of yellow light, and I watched then-shadows thin to nothingness on the new snow. The shadows reappeared, thickened, turned solidly blue-black, then raced on ahead of the carriage, lengthening56 and distorting. Now, in the oval rear window, two heads were framed, a man's under a top hat, and a woman's bare head; I saw her hair bound up in a bun at the back. The man turned to the woman, said something—I could see the movement of his beard—then the carriage turned the corner, and I saw its side light, saw the horses disappear; then the carriage itself was gone, except for its thin double tracks. And an exultance at being here in this time and this city raced through me. I swung away from the window, pulling off my coat, walked to the dresser, poured water from pitcher to bowl, and washed. I put on a clean shirt, tied my tie, combed my hair, and walked quickly to the door, the hall, the house, and its people. A thin young man in shirt-sleeves carrying a shallow pan of water came walking along the hall toward me from the bathroom. He had dark hair parted on one side, and a brown Fu Manchu mustache. The instant he saw me he grinned. "You the new boarder?" He stopped. "I can't shake hands"—smiling, he gestured with his chin at the pan he held—"but allow me to introduce myself. I'm Felix Grier. Today's my birthday; I'm twenty-one."I congratulated him, told him my name, and he insisted I conic to his room and see the new camera his parents had sent him for his birthday. It had arrived yesterday, and with a light stand he showed me—a horizontal gas pipe on a stand, punctured57 for a dozen flames and backed by a reflector—he'd taken portraits of everyone in the house, and even photographed some of the rooms by daylight. He developed and printed his own films; there were a couple dozen of them strung out on a line like a washing, drying, and I saw that he'd printed them in circles, rectangles, ovals, and every other style, having a great time. I looked his camera over, a big affair weighing seven or eight pounds, I judged, holding and examining it. It was all polished wood, brass, glass, and red leather, wonderfully handsome. I told him so, said I was a camera bug58, too, and he offered to lend it to me sometime, and I said I might take him up on it. Then he made me pose, and took my picture—a shorter exposure than I'd have thought, only a few seconds—and promised me a full set, too. I didn't particularly want them then, though I was glad to have them later. I left Felix washing more prints, and that night when I got back to my room I found a full set under my door; everyone's portrait including my own, plus some of the house. On the following page is one of them, Felix's own picture, and a good likeness59 except much more sober than I saw him; he was grinning and excited every moment I talked to him, While I'm at it, I'll include the portrait he made of me: the one on the right. I'm not sure how good a likeness it is, but all in all I expect that's what I look like, beard and all; I never said I was handsome. I left Felix, and went downstairs into the big front parlor60 that opened off the hall; a fire was moving behind the mica61 windows of a large black nickel-plated stove standing on a sheet of metal against one wall. Surmounting62 the stove stood a foot-high, nickel-plated knight63 in armor, and I walked over to look at it, reached out to touch it, and yanked my hand back; it was hot. Behind apair of sliding doors I heard the clink of china and silver, and a murmur64 of voices. One was Julia's, I was sure, the other an older woman's. I imagined they were setting a table, and I coughed. The doors rolled open, and Julia stepped in. She was wearing a maroon65 wool dress with white collar and cuffs66, not the one Felix had photographed her in. This is his portrait of her, and tonight she wore her hair as you see it here, loosely arranged, covering the tops of her ears, and arranged at the back in a bun. Behind her I saw an oval table partly set; then a slim middle-aged67 woman stepped into the parlor after Julia. Above right is Felix's portrait of her, and a very good one; this is just how she looked. Julia said, "Aunt Ada, this is Simon Morley, who arrives without reference or much luggage. But with an abundance of soft sawder with which he is most generous. Mr. Morley, Madam Huff." I didn't know what "soft sawder" was, but learned later that "soft solder68" was the phrase and that it meant exaggerated speech or flattery or both. Smiling at what Julia had said, her aunt actually curtsied; I'd never seen it done before. "How do you do, Mr. Morley." It seemed only natural, as though I'd done it always, to bow in response. "How do you do, Madam Huff. Miss Julia leaves me nothing to reply except that I'm happy to be here. This is a charming room." Listening to myself, I had to suck in my cheeks to keep my face straight. "May I show it to you?" Aunt Ada gestured at the room, and I glanced around it with genuine interest. This is the view Felix took of part of the room with his birthday camera; it doesn't show all of it by any means. It was carpeted and wallpapered, and at the windows, in addition to white lace curtains, there were purple velvet drapes fringed with little balls. There were two large brocaded settees, two wood-and-black-leather rockers, three upholstered chairs, a desk, gilt-framed pictures on the walls.
But Aunt Ada was walking to a glass fronted what not in a corner, and I followed. "These are some of the things Mr. Huff and I brought home from our tour of Europe and the Holy Land." She pointed69. "That vial contains water from the River Jordan. And those are marble fragments we picked up at the Forum70." She gave me a brief account of everything on the shelves: a tiny folding fan from France that was a souvenir of the Revolution, a little gilt slipper71 enclosing a velvet-covered pincushion she'd bought in Belgium, a sea-shell her husband, "my late husband," had picked up from the beach at the English resort at which they'd stayed. And she ended with the prize of her collection: a daisy, brown and pressed flat, from Shelley's grave. Young Felix came bouncing down the stairs and into the room. He had a clean collar on now, and a tie, vest, gold watch-chain, a short black coat, and black-and-white-checked pants. When he saw I was being given the tour, he caught my eye and winked72. Then he sat down at the front windows and began to read a newspaper he'd brought with him, the New York Express. Julia was back in the dining room, setting the table, and Aunt Ada and I moved to the white marble mantelpiece and a row of Christmas cards there. On cards as shiny as though they'd been varnished73, there were frowzy-haired little-girl angels extending flowers; a few thin Santa Clauses in red-and-white garments like monks74' habits, with attached hoods75, and skirts to the ground; and quite a few humorous cards, one of them, for example, showing a Christmas dinner at which a quarreling family was throwing plates and glasses. I was even more startled by the "agony" cards, her name for them. One showed a sobbing76 little girl lost in a howling blizzard77; another offered us a child's footprints in the snow, ending at the edge of a river; another a dead bird flat on its back, claws in the air, the caption78 reading Hark! hark! the lark79 at heaven's gate sings! I didn't know how I ought to react till Aunt Ada cued me. She said, "They're absurd, of course, ridiculous, but all the go nowadays," and I smiled. A man in his middle thirties came down now, and Aunt Ada introduced us; this is Felix's photo of him.
He was a tall thin man named Byron Keats Doverman, and he wore a mustache, the tips of which flowed into little explosions of whiskers overhanging his jaw80. His hair was thick, wavy81, red-brown. He sat down, congratulated Grier on his birthday, borrowed part of his newspaper, and ignored the tour, which continued. I inspected and admired a bamboo easel on which stood a framed painting of some fruit and a dead rabbit. Aunt Ada led me to a small table with porcelain casters, then stood waiting, hands demurely82 clasped, while I bent83 over to examine a large sepia photograph propped84 against a vase filled with cattails. It was a full-length portrait of a woman in tights and wearing a peaked felt hat from which trailed a long feather; she had an elbow planted on a marble pillar and, chin in hand, stood in profile staring off into space. The caption, in gilt script, was The Jersey85 Lily, and in the opposite corner was what I took to be the name of the photographer, Sarony. She saved the best for the last. Beside a small handsome organ of dark wood, on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, stood a yard-high set of plaster figures that must have weighed a hundred pounds. The title, cut into the base, was Weighing the Baby, and the figures were of a bearded frock-coated doctor and a mobcapped midwife examining the reading on the balance arm of a scale, in the scoop-tray of which lay a wailing86 baby. On one side of this plaster tableau87 stood a glass dome88 under which sprouted89 a formal bouquet90 of strange flowers. Looking closely, I saw that they were made of dyed feathers. Aunt Ada had to leave before we were finished; supper was nearly ready, and Julia signaled her. But there were plenty of other things to see: family portraits, framed pictures, a giant fern in a corner by the front windows. I told her I liked her parlor very very much, which was true. I think it's the most pleasant room I've ever been in. Sitting there waiting for supper, then Felix Grier handed me a section of his paper, and I glanced at it but didn't read it—I sat looking around that crowded, interesting room again, listening to the crackle of the fire in the stove, feeling the heat ofit on the side of my face, watching the wind fling an occasional scatter91 of snow past the front windows, and I felt at peace. I sat facing the stairs, watching for the man I'd come to see, and presently Miss Maud Torrence came down and joined us: a small, plain, sweet-faced woman of about thirty-five. She wore a blue-serge skirt, a white blouse buttoned high around the neck, and a small gold watch on a necklace chain. She worked in an office, I learned later, and this was the way she dressed for work. Byron Doverman introduced us, then she stood by the windows watching the night outside, and I saw a wooden pencil stuck into the bun of tight-rolled hair at the base of her neck. She asked me politely if I didn't think the weather had been "fierce" lately, and I agreed but said it was what you'd expect in New York at this time of year; then Julia spoke in the doorway behind us to say that supper was ready. I was too excited to eat much, too conscious of being here at this table under the almost silent hiss92 of the gaslights of the overhead chandelier, and beginning to feel worried because my man hadn't appeared. We sat, six of us, with one empty chair, Aunt Ada at the head of the oval table carving93 the breast of a turkey, then passing our plates to us. For a time we were silent except for murmurs94 of thanks as dishes were passed. I sat looking around a little, not too obviously. There were half a dozen large framed pictures on the walls. One was a sepia head-and-shoulders of a stern middle-aged man, a family portrait, I supposed; the others were black-and-white engravings of the Roman Forum, pastoral scenes, and the like. Then, all of us served, we began eating, and Byron Doverman tossed in the conversational95 ball by announcing that he'd just finished reading Ben Hur. Julia and Felix said they were surprised he hadn't read it long since. There was a little talk about Ben Hur then, especially about its "message," and Aunt Ada asked if I'd read it. I never had but I'd seen the movie, so I said yes, adding something or other about the excitement of the chariot race. Then Byron Doverman said casually96 that he'd once seen the author, General Lew Wallace, ride past his regiment97 when he'd been a soldier encamped near Washington during thewar. As I stared across the table at this still-young, reddish-brown-haired man whose face was almost unlined, it took me a moment to realize that he meant the Civil War. "Heard the latest about Guiteau?" Felix was asking the table in general. "Someone took a shot at him through his cell window—" "That was in the papers," Julia said. "Yes, but this wasn't—the story was all over town this afternoon. The bullet hit the wall and flattened98 into an absolutely perfect profile of Guiteau as the wretch99 looks when frightened." I glanced cautiously around the table but they were all nodding soberly, accepting this as fact without a smile. Then I realized that Aunt Ada was speaking to me, asking my opinion about the trial verdict. I sat looking thoughtful, as though considering, trying to remember what little I knew about Guiteau. I hadn't read much about him, but knew he'd been found guilty, and executed. I wasn't here to reform social attitudes, and I told Aunt Ada that since he was clearly guilty I felt sure he'd be hanged. Down the table Felix was discussing the ice crop; they'd begun cutting near Bordentown, New Jersey, he said. Then there was a little talk about the Metropolitan100 Elevated scandal, whatever that was. I smiled at Julia and said the turkey was wonderful; I've always thought of turkey as dry and nearly flavorless but this was succulent. It was wild turkey, Julia said, and when I looked surprised, and asked where she'd got it, she looked surprised. "At the market, of course." I asked about that, and found that they also sold quail101, grouse102, partridges, tame squabs, wild ducks including canvasbacks, redheads, and mallards, and hares and rabbits. I'd always thought hare was another name for rabbit, and started to ask about that but didn't; Julia's eyes were narrowed, and she was staring across the table at me wonderingly. I turned to Felix beside me, and just to be saying something asked if he were interested in baseball. He said he was, a little. He'd gone to the polo grounds a few times last summer when they weren't playing polo, to see the Mets play. I said, "Who?" He said, "The Metropolitans103." I nodded, and said I thought that's what he said. "How did they do?" I asked. He said, "Not so well; they had bad pitching," and I said I wasn't a bit surprised. For dessert we had a birthday cake, Felix blowing out the candles. And then we had a birthday party! Julia and her aunt stayed in the dining room, closing the sliding doors, to clear the table. In the parlor Maud Torrence sat down at the organ and began looking through the sheet music on the rack. Felix Grier and Byron Doverman stood behind her, and when I sat down with the paper, they called me, and I knew there was no escape, and walked over. I was able to join in on the first song, "I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen," and when we finished young Felix said, "If only Jake were home we'd have a quartet!" That was my chance to ask, "Jake who?" and Felix said, "Jake Pickering, our other boarder," and now I knew his name, and felt I'd made some progress.
The next number was "If I Catch the Man Who Taught Her to Dance," or something like that, and all I could do was try to follow along. Then Julia and her aunt came in, and we all sang "In the Evening by the Moonlight" and "Oh, Dem Golden Slippers104." Aunt Ada did pretty well, but Julia was a little off the beat occasionally. Byron Doverman said, " 'Cradle's Empty, Baby's Gone!' " Julia said, "Oh, no," but the others insisted. Maud found the music, and—all reading the words over her shoulders—we sang what is probably the most lugubrious105 song I've ever heard, about this poor dead baby, and including lines like "Baby's gone to join the angels, peaceful evermore." Julia smiled at me, shrugging; she seemed to think it was ridiculous. But when Maud finished she turned from the organ saying she'd played enough, and her eyes were bright, she was on the edge of tears, and I remembered that this was a time when babies died easily; maybe the song meant something to her. The doorbell rang, and again I wondered if it were my man. But Julia answered the bell and came back sorting through four or five envelopes, one of which she handed Byron; the others were birthday greetings for Felix. It was a mail delivery at very nearly seven in the evening, and when I said I was surprised, Julia answered with a touch of big-city smugness that mail was delivered five times a day in New York City. "Byron," she said then, "will you favor us with some magic?" He nodded, took the stairs to his room two at a time, came back down just as fast, then walked around the room pulling coins from our ears, and asking people to "pick a card, any one at all." The truth is that he was pretty good, and everyone, including me, actually enjoyed the performance. He finished, put the deck in his pocket, and sat down. Aunt Ada said, "My uncle sent me a fan from China, and I fan like this." She began waggling her hand under her chin as though fanning herself, and everyone copied her. At her right, in a chair next to the windows, Maud Torrence said, "My uncle sent me a fan from China, and I fan like this." With her left hand she began waving an imaginary fan at her left ear, and—our right hands still waggling—we all did the same. It was my turn and I said, "My uncle sent me a fan from Czechoslovakia and I fan like this." I exposed my teeth as though I had a fan in my mouth, and began nodding my head, everyone imitating. Felix was next and he ended the game with twin fans from the Sandwich Islands, lifting both feet from the floor and fanning away. As we all copied the movement everyone burst into laughter, and it was funny, all of us reared back in our chairs, heads, hands and feet simultaneously106 waggling away. Aunt Ada said, "Where is Czechoslovakia, Mr. Morley?" "Why, I believe it's south of Germany." She nodded, accepting this, and I think Maud Torrence did, too. But the two men and Julia were looking at me. I knew what was wrong; there was no Czechoslovakia, wouldn't be for decades yet, and I grinned to show I'd only been joking. Felix's face was flushed, his eyes bright; he was having a great twenty-first birthday, and he said, "Julia? Tableaux107 vivants!""All right." Whatever it was, she liked the idea. "Shall I choose first?" He nodded, and she said, "Then I'll need you and Byron." They walked into the dining room, pulling the sliding doors closed after them, and Aunt Ada got up and turned the lights of the parlor chandelier very low. Then she and Maud sat smiling expectantly at the closed doors of the dining room, and when they glanced at me I was doing the same. Julia called, "Ready!" and Aunt Ada, who was nearest, got up and rolled open the doors. The dining-room lights were turned up high and bright, and the three of them stood in the doorway almost silhouetted108 as though on a stage; they were posed and motionless. Byron and Julia were facing Felix, who stood on one foot, the other slightly raised. Wedged under one arm he held a long stick of some sort like a crutch109; his mouth was open as though speaking, his eyes wide. Julia's head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes as wide as Felix's. Byron looked stricken, too, the back of one fist pressed to his forehead. They stood there, swaying slightly; we all sat and stared. Then Maud, voice frustrated110, said, "Oh, I know it, I know it so well!" Suddenly, triumphant111, Aunt Ada cried, "The Soldier's Return!" and the tableau vivant broke up, chattering112, heads nodding in confirmation113. Aunt Ada stood; apparently114 it was her turn now. "I'll need you, Mr. Morley," she said, and I followed her into the dining room, closing the sliding doors behind us. "Do you know The Slave Auction115?" she said eagerly. I stood frowning as though trying to remember, then said I was afraid I didn't. "Never mind, I'll pose you. We'll need a gavel." She stood looking around the room, then hurried to a cabinet against one wall, opened a drawer, and brought out a big soup ladle. "This'll do; hold it like a gavel." She pulled a straight-backed chair up to the closed doors, turning its back to the door. "Climb up; this will be the auctioneer's stand." I got up on the chair, facing the doors. "Raise your gavel; you're saying, 'Going, going, gone!' " I did, and Aunt Ada knelt before the chair facing the parlor, crossing one wrist over the other as though her arms were bound. "Ready!" she called, all excited, then she dropped her head, chin on her chest. The doors began sliding open, and though I didn't move—gavel hand upraised, my mouth open—I felt my face flush. But they all knew this one instantly, yelling, "The Slave Auction!" almost simultaneously. Then they were gabbling congratulations, the gist117 of them being that they'd guessed instantly only because we'd done it so well. By the time we'd had a couple more tableaux vivants—The Wounded Scout118 and Lovers ' Retreat—I found out through various references what we were doing. We were imitating the poses of figures in statuary groups made by a man named Rogers who duplicated them in plaster by the thousands. Apparently every home had Rogers group—Weighing the Baby on Aunt Ada's mantelpiecewasone—andeveryonewasfam(a) iliar with most of them. I sat like the others, trying to look as though I were recalling titles that might match the poses in the dining room. Across from me Maud sat absently scratching her initials in the frost on the windowpane beside her. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen genuine frost on a windowpane since I'd written on my grandfather's farmhouse119 window when I was a child. In the final tableau—Julia was one of the lovers, sitting ona bench and looking sad—I saw her flick a glance at me, and I thought I could read her mind; I was the only person in the room who hadn't once been able to call out a title, even a wrong guess. Byron suggested charades120 next; I could tell from his manner that he must be good at them. But Felix—and I thought maybe he wasn't so good—said charades were too much like tableaux vivants. Julia was sitting over by the whatnot cabinet now, still looking at me a little curiously121, and now she said, "Perhaps Mr. Morley will entertain us. It's your turn, Mr. Morley; we're all agreed!" Everyone else did agree instantly, and I nodded. In Julia's voice, I thought, there'd been a hint of challenge as though she were saying, Who are you? Prove yourself! Well, I wanted to, and sat wondering what to do, and felt a sudden flicker122 of panic. I looked over at Julia again; she was waiting, smiling a little mockingly. Then I grinned at her and held up both hands, palms toward her, thumbs touching123, framing her head and shoulders. "Hold still." She sat motionless, eyes suddenly bright with interest. "Turn your head only; just a little. No, the other way, toward the cabinet." She turned her head slowly, and when the light from the overhead chandelier slanted124 across her face, side-lighting it and silhouetting125 her profile against the dark wallpaper just behind her, I said, "Don't move, don't breathe." I'd already found the key to my Dakota apartment in my vest pocket, and now I turned to the window beside me, and scraping through the thin white layer of frost with a sharp corner of the key, I set down the outline of her cheekbone. I glanced back at Julia, then in one swift clean curve put down the angle of her jaw. The lines showed up well, the blackness of the outside night sharply exposed against the rime126, and I worked fast. Everyone else was on his feet now, standing respectfully beside my window to watch. It turned out well, a good sketch; in no more than two minutes I'd caught the likeness. The prominent cheekbone, the slightly too-sharp jawline, a suggestion of the small firm chin—all were there in three quick lines. The precise tilt127 of the eyes and—I even managed this—a feeling of the faint shadows beneath them lay there on the white of the windowpane in a few sure-handed squiggles. So did the dark straight brows and fine straight nose, I nodded, releasing Julia, and she hurried over to join the others. She didn't like it. She didn't say so, and after a long few moments, bent forward to stare at the sketch on the windowpane, she began to nod, pretending politely to be pleased. But the nods were too rapid, and she didn't look up at me, and I knew she was hiding disappointment in her eyes. The others, too, were only murmuring polite approval. "What's wrong with it?" I said quietly. "Nothing!" She looked up at me now, eyes widening, simulating surprise at the question. "It's beautiful! I'm astonished!" But I was shaking my head. This was an ability I took pride in, and I wanted to know. "No, tell the truth. You can't fool me; you don't like it." "Well." She straightened, and stood looking at the floor, a finger at her chin as though thinking; she was embarrassed. "It is not that I don't like it, but..." She glanced at the sketch again,then back at me, her eyes distressed128, sorry she'd begun this. "But what is it?" she burst out, then quickly added, "I mean it's not finished, is it? I can see it's a face, or would be if it were finished, but..." I was nodding rapidly, eagerly, cutting her off; now I understood what was wrong. We're trained from infancy129 to understand that black lines on white can somehow represent a living human face. I've read that savages130 can't do it; they make no sense of a drawing or even a photograph until they're taught to translate it as we do. And this sketch on the frosted window— quick suggestive fragments, allowing the mind to fill in the rest—was a technique of the twentieth century as incomprehensible here as though it had been in code, as in fact it was. To Julia I said, "Stand right here, don't move, give me five minutes, no more.'' I didn't wait for an answer but stepped quickly to the middle window and, working as fast as I could go, began sketching with my key point in a technique I'd occasionally tried for the fun of it, working with Martin Lastvogel. It was the technique of the woodcut, every line there, nothing omitted; the entire shape of the face, eyes, nose, lips, all fully21 drawn, then carefully shaded in a firm delicate crosshatching. I was taking up the entire pane51; with this technique I needed the space. The glass was frosted completely except for the upper corners. These were clear, as shiny black against the night outside as a mirror. But working this close, I could see through them, see the streetlamps, the snow-covered walks and street, the vague black bulk of Gramercy Park's shrubbery and trees. And now suddenly, walking briskly along the walk toward the house, I saw him; the short, stout131, familiar hurrying figure, stubby plug hat on the back of his head. I paused, my hand motionless, watching him. Then he turned onto our steps, disappearing from my view, and I glanced over at Julia to continue the sketch. As well as she could while holding the pose, she was watching what I was doing; now as I looked over at her she lifted her arms, fumbled132 at the back of her neck for a second, then her hair tumbled down, falling to below her shoulders, and her chin lifted slightly and there was a flash of pride in her eyes. Her hair was dark dark brown, wonderfully thick now that it was released, long and lustrous133. It was magnificent, and so was she. I'm certain my face showed what I felt, and I murmured, "Beautiful, beautiful," and saw her lips quirk134 with pleasure, and she flushed. No one else had noticed, but because I'd been expecting it I'd heard the small sounds of the opening and closing front door, and from a corner of my eye had seen him stop in the hall doorway. Now, not really even attempting to catch the splendor135 of Julia's hair but at least suggesting the length and weight of it, I quickly finished my windowpane sketch. But the kind of drawing I'd attempted takes longer than I'd given it and more practice than I'd had, and of course it didn't turn out well. I stepped back, studying it as the others crowded around, and all you could really say was that it showed the face of a girl—that was clear enough—who was pretty and had long hair. It was any girl, not this one in particular, though it bore a vague generalized resemblance. But Julia stood studying it for five or six seconds, which is a long time, then she cried out with unmistakably genuine pleasure. "Oh, it's lovely!" She swung around to me, delighted. "Do I reallylook like that? Oh, of course not! But it's beautiful! My goodness, you are talented!" Her eyes were shining, she stood looking at me now with genuine admiration137, even a little awe116, and I responded: The feeling leaped up in me like a flame and I wanted to kiss her; it was all I could do to keep from stepping forward and grabbing her. I saw her eyes flick to the doorway. She'd suddenly seen him, and her face flushed instantly. But her voice seemed calm, she sounded fully at ease. "Jake, we have a new boarder! And a very talented one, it seems! Come see what he's—" "Put—your—hair—up," he said between his teeth, giving each word the same cold and equal emphasis. "But, Jake, we—" He spoke softly. "I said ... put it up," and Julia's hands moved quickly to the back of her neck to obey. I'd turned to the doorway—everyone had—and now Pickering walked toward me, his brown eyes so drained of expression they were as menacing as the empty gaze of a shark. He stopped before me, and for a long moment, as long as three or four seconds, we stood staring at each other, the room entirely138 silent. I was fascinated: Here he was, the man who'd actually mailed the long blue envelope. Then suddenly he smiled, his face alight with friendliness139, eyes warm and welcoming—an instantaneous transformation—and his hand moved out to shake mine as he spoke. "I'm Jacob Pickering, a boarder here like yourself." He was shaking my hand vigorously, his face entirely amiable140, and all the time his grip was tightening141 I smiled back just as amiably142, tightening my own grip with all the strength I had. We were fighting, there in that pleasant room, no one else knowingit, our forearms beginning to tremble slightly as we stood smiling at each other while I spoke my own name in return, our gripped, white-knuckled hands moving slowly up and down as though we'd forgotten to stop. Then my grip reached its maximum strength but his continued to grow, and I felt the long bones of my hand coming together. My fingers flew open in his fist, suddenly strengthless; I was hanging onto my smile, teeth grinding silently, and I knew I was going to have to cry out but wouldn't and didn't. Then, literally just short of actually fracturing the bones of my hand, he suddenly let his grip relax, gave my hand one final quick excruciating squeeze, and still smiling warmly he nodded toward my window-pane drawing. "You are talented, Mr. Morley. Talented indeed." He had turned and was walking quickly toward the window. "But I hope it hasn't scratched Madam Huff's pane." He leaned forward and, his open mouth an inch from the glass, drew quick deep breaths, expelling them full force, and at the center of the pane a melting circle grew quickly to the size of a plate. Except for its outer and now meaningless portions the drawing was gone. "No," he said, examining the clear glass, "fortunately it isn't scratched at all." He gave an utterly143 contemptuous glance at the sketch on the other window, then turned, his back to the windows, and smiled around at us all. Julia said, "I didn't like that, Mr. Pickering. I didn't like that at all." She turned to me. Her eyes were blazing, her hands still busy at the back of her neck, putting up her hair. "Perhaps you will do another of me, Mr. Morley?" she said. "On paper. One I can keep. I'll be pleased to pose for you at any time!" My hand was in my pocket, hiding it. I knew it must be red and starting to swell144; it hurt badly. "I'll be glad to, Miss Julia. Very, very glad.'' I was turning my head as I spoke so that I finished while looking into Pickering's eyes. "In fact, I insist on it." He only smiled: at me; at everyone. "Perhaps I was wrong," he said, dropping his head a little in mock humility145. "Sometimes I ... act precipitately146." Then he raised his head to look me in the eye. "When my fiancée is concerned." Aunt Ada, Maud, Byron, and Felix began talking, almost chattering, covering and burying an awkward incident. Julia turned and walked quickly into the dining room and on into the kitchen, where she made tea. Byron Doverman said something to Pickering, who responded. Aunt Ada came over to me, and I asked her about something in the whatnot cabinet: a thin glass vial stopped with a cork147. It turned out to be sand from the Sahara Desert. We had tea, Julia carrying it in on a large wooden tray. Sipping148 it, we all talked for a few minutes, finishing the evening with a semblance136 of propriety149, though neither Pickering nor I spoke to or even looked at the other. Then everyone shook hands with Felix in final birthday good wishes, and the party was over. Upstairs in my room, standing in the dark unbuttoning my shirt and staring down into the empty darkness of Gramercy Park, I knew that Rube, Oscar, Danziger, Esterhazy, and I had forgotten the obvious: that simply being with people is to become involved with them. I was to have been only an observer here, strictly150 enjoined151 from interfering152 with events, and certainly fromcausing them. Yet I'd done just the opposite. About to pull off my shirt, I stopped and stood motionless, staring down at a hitching post mounded with snow. It might be that I ought to leave as fast as I could. That I ought to pack now, sneak153 downstairs, out, and back to the Dakota before I could do any more harm. But my mind was yelling, Thursday! Tomorrow is Thursday! Tomorrow "at half past twelve," said the note I'd seen Jake Pickering mail, "appear in City Hall Park." I had to be there, had to; somehow invisibly, and interfering with nothing, but I had to be there. Just one more day; half a day! I was saying to myself. For only those few hours I could certainly retreat to the role of observer only, couldn't I? Lifting my hand into the faint light reflected up to my window from the snow outside, I looked at it, then compared it with the other, my hands side by side. The right hand was puffy, and all four finger knucklebones ached steadily154. Staring at my hand, I flexed155 it slowly, then tried closing it into a fist. I couldn't do it, but as it began to close, an involuntary picture popped up in my mind in which that fist was punching Pickering in the mouth. I had to laugh at that, silently, and I dropped my hand; but it worried me. Yet it was a fact that I needn't even encounter Pickering in the morning. I could wait to come downstairs till he'd left the house, and then never see him face to face again. As for Julia—well, what about Julia? After a few moments I nodded; in a way I wasn't able to analyze156, I was somehow involved with her, too. But that didn't matter, either; we were of separate times, and I'd be leaving hers very soon. I tested something; I thought about Kate, and stood there in the dark examining my feelings about her. Nothing had changed. As soon as I returned, I knew I'd want to see her, and I felt a sense of relief, and then started to wonder about that. Instead, I turned away from the window, unbuttoning my shirt—it buttoned only partway down, the lower part being a single wide shirttail —undressed, and got into my nightgown. Lying in bed, I smiled; it had been quite a day. Then, within a minute or so, I fell asleep, knowing I might be terribly wrong to stay here but knowing also that I was going to; that I had to see what happened in City Hall Park at half past twelve, Thursday, January 26, 1882—tomorrow.
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1
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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2
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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3
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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4
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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5
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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6
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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8
livestock
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| n.家畜，牲畜 | |
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9
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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10
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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11
desultorily
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| adv. 杂乱无章地, 散漫地 | |
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12
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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13
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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14
squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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15
honk
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| n.雁叫声，汽车喇叭声 | |
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16
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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17
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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18
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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19
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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20
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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21
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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22
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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23
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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24
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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25
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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26
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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28
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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29
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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30
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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32
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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33
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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34
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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35
counterfeiter
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| n.伪造者 | |
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36
kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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37
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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38
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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39
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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40
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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41
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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42
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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43
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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44
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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45
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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46
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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47
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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48
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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49
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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50
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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51
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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52
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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53
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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54
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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56
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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57
punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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58
bug
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| n.虫子；故障；窃听器；vt.纠缠；装窃听器 | |
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59
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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60
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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61
mica
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| n.云母 | |
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62
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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63
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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64
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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65
maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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66
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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68
solder
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| v.焊接，焊在一起；n.焊料，焊锡 | |
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69
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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70
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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71
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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72
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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73
varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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74
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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75
hoods
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| n.兜帽( hood的名词复数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩v.兜帽( hood的第三人称单数 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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76
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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77
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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78
caption
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| n.说明，字幕，标题；v.加上标题，加上说明 | |
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79
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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80
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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81
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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82
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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83
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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84
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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86
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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87
tableau
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| n.画面，活人画（舞台上活人扮的静态画面） | |
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88
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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89
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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90
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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91
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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92
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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93
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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94
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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95
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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96
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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97
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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98
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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99
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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100
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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101
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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102
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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103
metropolitans
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| n.大都会的( metropolitan的名词复数 )；大城市的；中心地区的；正宗的 | |
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104
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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105
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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106
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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107
tableaux
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| n.舞台造型，（由活人扮演的）静态画面、场面；人构成的画面或场景( tableau的名词复数 )；舞台造型；戏剧性的场面；绚丽的场景 | |
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108
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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109
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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110
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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111
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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112
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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113
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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114
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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115
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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116
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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117
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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118
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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119
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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120
charades
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| n.伪装( charade的名词复数 )；猜字游戏 | |
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121
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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122
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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123
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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124
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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125
silhouetting
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| 使呈现影子（silhouette的现在分词形式） | |
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126
rime
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| n.白霜；v.使蒙霜 | |
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127
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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128
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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129
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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130
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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132
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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133
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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134
quirk
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| n.奇事，巧合；古怪的举动 | |
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135
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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136
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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137
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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138
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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139
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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140
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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141
tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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142
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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143
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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144
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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145
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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146
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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147
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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148
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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149
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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150
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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151
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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152
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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153
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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154
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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155
flexed
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| adj.[医]曲折的，屈曲v.屈曲( flex的过去式和过去分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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156
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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