Ordham had now revelled8 in this unsuspected refuge for something over two months. At the castle Mabel had been too much occupied to enter his rooms save now and then on a sentimental9 excursion; but in the comparative seclusion10 of town and increasing ennui11, she not only wandered in and out of his rooms perpetually, whether he were there or not, but took an inexplicable12 pleasure in upsetting and rearranging his things. This was a phase of matrimony for which Ordham was wholly unprepared, although he recalled an amusing picture Styr had drawn13 of one phase of the American household: the front bedroom the common sitting room; formality, much less exclusiveness, practically unknown. He had assumed that among the wealthy classes, accustomed to large houses, life would be planned on the European scale; but while he was given his own suite14 as a matter of course in Grosvenor Square, the ancient instinct was planted in Mabel, whose ancestors had been simple democratic folk to whom the traditions of their new country were dear, despite their social eminence15. It never occurred to her that what was her Jackie’s was not her own, nor was it in her to suspect that she could fail to be welcome at all hours and seasons.
Ordham had been amused at first, but not for long. When only his opportune16 return diverted her from a cabinet which contained Styr’s letters and photographs, he was so incensed17 that he nearly ordered her out instead of gently conducting her forth18 to admire a new picture. After a day of black, albeit19 invisible, sulks, that gift for compromise which seldom failed him came to his rescue; and a week later found him installed in The Temple, with solitude20 within and beauty without, and only the roar of the Strand21 in his ears. Here he wrote his letters to Styr, read and reread hers, smoked, and dwelt upon the happiness of the past summer, as his eyes travelled from presentment to presentment of its heroine. He also enjoyed the sensation of deceiving his wife, for he felt that it was even a duty to balk23 a gregarious24 nature like that, and this secret life that he shared with Styr alone was eminently25 agreeable to the future master of the diplomatic art. Too proud to write of his disappointment to his friend, however her presence might have tempted26 confession27, the very fact that he had taken this room as a solitary28 retreat would have told the whole story to his acute correspondent, even had not that atmosphere of melancholy29 superseded30 the subtle exaltation of those letters written from Ordham when his energies were humming and he was excited with a foretaste of power.
He lit the fire and a cigar, and settled himself into the ample Morris chair, but not with his usual sense of unqualified delight. Heretofore, when he had entered this room, it was to banish31 all unpleasant thought, all haunting doubt; but to-night he intended to open certain water-tight compartments32 and look squarely on their contents. He fancied that this unusual disposition33 to confront and probe must be inspired by the woman who had pricked34 his energies in so many other ways. Certainly, had he never known her, he would, after some such crisis as this evening’s understanding with his mother-in-law, have gone at once to the theatre, postponed35 indefinitely the admission that his marriage was a mistake.
No man could be more direct, more outspoken36, than Ordham when it suited him, and this was his chief charm for people thrown much in his society,—betraying, as it did, the cool courage under his listless habit, furnishing the high lights, as it were, for that formal indubitably diplomatic nature. To-night he put several facts into the plainest possible English. He was mortally tired of his wife, hopelessly disappointed in her. He could have resigned himself to her intellectual lacks, trusting to time and his own assiduous tutoring to furnish her skull37 respectably; but her character was so utterly38 without variety, depth, mystery, interest of any sort, that the task of stuffing the brain was not worth while. Neither time nor determination can create a personality, and to Ordham’s mind people without strong individual characteristics were hardly worthy39 of visibility, no matter how admirable the shell. He had caught himself staring at Mabel in wonderment, half fancying he saw behind her that stately romantic elusive40 figure of his wooing, suggesting infinite possibilities. Had he been hypnotized, and where had she gone? True, Mabel was as beautiful as ever, as tall, her manners retained their grace, her head its lofty poise41; but her features lost their dignity, her eyes their dreams, the moment she began to chatter42; and heavens, how she did chatter!
He was still annoyed and embarrassed at this prospect43 of early paternity, still felt that this projection44 of himself would appropriate what was left of his youth; but at least it had the merit of causing a certain tenderness to linger. Not for the world would he have given Mabel a hint of his present evolution; he had only to remind himself of her pathetic condition to be delivered of the temptation. But later, when she was well again, strong, more tactless than ever in her renewed beauty and social successes, should he hate her? This was the ghost that had been tapping at his brain for weeks. He had no desire to hate his wife. It would be demoralizing, inconvenient45, a constant source of irritation46. Could he but crowd the world between them, wean her until she shared his own indifference47, he fancied he could accept his lot philosophically48; a well-bred ornamental50 wife was not to be despised. But inflict51 himself with her society and pertinacious52 affections he would not.
He realized now why his spirits had gradually sunk below their normal level, save only when the drawing-rooms were full of kaleidoscopic53 guests; moreover, that resentment22 had steadily54 grown at the trickery which had brought him to his present pass, anger at his own unthinkable stupidity. True, he was now immensely wealthy, but a young Briton’s only appreciation55 of money is in the incessant56 want of it, and, this passed, Ordham had almost forgotten that checkered57 interval58 between his father’s death and his present affluence59. Besides, it was now positive that his brother had a mortal, if leisurely60, disease; his inheritance was but a matter of time. If these women had not made a fool of him, he should still be free—young.
But he was not the man to arrest his vision on the surface of his mistakes. He stared appalled61 at the sudden and vivid realization62 of all that true marriage meant. Mere63 mating, respectable or otherwise, that automatic opening of the door to a waiting generation always squatting64 on the threshold, was not for men like himself; the world swarmed65 with those that asked for nothing better, and cared little whether nature blindfolded66 them or not; why could not he have been spared? Marriage—it was a portentous67 thing; no mere similarity of tastes due to breeding and experience, but, for highly organized beings, a thousand points of contact, mental, physical, spiritual, which compassed an unimaginable union; mystery and discovery; the quick response to half utterances68, the same enthusiasms in beauties and pleasures forever hidden from the mass upon whose fertile surfaces grew the exotics of life; passions of soul and body such as only Styr could suggest when the music of Wagner set her free; immortality69 this side of the grave,—that was union in love as Ordham conceived it. And consciously or not, upon at least half a thousand points had he met and mingled70 with Margarethe Styr. The other half, of course, were not to be commanded in a mere romantic friendship, wandering silently with the woman in scenes made up of ice and stars, floating on sinister71 lakes between Plutonian walls, sitting in a dimly lit room above the murmuring Isar till dawn—but how wonderful it all had been! Had he really appreciated it?
When he left her, he had refused to ask himself if she loved him, but he knew that she did. It breathed in her letters, floated from them in an almost visible aura. From the faithful Kilchberg he had heard in due course of her stupendous performance of Isolde, knew that she must have received his letter immediately before it.
Did he love her? It was significant that he did not reply even to himself, “Of course!” But although he admitted it as frankly72 as he had disposed of his sentiments toward his wife, he was as yet conscious of nothing beyond a vast immaterial longing73 for that other part of himself, so full of splendour and terrible mystery. After some dodging74 he analyzed75 this paradox76 also: he was sitting in the forbidding wreckage77 of early matrimonial disillusions78, his passions lay so deep under the torpors he had cultivated that they had been but superficially disturbed, and he was still very shy. But between himself and Margarethe Styr there could be every response, every correlation79, every analogue80. It only depended upon circumstance or their own wills when that chemical affinity81 developed which sooner or later drives all lovers into each other’s arms. In this hour of cold reasoning, of almost vicious hatred82 of all things pertaining83 to his condition, he hoped it would be late, or never. He had not the least idea whether he lived for that moment or wished that Styr had never crossed his orbit. It was his disposition to live on the surface—there was so much on the surface! A man might occupy himself with it for a lifetime, and far better than plunging84 down to eternal fires. He believed that the wise men of life were its dilettantes, and to be prince of the dilettantes had nature eminently equipped him. But alas85! . . .
Of course he did not wish he had never met Styr! What nonsense! Not only did he owe to her all he was or ever should be, not only was he philosophical49 by habit and temper, but he should exult86 in the memory of her to the end of his days. He strongly doubted, however, if he wanted to add to those memories, in other words enter upon a different phase. Had it not been for the great advantages she must reap from this London season, he could have wished that he had left England to educate itself. He longed above all things to meet her again, and there was nothing which he would not have done to avoid it. Could they get through these thirty-five days in safety? They would be crowded with work and social engagements; possibly he should see little of her, and prosaic87 London was not romantic Bavaria. Did he emerge from this coming ordeal88 with that spiritual bond between them still unvitalized, he vowed89 that he never would see her again. The moment they ceased to play with love would be the first real moment of his life, and he had but a confused idea of what must come after; nor was it comfortable to speculate. It was not so much that he dreaded90 the energies of a real passion, as the recklessness they might breed. He had no wish to sacrifice his career, to be haled into the divorce courts, to be relegated91 to that half world which exists for men as well as for women, particularly for young fools, there to be known as “Styr’s lover.”
And a career he was determined92 to have. He was become fully conscious of his abilities, his gift for leadership, his enjoyment93 of power. And if he had thought little or not at all of serving his country when preparing for the diplomatic career, he thought of it a great deal now. If much of his careless insolent94 youth had been buried under disillusions and ennui these last months, he found himself and life twice as interesting. Not lightly would he imperil that future which for the first time seemed vital and full. . . .
But Styr? Styr? Styr? He recalled the young heroes of Balzac and other veracious95 French realists, who wept as freely as women when a cruel destiny dammed up their love secretions96. He envied them, but remembered also that one secret of the supremacy97 of the British race was that it used its emotions to feed its energies, and began to act while its more brilliant but less practical neighbours were spending half their forces in grief or rage. But this reflection did not abate98 one whit99 of his desire to be alone with this woman once more—he suddenly realized that it was growing from moment to moment, that his cold analytical100 temper had been displaced by throbbing101 pulses. He rose hastily, walked the room, lit another cigar, spent an hour reading her letters. They always translated him from the present, soothed102 as well as stimulated103 him, banished104 his melancholy, leaving only a pleasant sadness in its wake. He walked home toward dawn almost happy. Thirty-five days! At least they would have many talks. Thank God that “dark threshold,” as she once had phrased it, had never been crossed, would hardly obtrude105 itself during this the last of their intimacies106. And the antechamber was very large and of an inexpressible beauty. Not to compare with it were the commonplace mansions107 whose every corner was free to so many men, and for life. He was an ingrate108. He would accept the good the gods brought him and take devilish good care not to cry for more.
When he reached home, he found Mabel asleep on a sofa in his room, with the stains of tears on her face. He carried her into her own room and put her to bed. Then, as she inevitably109 awakened110 and wanted to talk, he considerately mixed her a sleeping draught111, and saw no more of her until the luncheon112 hour.
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1
den
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n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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ascended
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v.上升,攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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buffet
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n.自助餐;饮食柜台;餐台 | |
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fully
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adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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5
behold
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v.看,注视,看到 | |
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alpine
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adj.高山的;n.高山植物 | |
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glacier
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n.冰川,冰河 | |
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revelled
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v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 );狂欢;着迷;陶醉 | |
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9
sentimental
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adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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seclusion
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n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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ennui
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n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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12
inexplicable
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adj.无法解释的,难理解的 | |
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13
drawn
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v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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suite
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n.一套(家具);套房;随从人员 | |
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eminence
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n.卓越,显赫;高地,高处;名家 | |
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opportune
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adj.合适的,适当的 | |
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incensed
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盛怒的 | |
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forth
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adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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19
albeit
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conj.即使;纵使;虽然 | |
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solitude
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n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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21
strand
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vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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resentment
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n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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balk
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n.大方木料;v.妨碍;不愿前进或从事某事 | |
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gregarious
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adj.群居的,喜好群居的 | |
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eminently
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adv.突出地;显著地;不寻常地 | |
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tempted
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v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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confession
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n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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solitary
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adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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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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superseded
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[医]被代替的,废弃的 | |
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banish
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vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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32
compartments
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n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 );(列车车厢的)隔间;(家具或设备等的)分隔间;隔层 | |
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disposition
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n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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34
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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postponed
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vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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outspoken
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adj.直言无讳的,坦率的,坦白无隐的 | |
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skull
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n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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utterly
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adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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worthy
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adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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elusive
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adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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poise
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vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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chatter
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vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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prospect
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n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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projection
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n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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inconvenient
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adj.不方便的,令人感到麻烦的 | |
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irritation
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n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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indifference
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n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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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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philosophical
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adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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50
ornamental
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adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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51
inflict
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vt.(on)把…强加给,使遭受,使承担 | |
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52
pertinacious
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adj.顽固的 | |
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53
kaleidoscopic
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adj.千变万化的 | |
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54
steadily
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adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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55
appreciation
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n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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incessant
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adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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checkered
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adj.有方格图案的 | |
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interval
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n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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59
affluence
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n.充裕,富足 | |
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leisurely
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adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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61
appalled
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v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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realization
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n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
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63
mere
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adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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64
squatting
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v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 );非法擅自占用(土地或房屋);为获得其所有权;而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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65
swarmed
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密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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blindfolded
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v.(尤指用布)挡住(某人)的视线( blindfold的过去式 );蒙住(某人)的眼睛;使不理解;蒙骗 | |
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portentous
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adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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68
utterances
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n.发声( utterance的名词复数 );说话方式;语调;言论 | |
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immortality
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n.不死,不朽 | |
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70
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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71
sinister
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adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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72
frankly
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adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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longing
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n.(for)渴望 | |
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dodging
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n.避开,闪过,音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 );回避 | |
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analyzed
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v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 );分解;解释;对…进行心理分析 | |
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paradox
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n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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wreckage
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n.(失事飞机等的)残骸,破坏,毁坏 | |
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disillusions
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使不再抱幻想,使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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correlation
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n.相互关系,相关,关连 | |
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analogue
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n.类似物;同源语 | |
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81
affinity
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n.亲和力,密切关系 | |
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hatred
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n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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pertaining
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与…有关系的,附属…的,为…固有的(to) | |
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84
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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85
alas
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int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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exult
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v.狂喜,欢腾;欢欣鼓舞 | |
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prosaic
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adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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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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vowed
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起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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90
dreaded
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adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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relegated
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v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 );使降职;转移;把…归类 | |
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determined
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adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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enjoyment
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n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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insolent
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adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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veracious
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adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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96
secretions
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n.分泌(物)( secretion的名词复数 ) | |
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supremacy
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n.至上;至高权力 | |
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abate
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vi.(风势,疼痛等)减弱,减轻,减退 | |
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99
whit
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n.一点,丝毫 | |
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100
analytical
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adj.分析的;用分析法的 | |
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101
throbbing
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a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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102
soothed
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v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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103
stimulated
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a.刺激的 | |
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104
banished
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v.放逐,驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
obtrude
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v.闯入;侵入;打扰 | |
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106
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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107
mansions
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n.宅第,公馆,大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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108
ingrate
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n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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109
inevitably
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adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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110
awakened
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v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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111
draught
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n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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112
luncheon
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n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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