Until something had been definitely settled, I did not care to return to Oxford2 or to seek out any of my friends; I should at once be called upon to account for my erratic3 departure and prolonged absence. So I made myself inconspicuous in the crowds of London, waiting for some final word from Sheba. It was quite likely that none would ever come—and that would be an answer in itself. Yet, now that I had done what had seemed to me right and had thrust her from me, I hoped against hope that, somehow, she might come back. I felt that though I might have to wait for years, I would resolutely4 wait for her. No other woman could ever take her place. And none of this could I tell her. She might think that I had counted the cost and considered it too expensive. She might put the worst construction on the words she had overheard on that last night; yet unless she approached me first, I was irrevocably pledged to silence.
Too late for my peace of mind I recognized my weakness: if I had wanted her, I should have taken her strongly in the early days and faced the consequences; now, through making truces5 with my conscience and conventions, I had lived so long in thoughts of her that I should always desire her.
I would like to have gone to Ruthita, but that was forbidden. Lord Halloway riding the high horse of morality was exceedingly comic, but I knew exactly how men of his stamp argued: to introduce a questionable6 relation into the family was anathema7. I wondered continually what secret causes lay behind Ruthita’s marriage. I felt sure that she had consented on the impulse, and that love had had nothing to do with it. The suspicion that I was somehow responsible left me worried.
Spring had reached the point of perfection where it merges8 into summer. The tides of life flowed strongly through the dazzling streets of London; I was too young not to respond to their energy. Everywhere the persistent9 hope of spring planted banners of green and set them waving. Ragged10 shrubs11 in decrepit12 squares bubbled into blossom. Window-boxes lent a touch of braveness. Water-carts passed up and down parched13 streets, settling the dust. In the kind of suburb that walks always with a hole in its stocking, slatternly maids pressed their bosoms14 against area-railings chaffing with butcher-boy or policeman—their idea of love. Where a street-organ struck up, little children gathered, dancing in the gutter15. Even the sullen16 Thames, the gray hair of London, was dyed to gold between the bridges by the splendid sun. The spirit of youth had invaded the city; flower-girls, shouting raucously18 above the traffic, shaking their posies in the face of every comer, seemed heralds19 of a new cheerfulness, shaming Despair of his defiance20.
This severing21 of oneself from friendship was dull. Leisurely22 crowds laughing along sunlit pavements, made me ache for companionship. I was in this frame of mind when I chanced to think of Uncle Obad’s letter. It had met me at Plymouth on my arrival, and bore the characteristically flamboyant23 address of Dream Haven24, Dorking.
He must have chosen Dorking as a place of residence because it had given its name to a famous breed of fowls25. Perhaps he thought such a neighborhood would be propitious26 to his own experiments. His letter was brief and to the point: if I could spare the time, he and Aunt Lavinia would feel honored to entertain me.
Uncle Obad was stilted27 in his written use of language; he felt honored when he meant to say jolly well glad. There was always an obedient servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he had undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for familiar letter-writing.
Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My good fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose, served to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since the Christian28 Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The thought of him had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind—which made it all the kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had heard before writing of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me.
As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter29; his purple whiskers which still bristled30 like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky31 white. He was wearing a long fawn32 dust-coat which flapped about the calves33 of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering34 importance, but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however, was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel he wore a scarlet35 geranium.
As I stepped out, he came fussily36 towards me. “Very good of you to come, I’m sure—kind and very thoughtful.”
It was his pretense37 manner—the one he adopted with grown-ups. I wanted to remind him that with me he could take off his armor.
“Still go in for breeding hens?” I asked him.
His face brightened. “I should say so. Our little place is quite a menagerie. We’ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens! Well, I should say so.”
“And hens,” I laughed. “Remember the old white hen you gave me? It laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.”
“Should have given it gravel38 or oyster-shells.” Poultryraising was a subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls.
Outside the station a dog-cart was standing40, with a fat little piebald pony41 between the shafts42. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot43.
“D’you know what this reminds me of?—That first day we spent together. You remember—when you drove me away from Pope Lane behind Dollie?”
He pulled out his handkerchief and trumpeted44. His eyes became dreamy beneath his bushy brows. “A long time ago! They were good days, but not as good as these, old chap.”
We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always been, and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his armor of pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that first day when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we talked of the Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A warm wind fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly45, dropping his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to satisfy himself.
“That Sir don’t seem to have spoiled you.”
The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a wooded ridge17, somnolent46 with pines; to the right lay a village-common across which geese waddled47 in solemn procession.
Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins48. “This won’t buy a pair of shoes for the baby. Aunt Lavinia’s waiting for us; she’s just as keen as I was to see whether: you’ve altered.” Then to the pony, “Gee-up, Toby.”
We turned off into the pine-wood by a narrow roadway. The fragrance49 of balsam made me long to close my eyes. At the edge of the road, on either side, ran a ditch through which water tinkled50 over gravel. On its banks grew fern and foxglove. The silent aisles51 of the wood were carpeted with the tan of fallen needles. Sunlight, drifting between branches, slashed52 golden rags in the olive-tinted shadows. My mind became a blank through pure enjoyment53 as I listened to the monologue54 of gay chatter55 that was going on beside me. He was doing for me now just what he had done for me so often as a child, throwing down the walls of conventional tyrannies and showing me the road of escape to nature.
Suddenly out of the basking56 stillness rose a farmyard clamor—cocks crowing, ducks quacking57, and the boastful clucking of hens. We had reached the top of the ridge and were bowling58 along the level. Toby pricked59 up his ears and quickened his trotting60. Round a bend we swung into sight of a low-thatched house, standing in a clearing. Its windows were leaded and opened outwards61. In front grew a garden, sun-saturated, riotous62 with flowers, and partly hidden by a high hawthorn63 hedge. In the hedge was a white swing-gate, from which a red-brick path ran up to the threshold. Across the gate one had a glimpse of beehives standing a-row; the air was heavy with mingled64 scents65 of pine, wild thyme, and honey. The impression that fastened on my imagination was one of exquisite66 cleanliness: the sky, the gleaming chalk road, the white-painted woodwork of the cottage, everything was dazzlingly spotless.
Our wheels had hardly halted before the gate, when I saw Aunt Lavinia in the doorway67 unfastening her apron68. Neat and methodical as ever, she folded it carefully, and laid it on a chair before coming out to us.
“Lavinia, Lavinia! We’re here,” shouted Uncle Obad.
She came down the path, prim69 and unhurried, determined70 not to let herself go. “Repose is refinement” she used to tell me. Nothing in her manner was ruffled71. She still carried herself with a certain grave air of sweet authority. The rustle72 of her starched73 print-dress gave her an atmosphere of nurse-like austerity. She had not changed, save that the look of worry had gone from her face, and her eyes were untired.
“It’s glad I am to see you.” She spoke74 quietly and, when she kissed me, was careful not to crumple75 her dress.
“Dignified and graceful—that’s her,” said Uncle Obad.
We had plenty to talk about while we were getting over our first strangeness. I had to see the house and all its arrangements. My room was at the back, looking out from the ridge over smoking tree-tops far away across undulating downs.
Windows and doors were always open, so the passages were blowy with the dreamy, drowsy76 smell of green things growing. Creepers tumbled across sills; leaves tapped whenever the breeze stirred them; pigeons flew into the dining-room at meal-times and perched on Uncle Obad’s shoulder. Usually everything within a house is man-made. At Dream Haven Nature was encouraged to tiptoe across the threshold; so bees entered humming, and blackbirds came for grain to the windows, and all day long the wild things were sending their ambassadors. Beating wings of birds and cooing of doves filled one’s ears with the peace and adventure of contentment.
These were the recreations of Dream Haven, but its stern business, as one might suppose, was the raising of fowls. At the back of the cottage on a southern slope were arranged coops, and pens, and houses, gleaming white against the golden gravel like a miniature military encampment. Each pen had its trumpeter, who strode forth78 at intervals79 to raise his challenge; whereupon every male in camp tried to outdo him, from the youngest stripling, whose shrill80 falsetto broke like a boy’s voice in the middle, to the deep, rich tones of the oldest campaigner. Falsetto, tenor81, bass77, baritone shook the stillness like an army on the march, with rattle82 of accoutrements, and brass-bands playing, cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo.
In the hush83 that followed from far away, as from scattered84 detachments replying, came the counter-sign. Below the ridge in the village on the downs every rooster felt his reputation endangered. In farmhouses85 out of sight the challenge was caught up and the boast flung back. To one listening intently, the clamor could be heard spreading across the countryside till it spent itself at last in the hazy86 distance. Then the ladies of the camp commenced their flatteries, tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck, our men did best, our men did best.
Uncle Obad took childish delight in the comedy; he knew the voice of each male bird in his yard and the sequence of precedence in which they should aspire87. If they got out of order, he would recognize at once which cockerel was trying to oust88 his senior. If the ambitious fellow was one of his experiments in crossing strains, he was vastly tickled89. To him they all had their personalities90; he used to say that a poultry39-yard could teach you a whole lot about humans.
“Why don’t you men go out for a walk?” said Aunt Lavinia; “I’m sure Dante would like to look about.”
She knew that we had always had our secrets. It was seven o’clock; there were still some hours of daylight. We set off through the poultry-runs down the hillside till we came to the edge of the clearing; Uncle Obad looked round furtively91 to make sure that we were unobserved, then he beckoned92 and slipped behind a shed. There he sat down with his back against the warm wooden wall and we lit our pipes. “She makes me take exercise now,” he grunted93 between puffs94; “thinks I’m getting fat.”
“Perhaps she’s right. Aunt Lavinia’s always been right ever since I can remember.”
“I should say so. She doesn’t look it, but she’s always worn the trousers, and small blame to her. But she was wrong once.”
“When was that?”
He narrowed his eyes and watched the smoke curl up into the velvet95 air. When it had drifted a few yards away, one could imagine that it was a galleon96 ‘cloud sailing slowly through infinity97. I got to thinking how much more picturesque98 the world becomes when we lose our standards of perspective. Uncle Obad had won his happiness by making small things important to himself.
He did not answer my question. I was too lazy to trouble him again. The rich spicy99 fragrance of woodlands lulled100 my senses. I watched through a gap in the trees how the sun’s rays shortened across the downs. All the out-door world was bathed in tepid101 light. The fierceness had gone out of the day.
The Spuffler always made me philosophize; he was a failure, but he had found a secret. He had known how to discover nooks and crannies in the persistent present where he could be content. I had lost that fine faculty102 for carelessness since I had grown older.
He knocked out his pipe and commenced to refill it. “But she wasn’t always right,” he chuckled103. “I may be only an old knacker, but once I was righter than her.—What d’you think of all this?” He jerked his thumb across his shoulder.
“It’s the last word... just what we always dreamt.”
“That’s why I called it Dream Haven. Not so bad for a man of my years after keeping a Christian Boarding House!”
“Make it pay?”
“Not yet. Don’t need to, by Golly.”
“Don’t need to! How’s that?”
“Business knowledge. Sound judgment104. Backing my opinion when the odds105 were against me. I doubled up my fists and stood square against the world.”
“A kind of brave Horatius?”
“Who’s he?”
“Kept the bridge or something. Was a friend of Macaulay.”
“Never heard of him. Did he keep poultry?”
“May have done; he was the kind of man who’d keep anything he laid his hands on. But how the dickens d’you hang on to this place if it isn’t paying?”
“Got money. Got money to burn. Got enough to last me to my journey’s end without earning a penny.”
He was a small boy boasting. What a lot of fun he’d have extracted from being Squire106 of Woadley. I wished I might learn how to spuffle; it so multiplied one’s opportunities for pleasure. But I couldn’t get as excited as he expected; I had heard him talk this way before on a certain day at Richmond.
“Did you make it out of the boarding-house?” I inquired incredulously.
He laughed deep down in his throat. “Not exactly. I received an envelope one morning; inside was a slip of paper on which was written ‘Compensation for a damaged character’ There was no address.”
“But there must have been more than that.”
“You bet. There was a banker’s draft. How much for? Guess.”
“Can’t guess.”
“Five thousand pounds.”
“Whoof! One of your charitable bigwigs sent it?”
“Not half. Came from Rapson. That’s what comes of sticking to your friends. That’s why I say that your Aunt wasn’t always wiser than the poor old knacker.”
“Mines?”
“So he said. He’s been to see me since then. The way your Aunt Lavinia treated him was as funny as a cock without feathers.—I always believed in Rapson.—He had a bad streak107 though.”
“Which one?”
He passed over my slur108. “Women.”
“Kitty?”
“That’s what I meant. He’s sorry now; wishes he’d married her.”
“Humph! If you don’t make your place pay, what are you doing?”
His face took on an expression of intense earnestness.
“Breeding the Spreckles. Remember them, don’t you? I had terrible work at first; couldn’t make the strain permanent; in the third and fourth generations it was always going back to the original crossings. Well, now I’ve done it. Come and look at ’em.”
The old bond was established. His enthusiasm and my response to it swept aside the misunderstandings of years. I seemed a little boy, following him into a retreat of impossible glamour109. He showed me a pen of magnificent slate-blue fowls; they had the extra toe of the Dorking, the drooping110 comb of the Leghorn, yellow legs of the Game, and full plump body of the Plymouth Rock. He enumerated111 their merits, insisted that I should guess what mixings of blood had gone to their making, and was delighted when he found I had not forgotten the old knowledge he had taught me. He was going to enter them at the shows this year, but he was worried over one point—what name should he call them?
“But you’ve given them their name.”
“I know, I know, old chap; but my conscience troubles me. Yer see, I shouldn’t have been able to do it if it hadn’t been for Rapson. I think I ought to call ’em the Rapsons.”
“If you feel like that, why don’t you?”
“He won’t let me.”
“Share the glory then. Call ’em Spreckles in public, and Rapsons among ourselves.”
His simple old face lit up. “Believe you’ve solved it.” We returned to our place by the shed, from which we could watch the haze112 of evening drifting across the billowy uplands. In the village at our feet, cattle were being driven home lowing to the milking. On the common boys were playing cricket; their laughter came to us softened113 by distance.
“What made you ask me?” I said.
“Ask you? Ask you what?”
“To come and visit you.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not popular at Pope Lane at present; I believe you know the reason. Grandmother Cardover must have told Aunt Lavinia that this was going to happen. That was why you sent that letter to the ship to meet me.”
He looked shy and awkward, and drew his hat down over his brows; I knew that he was making up his mind not to answer.
“When I was a boy,” I continued, “I always felt that I could come to you frankly114. You, somehow, understood before anything had been said. I thought, perhaps, you might have understood this time, and that that was why you asked me.”
He threw his arm across my shoulder. “I did, old chap. But you’ve grown older and, since you’ve got all this book-learning and all these grand friends, I kind o’ felt I was a stranger—thought you didn’t need me like you used to.”
“My grand friends and book-learning won’t help me this turn,” I grumbled115 slowly. “I may need you pretty badly—perhaps, more than ever I did. You’ve heard?”
“Umph!”
“What d’you think about it?”
“It doesn’t much matter what an old knacker thinks about anything.”
“Why on earth d’you keep calling yourself an old knacker?”
“Dunno. It’s amusin’. It’s a kind o’ luxury after spuffling all my life to be able at last to depreciate116 one’s self. Everything’s amusin’. I know you are; I suppose I am; there’s no doubt about your father. Nothing’s overserious in this gay old world. Mustn’t take things to heart, old chap. Look at me, what I’ve come through. Here I am and not much the worse for wear—battered, but useful, yours truly Obadiah Spreckles, successful breeder of an entirely117 new strain of perpetually laying hens.” He gave himself a resounding118 whack119 upon the chest and cocked his eye at me.
“What do I think about you and the lady in America? Speaking as the ex-proprietor of a Christian Boarding House, I think it’s shocking. Speaking as a man of leisure, I think it’s confoundedly human. Speaking as a shipwrecked cabin-boy who’s suddenly been promoted to captain, I should say that it’s one of life’s ups and downs. There’s no accounting120 for how love takes a man; it’s as fluky as settings of eggs—all cocks one day, all hens tomorrow, and the day after that nothing. Dash my boots, I sometimes think that nobody’s to blame for anything. Love’s shocking or interesting, according to your fancy. Take Lavinia and myself. I haven’t made her a good husband. I’ve been a failure and a slacker. I’ve made her happy now only by an accident. People look at us and wonder what we find in one another. They don’t know—can’t see beneath the surface. We never had any children. It’s been hard fighting. But I swear she’s never regretted.—Aye, it’s wonderful the pains God takes to bring a man and a woman together. These things ain’t accidents. If you’re meant to have her, you may have to wait, but nothing can stop you—just like me and my fowls. Life’s a leading. ‘He leadeth me beside the still waters,’ eh, what! But it’s often rough treading till you get there.—That’s all I have to say about it, old chap.”
“The door of Pope Lane’s shut against me,” I told him. “Ruthie’s married the fellow I detested121. They’re none of them talking to me now.”
The old fellow turned on me snorting like a stallion. “That don’t matter, lad. You’re your own world. Do without ’em. Everything comes right in the end.”
Dream Haven! How cool the name sounds! What memories of sunshiny mornings it brings back. Day after day I watched and waited for the letter from America. There were times when I made sure that I could feel it approaching. “It will be here to-morrow,” I said.
I tortured myself by picturing how different life would have been had I taken Randall at his word. It was the kind of torture that became a luxury. I should have brought her to Dream Haven, perhaps. I played with my fancy, pretending that we were here together; so actual were my imaginings that I was incredulous when, on coming to myself, I found her absent. The dreams were more real than the reality.
Wakened in the morning by the twittering of birds, I would raise myself on my elbow and marvel122 at the sweet flushed face beside me on the pillow and the glorious, yellow streaming hair. Slowly it would fade and vanish. There were walks which we took through the lonely woodlands when all the delayed intimacies123 of love filled life with unashamed passion. There were wild days on the downs, when rain and wind, driving our bodies together, stung me to a new protecting ecstasy124. There were quiet evenings in the gloaming—Sunday evenings were the best—when Vi sat at the piano playing and singing, while Dorrie knelt beside her, fingering her dress. All these ghost-scenes stand clear in my memory as though they had happened.
I must have cultivated this unreal life to the point of danger in my effort to escape the ache of the present. Had I lived by myself I might have crossed the border-line, but the comedy of Uncle Obad was always drawing me back. He kept watch over me like a kind old spaniel.
In the morning from where I sat in the garden, I could see him farther down the slope through the orchard125, trotting in and out his pens with his disreputable dust-coat flapping. Just as once, when he had no money, the appearance of affluence126 had been his hobby, so now, when he could afford to dress respectably, he delighted in looking shabby. He left his clothes unfastened in the most unexpected places; Aunt Lavinia was continually making grabs at him and buttoning him up. In the afternoon she sent us off for long walks together to prevent his getting fat. On these occasions he would explain his loose philosophy, which consisted of a large-minded, stalwart carelessness.
“Keep your end up; it’s in each one of us to be happy. Don’t do too much remembering; live your day as it comes. Your Grandmother calls me the Spuffler—so I am. Where’d I be now, I ask you, if I hadn’t spuffled?”
So the summer fled by, and the woods grew browner, and the air had a sharper tang. The letter from Sheba had not come. I could mark time no longer; at last I left for Woadley.
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1
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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truces
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| 休战( truce的名词复数 )； 停战（协定）； 停止争辩（的协议）； 中止 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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merges
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| （使）混合( merge的第三人称单数 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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raucously
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| adv.粗声地；沙哑地 | |
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heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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32
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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33
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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34
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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35
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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36
fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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37
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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38
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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39
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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40
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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41
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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42
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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43
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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44
trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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46
somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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47
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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50
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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51
aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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52
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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53
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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54
monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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55
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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56
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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57
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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58
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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59
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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60
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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61
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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62
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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63
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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64
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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65
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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66
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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67
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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68
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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69
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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70
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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71
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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73
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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74
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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75
crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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76
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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77
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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78
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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79
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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80
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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81
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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82
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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83
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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84
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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85
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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86
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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87
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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88
oust
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| vt.剥夺，取代，驱逐 | |
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89
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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90
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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91
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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92
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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94
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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95
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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96
galleon
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| n.大帆船 | |
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97
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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98
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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99
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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100
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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102
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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103
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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105
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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106
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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107
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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108
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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109
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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110
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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111
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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113
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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114
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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115
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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116
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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117
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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118
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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119
whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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120
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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121
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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123
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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124
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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125
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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126
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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