Hour by hour in the silence of his brain he relived the old pulsating5 languors. He had no courage to look ahead to any brightness in the future. The taste of the present was as ashes in his mouth. He felt old, disillusioned6, exhausted7. The grayness of the plunging8 wintry sea was the reflection of his soul’s gray loneliness.
He had spent so long in listening and waiting that listening and waiting had become a habit. He would hear the telephone tinkle9 soon. His heart would fly up like a bird into his throat. Her voice would steal to him across the distance: “Meester Deek, hulloa! What are we going to do this morning?” He often heard it in imagination. He could not bear to believe that at last his leisure was his own—that suspense10 was at once and forever ended.
Among the passengers he was a romantic figure. Stories went the rounds about him. It was said that the girl who had delayed the sailing was an actress—no, an heiress—no, one of the most beautiful of the season’s d茅butantes. Men’s eyes followed him with envy. Women tried to coax11 him into a confession—especially the old lady who had met him coming white-faced from the Purser’s office. He was regarded as a triumphant12 lover; he alone knew that he was an impostor.
His grip on reality had loosened. There were times when he believed she had never existed. He was a child who had slept in a ring of the faeries. He had seen the little people steal out from brakes and hedges. All night In their spider-web and glow-worm raiment they had danced about him, caressing13 him with their velvet14 arms. The dawn had come; he sat up rubbing his eyes, to find himself forsaken15. He would wake up in Eden Row presently to discover that all his ecstasies16 had been imagined.
The little false curl was a proof to the contrary. He carried it near his heart. It was the Nell Gwynn part of her—a piece of concrete personality. It still seemed to mock his seriousness.
He had left so many things unsaid; in all those months he had told her nothing. He argued his way over the old ground, blaming himself and making excuses for her. If only he had acted thus and so, then she would have responded accordingly. He was almost persuaded that he had been unkind to her. And there was so much—so much more than he had imagined, from which he ought to save her. If she played with other men as she had played with him, she would be in constant danger. She seemed to regard men as puppies who could be sent to heel by a frown. Mr. Dak had taught her nothing. She skirted the edge of precipices17 when strong winds were blowing. She would do it once too often; the day was always coming. It might come to-morrow.
He missed her horribly—all her tricks of affection and petulance18. He had so much to remember: her casual way of singing in the midst of his talking; the way she covered her mouth with her hand, laughing over it, that she might provoke him into coaxing19 apart her fingers that he might reach her lips through them; the waving down the stairs at the hour of parting—every memory flared20 into importance now that she had vanished. Most of all, he missed the name she had called him. Meester Deek I What a fool he had been to be so impatient because she would not employ the name by which any one could call him!
No, he hadn’t realized her value. Their separation was his doing. He might have been with her now, if only——
And back there at the end of the lengthening21 wake, did Broadway still flash and glitter, a Vanity Fair over which sky-signs wove ghostly and monstrous22 sorceries?
At night he paced the deck, staring into the unrelieved blackness. With whom was she now? Was she thinking of him? Was she thinking of him with kindness, or had the “horrid me” again taken possession? Perhaps she was with Fluffy23. “Oh, these men!” Fluffy would say contemptuously. She was with some one—he knew that; it was impossible to think of her as sitting alone. She wouldn’t allow herself to be sad; she was somewhere where there was feverish24 gayety, lights and the seduction of music. But with whom?
He saw again her little white bedroom which had been such a secret. On the dressing-table, where it could watch her night and morning at her mirror, was the silver-framed photograph. (She had never asked him for his portrait) In a line on the wall, looking down on her as she lay curled up in bed, were four more photographs. His jealousy25 became maddening. His old suspicions crept back to haunt him. Who was this Tom? What claims had he on her? Was Tom her permanent lover, and he the man with whom she had trifled for relaxation—was that it? Even in the moment of parting, after she had shown herself capable of abandon, her lips had been motionless beneath his passion. To her he had offered himself soul and body; at intervals26 she had been sorry for him.
His one consolation27 was in writing to her—that made her seem nearer. He poured out his heart hour after hour, in unconsidered, fiery28 phrases. The journal which he kept for her on the voyage was less a journal of contemporary doings than of rememberings. It was a history of all their intercourse29, stretching back from the scarf fluttered on the dock to the far-off, cloistral30 days of childhood. He believed that in the writing of it he became telepathic; messages seemed to reach him from her. He heard her speaking so distinctly that at times he would drop his pen and glance across his shoulder: “Meester Deek! Meester Deek!” He noted31 down the hours when the phenomenon occurred, begging her to tell him whether at these hours she had been thinking of him. Like a refrain, to which the music was forever returning, “I shall wait for you always—always,” he wrote.
“And we’ll meet so very soon,” she had said at parting. What had she meant? He had had no time to ask her. Had she meant that she would follow him—that she had at last reached the point at which she could not do without him? That she wasn’t going to California? That her foolish and excessive friendship for Fluffy had ceased to be of supreme32 importance? “And we shall meet so soon.” He built his hopes on that promise.
In the moments just before sleeping he was almost physically33 conscious of her. When lights along passageways of the ship had been lowered and feet no longer clattered34 on the decks, when only the thud of the engines sounded, the swish of waters and the sigh of sleepers35, then he believed she approached him. He prayed Matthew Arnold’s prayer, and it seemed to him that it was answered:
“Come to me in my dreams and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing36 of the day.”
They say love is blind; it would be truer to say love is lenient37. He had intervals of calmness when he appreciated to the full the wisdom of what he was doing. He recognized her faults; he recognized them with tenderness as the imperfections which sprang from her environment. If he could take her out of her hot-house, her limp attitudes towards life would straighten and her sanity38 would grow fresh. The trouble was that she preferred her hothouse and the orchid39-people by whom she was surrounded; she had never known the blowy gardens of the world, which lie honest beneath the rain and stars. She pitied them for their blustering40 robustness41. She pitied him for the distinctions he made between right and wrong. They impressed her as barbarous. Once, when she had told him that she was cold by temperament42, he had answered, “You save yourself for the great occasions.” He was surer of that than ever; he was only afraid that the great occasion might not prove to be himself. There lay the hazard of his experiment in leaving her.
He dared not count on her final act of remorse43. She was theatrical44 by temperament. To arrive at the last moment when a ship was sailing had afforded her a fine stage-setting. Her conduct might have meant everything; it might have meant no more than a girl’s display of emotionalism.
He began to understand her. It was like her to become desperate to inveigle45 him back just when he had resigned himself to forget her. In the past he had grown afraid to set store by her graciousness or to plan any kindness for her. To allow her to feel her power over him seemed to blunt her interest. It was always after he had shown her coldness that she had shown him most affection. Directly he submitted to her fascination46, she affected47 to become indifferent. It was a trick that could be played too often. If this see-saw game was too long continued, one of them would out-weary the other’s patience. If only he had been sure that she was missing him, his mind would have been comparatively at rest.
He disembarked at Fishguard an hour after midnight The December air was raw and damp. His first action on landing was to dispatch his journal-letter to her. As he drowsed in the cold, ill-lighted carriage it was of her that he thought Now that the voyage was ended, the ocean that lay between them seemed impassable as the gulf48 that is fixed49 between hell and heaven. She had seen the steamer—she had been a topic of conversation on board; but everything that he saw now, and would see from now on, was unfamiliar50 to her.
The entrance into London did nothing to cheer him. He had flying glimpses of stagnant51 gardens, windows like empty sockets52 plugged with fog, forlorn streets like gutters53 down which the scavenger54 dawn wandered between flapping lamps. London looked mean; even in its emptiness, it looked overcrowded. He missed the boastful tallness of New York. Before the train had halted his nostrils55 were full of the stale stench of cab-ranks and the sulphurous pollutions of engines. Milk-cans made a cemetery56 of the station; porters looked melancholy57 as mourners. His gorge58 rose against the folly59 of his return.
He had stepped out and was giving instructions about his luggage, when he heard his name called tremblingly. As he turned, he was swept into a whirlwind of embraces. His father stood by, preserving his dignity, giving all the world to understand that a father can disguise his emotions under all circumstances.
“But how did you get here?” Teddy asked. “It’s so shockingly early.”
“Been here most of the night,” his mother told him, between tears and laughter. “You didn’t think we were going to let you arrive unmet? And we didn’t keep Christmas. When we got your cable, we put all our presents away and waited for you.”
How was it that he had so far forgotten what their love had meant? He compared this arrival with his unwelcomed arrival in New York. A flush of warmth spread from his heart They had stayed awake all night on the wintry station that he might not be disappointed.
On the drive back in the cab, all through breakfast and as they sat before the fire through the lazy morning, they gossiped of the things of secondary importance—his work, the Sheerugs, his impressions of America. Of the girl in America they did not talk. His mother’s eyes asked questions, which his eyes avoided. His father, man-like, showed no curiosity. He sat comfortably puffing61 away at his pipe, feeling in his velvet-coat for matches, and combing his fingers through his shaggy hair, just as if he had no suspicions that anything divisive had happened. It was only when an inquisitive62 silence had fallen that he showed his sympathy, chasing up a new topic to divert their interest. Desire was not mentioned that day, nor the next; even when her letters began to arrive, Teddy’s reticence63 was respected. For that he was infinitely64 thankful. The ordeal65 of explaining and accepting pity would have been more than he could have borne. Pity for himself would have meant condemnation66 of her conduct. In the raw state of his heart, neither would have been welcome.
During the afternoon of the first day of his home-coming he visited Orchid Lodge67. He was drawn68 there by the spectres of Desire’s past. Harriet admitted him. What a transformation69! All the irksome glory was gone. Carriages no longer waited against the pavement. It was no longer necessary to strive to appear as if you really had “a nincome.”
Tiptoeing across the hall, he peeped into the parlor70 with its long French-windows. It was seated on the steps outside in the garden that he had listened to Alonzo convincing Mrs. Sheerug of his new-found wealth. It was a different Alonzo that he saw now—an Alonzo who carried him back to his childhood. Facing Mr. Ooze71 across the table, he was dealing72 out a pack of cards. He was in his shirtsleeves; Mr. Ooze wore a bowler73 hat at a perilous74 angle on the back of his bald head. Both were too intent on the game to notice that the door had opened.
“What d’you bet?” Mr. Sheerug was asking.
“Ten thousand,” Mr. Ooze answered.
“I’ll see you and raise you ten thousand. What’ve you got?”
Teddy closed the door gently and stole away. Was he really grown up? Had time actually moved forward? The thin and the fat man sat there, as in the days when he had supposed they were murderers, still winning and losing fabulous75 fortunes in the unconquered land of their imaginations.
Upstairs, in the spare-room, he found Mrs. Sheerug. With a bag of vivid-colored wools beside her, she was busy on a new tapestry76. She rose like a little old hen from its nest at the sound of his entrance. Her arms flew up to greet him.
“You’ve come back.”
“I’ve come back.”
That was all. Whatever she had guessed, she asked no questions. Had they all agreed to a kindly77 conspiracy78 of silence?
As he sat at her feet, watching her work, she told him philosophically79 of the loss of their money. “The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. I wouldn’t be so terribly sorry if it hadn’t given Alonzo sciatica of the back.”
“Do you get sciatica in the back?” he asked.
She peered at him over her spectacles. “Most people don’t, but that’s where he’s got it. He never does any work.—Oh, dear, if he’d only take my lemon cure! I’m sure he’d be better. I don’t think he wants to be better. He can sit about the house all day while he’s got it. Poor man, it doesn’t hurt him very badly.”
It soon became evident to Teddy that she wasn’t so cut up as might have been expected now that her wealth was gone. Straitened means gave her permission to muddle80. “Those coachmen and men-servants,” she told him, “they worried me, my dear. Their morals were very lax.”
When he tried to find out what had really occurred to cause the collapse81 of her affluence82, she shook her head. “Shady tricks, my dear—very shady. Unkind things were said.”
More than that he could not learn; she did not wish to pursue the subject further.
Little by little the old routine came back, and with it his ancient dread83 that nothing would ever happen. Every morning, the moment breakfast was ended, he climbed the many stairs to his room to work. From his window he could see his father in the studio, and the pigeons springing up like dreams from the garden and growing small above the battlements of house-tops. If he watched long enough, he might see Mr. Yaflfon come out on his steps, like an old tortoise that had wakened too early, thrusting its bewildered head out of its shell.
He wanted to work; he wanted to do something splendid. He longed more than he had ever longed before to make himself famous—famous that she might share his glory. At first his thoughts were slow in coming. Day and night, between himself and his imaginings she intruded84, passing and re-passing. He saw her in all her attitudes and moods, wistful, friendly, and brooding. He could not escape her. Even his father and mother filled him with envy when he watched them; he and Desire should have been as they were, if things had turned out happily. Hal rose up as a warning of the man he might become.
Since he could think of nothing else, he determined85 to make her his story. Gradually his purpose cleared and concentrated; his book should be a statement of what she meant to him—an idealized commentary from his point of view on what had happened. He would call it The Book of Revelation. It should be a sequel to Life Till Twenty-One. His first book had been the account of love’s dreaming; this should be his record of its realization86. After the idea had fastened on him, he rarely stirred out He wrote enfevered. If his lips had failed to tell her, she should at last know what she meant to him. As he wrote, he lost all consciousness of the public; his book was addressed to her.
Although he seemed to have lost her, he was perpetually recovering her. He re-found her in other men’s writings, in Keats’s love-letters to Fanny Brawne and particularly In Maud.
“O that ’twere possible
After long grief and pain
To find the arms of my true love
Round me once again.”
He had never felt her arms about him, but such lines seemed the haunting echo of his own yearning87. They gave tongue to the emotions which the dull ache of his heart had made voiceless.
He recovered her in the dusty portrait of Vashti, which had lain in disgrace in the stable for so many years. Vashti’s youthful figure, listening in the Garden Enclosed, was very like Desire’s; the lips, which his boyish kiss had blurred88, prophesied89 kindness. He brought it out from its place of hiding and hung it on the wall above his desk.
He recovered her most poignantly91 in small ways: in the stubs of theatre-tickets for performances they had attended. When unpacking92 one of his trunks, he found some white hairs clinging to the sleeve of one of his coats. They set him dreaming of the pale, reluctant hands that had snuggled in the warmth of the white-fox muff.
But he recovered her most effectually a week after his home-coming, when her letters began to arrive. Not that they were satisfactory letters; if they had been, they would not have been like her. Her sins as a correspondent were the same as her sins of conduct: they consisted of things omitted. Where she might have said something comforting, she filled up the sentence with dots and dashes. He begged her to confess that she was missing him. She escaped him. She let all his questions go unanswered. There was a come-and-find-me laughter in her way of writing. She would tell him just enough to make him anxious—no more. She had been to this play; she had danced at that supper; last Sunday she had automobiled with a jolly party out into the country. Of whom the jolly party had consisted she left him in ignorance.
Strange letters these to receive in the old-fashioned quiet of Eden Row, where days passed orderly and marshaled by duties! They came fluttering to him beneath the gray London skies, like tropic birds which had lost their direction. He would sit picturing her in an Eden Row setting, telling himself stories of the wild combinations of circumstances that might bring her tripping to him!
He was homesick for the faeries. He felt dull in remembering her intenser modes of living—modes of living which in his heart he distrusted. They could not last. There lay his hope. When they failed, she might turn to him for security. He excused her carelessness. Why, because he was sad, should she not be glad-hearted? For such leniency93 he received an occasional reward, as when she wrote him, “I do wish I could hear your nice English voice. I met a lady the other day who asked me, ‘Is there any chance of your marrying Theodore Gurney? If you don’t, you’re foolish.’ You’d have loved her.” And then, in a mischievous94 postscript95, “I forgot to tell you, she said you had beautiful eyes.”
Tantalizing96 as an echo of laughter from behind a barrier of hills!
In her first letters she coquetted with various forms of address: Meester Deek; Dear Meester Deek; My Dear. This last seemed to please her as a perch97 midway between the chilliness98 of friendship and too much fervor99. She settled down to it. Her endings were equally experimental: Your Friend Desire; Your Little Friend; Yours of the White Foxes; Yours affectionately, the Princess. Usually her signature was preceded by some such sentiment as, “You know you always have my many thoughts”—which might mean anything. She never committed herself.
His chief anxiety was to discover what she had meant by her promise that they would meet very shortly. She refused to tell him. Worse still, as time went on, he suspected that she was missing him less and less. While to him no happiness was complete without her, she seemed to be embarrassed by no such curtailment100. Her good times were coming thick and fast; her infatuation for Fluffy seemed to have strengthened. At last word reached him in February that they were off to California; she was too full of anticipation101 to express regret for the extra three thousand miles that would part them. On the day before she started, he cabled the florist102 at the Brevoort to send her flowers. In return he received a line of genuine sentiment. “Meester Deek, you are thoughtful! I nearly cried when I got them. You’ll never know what they meant. New York hasn’t been New York without you. It was almost as though you yourself had brought them. I wanted to run out and stop you, waving and waving to you down the stairs.”
That was the climax103. From that point on her correspondence grew jerky, dealing more and more with trivial externals and less and less with the poignant90 things of the past. In proportion as she withdrew from him, he tried to call her back with his sincerity104. When he complained of her indifference105, she told him mockingly, “I’m keeping all your letters. They’ll give you away entirely106 when I bring my suit for breach107 of promise.”
He could detect Fluffy’s influence, “Oh, these men!” He waited longer and longer to hear from her. Sometimes three weeks elapsed. Then from Santa Barbara she wrote, “I’m having such a gay time. Don’t you envy me? I’m riding horseback and some one is teaching me to drive a car.”
He knew what that meant. How could she travel so far and freely without attracting love? A man had appeared on the horizon.
For a day he was half-minded to go to her. It was no longer a question, of whether she wanted him, but of whether he could live without her. He answered in a fit of jealousy and self-scorn, “I wish I had your faculty108 for happiness. I hope your good times are lasting109.” And then the fatal phrase, “I’m afraid you’re one of those lucky persons who feel nothing very deeply.”
It was his first written criticism of her. She kept him waiting six weeks for a reply; when it came it was cabled. He broke the seal tremblingly, not daring to conjecture110 what he might expect. Her message was contained in one line, “I hate you to be flippant” After keeping him waiting so long, she had been in a great hurry to send him those six words. After that dead silence. It dawned on him that everything was ended.
He had completed his book. It was in the printer’s hands and he knew that once more success had come to him. Money was in sight; nothing kept her from him except her own wayward heart of thistledown. He still believed the best of her. With the courage of despair he told himself that, sooner or later, he was bound to marry her. Perhaps she was keeping away from him out of a sense of justice, because she could not yet care for him sufficiently111. When his book had found her, she would relent Glancing through his paper one June morning, his eye was arrested by the head-lines of a motor-accident. It had happened to a party of newly-landed Americans, two women and three men, on the road from Liverpool to London. He caught sight of the name of Janice Audrey, and then—— Dashing out into Eden Row, he ran to Orchid Lodge. Hal was setting out for business, when he intercepted112 him. Thrusting the paper into his hand, he pointed60.
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1
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
pulsating
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| adj.搏动的，脉冲的v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的现在分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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6
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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7
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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8
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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cloistral
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| adj.修道院的，隐居的，孤独的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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38
sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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39
orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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40
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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41
robustness
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| 坚固性，健壮性；鲁棒性 | |
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42
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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43
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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44
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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45
inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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46
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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47
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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48
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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49
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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50
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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51
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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52
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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53
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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54
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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56
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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57
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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67
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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68
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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72
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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73
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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81
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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82
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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83
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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85
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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86
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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91
poignantly
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92
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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93
leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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94
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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95
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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96
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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97
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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98
chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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99
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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100
curtailment
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| n.缩减，缩短 | |
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101
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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102
florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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103
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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104
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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105
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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106
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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107
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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108
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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109
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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110
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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111
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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112
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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