“I say, missy, you’ll have to hurry up.”
“Oh, I didn’t dress ... the house is full of strangers.”
“No, it isn’t; there’s Mélie and Tom ... Tommy and Mélie.”
“Yes, but I know there are crowds.”
She did not want to meet the Cravens again, and the strangers would turn out to be some sort of people saying certain sorts of things over and over again, and if she went down she would not be able to get away as soon as she knew all about them. She would be fixed1; obliged to listen. When anyone spoke2 to her, grimacing3 as the patronised governess or saying what she thought and being hated for it.
“Crowds,” she repeated, as Mrs. Corrie placed a large lump in the centre of the blaze.
They had her here, in this beautiful room and looked after her comfort as if she were a guest.
“Nonsensy-nonsense. You must come down and see the fun.” Miriam glanced at her empty table. In the drawer hidden underneath4 the table-cover were her block and paints. Presently she could, if she held firm, be alone, in a grey space inside this alien room, cold and lonely and with the beginning of something ... dark painful beginning of something that could not come if people were there.... Downstairs, warmth and revelry.
“You must come down and see the fun,” said Mrs. Corrie, getting up from the fire and trailing across the room with bent5 head. “A nun6—a nun in amber7 satin,” thought Miriam, surveying her back.
“Want you to come down,” said Mrs. Corrie plaintively8 from the door. Cold air came in from the landing; the warmth of the room stirred to a strange vitality9, the light glowed clearer within its ruby10 globe. The silvery clatter11 of entrée dishes came up from the hall.
“All right,” said Miriam, turning exultantly12 to the chest of drawers.
“A victory over myself or some sort of treachery?” ... The long drawer which held her evening things seemed full of wonders. She dragged out a little home-made smocked blouse of pale blue nun’s veiling that had seemed too dowdy13 for Newlands and put it on over her morning skirt. It shone upon her. Rapidly washing her hands, away from the glamour14 of the looking-glass, she mentally took stock of her hair, untouched since the morning, the amateur blouse, its crude clear blue hard against the harsh black skirt. Back again at the dressing-table as she dried her hands she found the miracle renewed. The figure that confronted her in the mirror was wrapped in some strange harmonising radiance. She looked at it for a moment as she would have looked at an unknown picture, in tranquil16 disinterested17 contemplation. The sound of the gong came softly into the room, bringing her no apprehensive18 contraction19 of nerves. She wove its lingering note into the imagined tinkling20 of an old melody from a wooden musical box. Opening the door before turning out her gas she found a small bunch of hothouse lilies of
the valley lying on the writing-table.... Mrs. Corrie—“you must come.”
2
Tucking them into her belt she went slowly downstairs, confused by a picture coming between her and her surroundings like a filmy lantern slide, of Portland Bill lying on a smooth sea in a clear afterglow....
“Quite a madonna,” said Mrs. Staple-Craven querulously. She sat low in her chair, her round gold head on its short stalk standing21 firmly up from billowy frills of green silk ... “a fat water-lily,” mused22 Miriam, and went wandering through the great steamy glass-houses at Kew, while the names that had been murmured during the introductions echoed irrelevantly23 in her brain.
“She must wear her host’s colours sometimes,” said Mr. Corrie quickly and gently.
Miriam glanced her surprise and smiled shyly in response to his shy smile. It was as if the faint radiance that she felt all round her had been outlined by a flashing blade. Mrs. Craven might go on resenting it; she could not touch it again. It steadied and concentrated; flowing from some inexhaustible
inner centre, it did not get beyond the circle outlined by the flashing blade, but flowed back on her and out again and back until it seemed as if it must lift her to her feet. Her eyes caught the clear brow and smooth innocently sleeked24 dark hair of a man at the other end of the table—under the fine level brows was a loudly talking, busily eating face—all the noise of the world, and the brooding grieving unconscious brow above it. Everyone was talking. She glanced. The women showed no foreheads; but their faces were not noisy; they were like the brows of the men, except Mrs. Craven’s. Her silent face was mouthing and complaining aloud all the time.
3
“Old Felix has secured himself the best partner,” Miriam heard someone mutter as she made her fluke, a resounding25 little cannon26 and pocket in one stroke. Wandering after her ball she fought against the suggesting voice. It had come from one of the men moving about in the gloom surrounding the radiance cast by the green-shaded lamps upon the long green table. Faces moving in the upper darkness were indistinguishable.
The white patch of Mrs. Corrie’s face gleamed from the settee as she sat bent forward with her hands clasped in front of her knees. Beyond her, sitting back under the shadow of the mantelpiece and the marking board was Mrs. Craven, a faint mass of soft green and mealy white. All the other forms were standing or moving in the gloom; standing watchful27 and silent, the gleaming stems of their cues held in rest, shifting and moving and strolling with uncolliding ordered movements and little murmurs28 of commentary after the little drama—the sudden snap of the stroke breaking the stillness, the faint thundering roll of the single ball, the click of the concussion29, the gentle angular explosion of pieces into a new relation and the breaking of the varying triangle as a ball rolled to its hidden destination held by all the eyes in the room until its rumbling30 pilgrimage ended out of sight in a soft thud. It was pure joy to Miriam to wander round the table after her ball, sheltered in the gloom, through an endless “grand chain” of undifferentiated figures that passed and repassed without awkwardness or the need for forced exchange; held together and separated by the ceremony of the game. Comments came
after each stroke, words and sentences sped and smoothed and polished by the gloom like the easy talking of friends in a deep twilight31; but between each stroke were vast intervals32 of untroubled silent intercourse33. The competition of the men, the sense of the desire to win, that rose and strained in the room could not spoil this communion. After a stroke, pondering the balls while the room and the radiance and the darkness moved and flowed and the dim figures settled to a fresh miracle of grouping, it was joy to lean along the board to her ball, keeping punctual appointment with her partner whose jaunty34 little figure would appear in supporting opposition35 under the bright light, drawing at his cigarette with a puckering36 half-smile, awaiting her suggestion and ready with counsel. Doing her best to measure angles and regulate the force of her blow she struck careless little lifting strokes that made her feel as if she danced, and managed three more cannons37 and a pocket before her little break came to an end.
4
“It must be jolly to smoke in the in-between times,” said Miriam, standing about at a loss during a long break by one of her opponents.
“Yes, you ought to learn to smoke,” responded Mr. Corrie judicially38. The quiet smile—the serene39 offer of companionship, the whole room troubled with the sense of the two parties, the men with whom she was linked in the joyous40 forward going strife41 of the game and the women on the sofa, suddenly grown monstrous42 in their opposition of clothes and kindliness43 and the fuss of distracting personal insincerities of voice and speech attempting to judge and condemn44 the roomful of quiet players, shouting aloud to her that she was a fool to be drawn45 in to talking to men seriously on their own level, a fool to parade about as if she really enjoyed their silly game. “I hate women and they’ve got to know it,” she retorted with all her strength, hitting blindly out towards the sofa, feeling all the contrivances of toilet and coiffure fall in meaningless horrible detail under her blows.
“I do smoke,” she said, leaving her partner’s side and going boldly to the sofa corner. “Ragbags, bundles of pretence46,” she thought, as she confronted the women. They glanced up with cunning eyes. They looked small and cringing47. She rushed on, sweeping48 them aside.... Who
had made them so small and cheated, and for all their smiles so angry? What was it they wanted? What was it women wanted that always made them so angry?
“Would you mind if I smoked?” she asked in a clear gay tone, cutting herself from Mrs. Corrie with a wrench49 as she faced her glittering frightened eyes.
“Of course not, my dear lady—I don’t mind, if you don’t,” she said, tweaking affectionately at Miriam’s skirt. “Ain’t she a gay dog, Mélie, ain’t she a gay dog!”
5
“It’s a pleasure to see you smoke,” murmured Mr. Corrie fervently50, “you’re the first woman I’ve seen smoke con15 amore.”
Contemplating51 the little screwed-up appreciative52 smile on the features of her partner, bunched to the lighting53 of his own cigarette, Miriam discharged a double stream of smoke violently through her nostrils—breaking out at last a public defiance54 of the freemasonry of women. “I suppose I’m a new woman—I’ve said I am now, anyhow,” she reflected, wondering in the background of her determination how she would
reconcile the r?le with her work as a children’s governess. “I’m not in their crowd, anyhow; I despise their silly secret,” she pursued, feeling out ahead towards some lonely solution of her difficulty that seemed to come shapelessly towards her, but surely—the happy weariness of conquest gave her a sense of some unknown strength in her.
For the rest of the evening the group in the sofa-corner presented her a frontage of fawning55 and flattery.
6
Coming down with the children to lunch the next day, Miriam found the room dark and chill in the bright midday. It was as if it were empty. But if it had been empty it would have been beautiful in the still light and tranquil. There was a dark cruel tide in the room, she sought in vain for a foothold. A loud busy voice was talking from Mr. Corrie’s place at the head of the table. Mr. Staple-Craven, busy with cold words to hide the truth. He paused as the nursery trio came in and settled at the table and then shouted softly and suddenly at Mrs. Corrie, “What’s Corrie having?”
“Biscuits,” chirped56 Mrs. Corrie eagerly, “biscuits
and sally in the study.” She sat forward, gathering57 herself to disperse58 the gloom. But Mrs. Craven’s deep voice drowned her unspoken gaieties ... ah—he’s not gone away, thought Miriam rapidly, he’s in the house....
“Best thing for biliousness,” gonged Mrs. Craven, and Mr. Craven busily resumed.
“It’s only the fisherman who knows anything, anything whatever about the silver stream. Necessarily. Necessarily. It is the—the concentration, the—the absorption of the passion that enables him to see. Er, the fisherman, the poet-tantamount; exchangeable terms. Fishing is, indeed one might say——”
The men of the party were devouring59 their food with the air of people just about to separate to fulfil urgent engagements. They bent and gobbled busily and cast smouldering glances about the table, as if with their eyes they would suggest important mysteries brooding above their animated60 muzzles61.
Miriam’s stricken eyes sought their foreheads for relief. Smooth brows and neatly62 brushed hair above; but the smooth motionless brows were ramparts of hate; pure murderous hate. That’s men, she said, with a sudden flash of certainty,
that’s men as they are, when they are opposed, when they are real. All the rest is pretence. Her thoughts flashed forward to a final clear issue of opposition, with a husband. Just a cold blank hating forehead and neatly brushed hair above it. If a man doesn’t understand or doesn’t agree he’s just a blank bony conceitedly64 thinking, absolutely condemning65 forehead, a face below, going on eating—and going off somewhere. Men are all hard angry bones; always thinking something, only one thing at a time and unless that is agreed to, they murder. My husband shan’t kill me.... I’ll shatter his conceited63 brow—make him see ... two sides to every question ... a million sides ... no questions, only sides ... always changing. Men argue, think they prove things; their foreheads recover—cool and calm. Damn them all—all men.
7
“Fee ought to be out here,” said Mrs. Corrie, moving her basket chair to face away from the sun.
The garden blazed in the fresh warm air. But there was no happiness in it. Everything was lost and astray. The house-party had dispersed66
and disappeared. Mrs. Corrie sat and strolled about the garden, joyless, as if weighed down by some immovable oppression. If Mr. Corrie were to come out, and sit there too it would be worse. It was curious to think that the garden was his at all. He would come feebly out, looking ill and they would all sit, uneasy and afraid. But Mrs. Corrie wanted him to come out, knew he ought to be there. It was she who had thought of it. It was intolerable to think of his coming. Yet he had been “crazy mad” about her for five years. Five years and then this. Whose fault was it? His or hers? Or was marriage always like that? Perhaps that was why she and Mrs. Craven had laughed when they were asked whether marriage was a failure. Mrs. Craven had no children. Nothing to think about but stars and spirits and her food and baths and little silk dresses and Mr. Craven treated her as if she were a child he had got tired of petting. She did not even go fishing with him. She was lying down in her room and tea would be taken up to her. At least she thought of herself and seemed to enjoy life. But she was getting fatter and fatter. Mrs. Corrie did not want anything for herself, except for the fun of getting things. She cared
only for the children and when they grew up they would have nothing to talk to her about. Sybil would have thoughts behind her ugly strong face. She would tell them to no one. The boy would adore her, until his wife whom he would adore came between them. So there was nothing for women in marriage and children. Because they had no thoughts. Their husbands grew to hate them because they had no thoughts. But if a woman had thoughts a man would not be “silly” about her for five years. And Mrs. Corrie had her garden. She would always have that, when he was not there.
“If you were to go and ask him,” said Mrs. Corrie, brushing out her dress with her hands, “he’d come out.”
“Me!” said Miriam in amazement67.
“Yes, go on, my dear, you see; he’ll come.”
“But perhaps he doesn’t want to,” said Miriam, suddenly feeling that she was playing a familiar part in a novel and wanting to feel quite sure she was reading her r?le aright.
“You go and try,” laughed Mrs. Corrie gently. “Make him come out.”
“I’ll tell him you wish him to come,” said
Miriam gravely, getting to her feet. “All right,” she thought, “if I have more influence over him than you it’s not my fault, not anybody’s fault, but how horrid68 you must feel.”
8
Miriam’s trembling fingers gave a frightened fumbling69 tap at the study door. “Come in,” said Mr. Corrie officially, and coughed a loose, wheezy cough. He was sitting by the fire in one of the huge armchairs and didn’t look up as she entered. She stood with the door half closed behind her, fighting against her fear and the cold heavy impression of his dull grey dressing-gown and the grey rug over his knees.
“It’s so lovely in the garden,” she said, fervently fixing her eyes on the small white face, a little puffy under its grizzled hair. He looked stiffly in her direction.
“The sun is so warm,” she went on hurriedly. “Mrs. Corrie thought——” she stopped. Of course the man was too ill to be worried. For, an eternity70 she stood, waiting. Mr. Corrie coughed his little cough and turned again to the fire. If only she could sit down in the other chair, saying nothing and just be there. He looked so
unspeakably desolate71. He hated being there, not able to play or work.
“I hate being ill,” she said at last, “it always seems such waste of time.” She knew she had borrowed that from someone and that it would only increase the man’s impatience72. “I always have to act and play parts,” she thought angrily—and called impatiently to her everyday vision of him to dispel73 the obstructive figure in the armchair.
“Umph,” said Mr. Corrie judicially.
“You could have a chair,” she ventured, “and just sit quietly.”
“No thanks, I’m not coming out.” He turned a kind face in her direction without meeting her eyes.
“You have such a nice room,” said Miriam vaguely74, getting to the door.
“Do you like it?” It was his everyday voice, and Miriam stopped at the door without turning.
“It’s so absolutely your own,” she said.
Mr. Corrie laughed. “That’s a strange definition of charm.”
“I didn’t say charming. I said your own.”
Mr. Corrie laughed out. “Because it’s mine it’s nice, but it is, for the same reason, not charming.”
“You’re tying me up into something I haven’t said. There’s a fallacy in what you have just said, somewhere.”
“You’ll never be tied up in anything, mademoiselle—you’ll tie other people up. But there was no fallacy.”
“No verbal fallacy,” said Miriam eagerly, “a fallacy of intention, deliberate misreading.”
“No wonder you think the sun would do me good.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m such a miscreant75.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” said Miriam comfortingly, turning round. “I don’t want you to come out”—she advanced boldly and stirred the fire. “I always like to be alone when I’m ill.”
“That’s better,” said Mr. Corrie.
“Good-bye,” breathed Miriam, getting rapidly to the door ... poor wretched man ... wanting quiet kindness.
“Thank you; good-bye,” said Mr. Corrie gently.
9
“Then you’d say, Corrie,” said Mr. Staple-Craven, as they all sat down to dinner on Sunday, evening ... now comes flattery, thought
Miriam calmly—nothing mattered, the curtains were back, the light not yet gone from the garden and birds were fluting76 and chirruping out there on the lawn where she had played tennis all the afternoon—at home there was the same light in the little garden and Sarah and Harriett were there in happiness, she would see them soon and meantime, the wonder, the fresh rosebuds77, this year’s, under the clear soft lamplight.
“You’d say that no one was to blame for the accident.”
“The cause of the accident was undoubtedly78 the signalman’s sudden attack of illness.”
Pause. “It sounds,” thought Miriam, “as if he were reading from the Book of Judgment79. It isn’t true either. Perhaps a judgment can never be true.” She pondered to the singing of her blood.
“In other words,” said one of the younger men, in a narrow nasal sneering80 clever voice, “it was a purely81 accidental accident.”
“Purely,” gurgled Mr. Corrie, in a low, pleased tone.
“They think they’re really beginning,” mused Miriam, rousing herself.
“A genuine accident within the meaning of the act,” blared Mr. Craven.
“An actident,” murmured Mr. Corrie.
“In that case,” said another man, “I mean since the man was discovered ill, not drunk, by a doctor in his box, all the elaborate legal proceedings82 would appear to be rather—superfluous.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Corrie testily83.
Miriam listened gladly to the anger in his voice, watching the faint movement of the window curtains and waiting for the justification84 of the law.
“The thing must be subject to a detailed85 inquiry86 before the man can be cleared.”
“He might have felt ill before he took up his duties—you’d hardly get him to admit that.”
“Lawyers can get people to admit anything,” said Mr. Craven cheerfully, and broke the silence that followed his sally by a hooting87 monotonous88 recitative which he delivered, swaying right and left from his hips89, “that is to say—they by beneficently pursuing unexpected—quite unexpected bypaths—suddenly confront—their—their examinees—with the truth—the Truth.”
“It’s quite a good point to suggest that the
chap felt ill earlier in the day—that’s one of the things you’d have to find out. You’d have, at any rate, to know all the circumstances of the seizure90.”
“Indigestible food,” said Miriam, “or badly cooked food.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Corrie, his face clearing, “that’s an excellent refinement91.”
“In that case the cause of the accident would be the cook.”
Mr. Corrie laughed delightedly.
“I don’t say that because I’m interested, but because I wanted to take sides with him,” thought Miriam, “the others know that and resent it and now I’m interested.”
“Perhaps,” she said, feeling anxiously about the incriminated cook, “the real cause then would be a fault in her upbringing, I mean he may have lately married a young woman whose mother had not taught her cooking.”
“Oh, you can’t go back further than the cook,” said Mr. Corrie finally.
“But the cause,” she persisted, in a low, anxious voice, “is the sum total of all the circumstances.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Corrie impenetrably, with
a hard face—“you can’t take the thing back into the mists of the past.”
He dropped her and took up a lead coming from a man at the other end of the table.
“Oh,” thought Miriam coldly, appraising92 him with a glance, the slightly hollow temples, the small skull93, a little flattened94, the lack of height in the straight forehead, why had she not noticed that before?—the general stinginess of the head balancing the soft keen eyes and whimsical mouth—“that’s you; you won’t, you can’t look at anything from the point of view of life as a whole”—she shivered and drew away from the whole spectacle and pageant95 of Newlands’ life. It all had this behind it, a man, able to do and decide things who looked about like a ferret for small clever things, causes, immediate96 near causes that appeared to explain, and explained nothing and had nothing to do with anything. Her hot brain whirled back—signalmen, in bad little houses with bad cooking—tinned foods—they’re a link—they bring all sorts of things into their signal boxes. They ought to bring the fewest possible dangerous things. Something ought to be done.
Lawyers were quite happy, pleased with themselves
if they made some one person guilty—put their finger on him. “Can’t go back into the mists of the past ... you didn’t understand, you’re not capable of understanding any real movements of thought. I always knew it. You think—in propositions. Can’t go back. Of course you can go back, and round and up and everywhere. Things as a whole ... you understand nothing. We’ve done. That’s you. Mr. Corrie—a leading Q.C. Heavens.”
In that moment Miriam felt that she left Newlands for ever. She glanced at Mrs. Corrie and Mrs. Craven—bright beautiful coloured birds, fading slowly year by year in the stifling97 atmosphere, the hard brutal98 laughing complacent99 atmosphere of men’s minds ... men’s minds, staring at things, ignorantly, knowing “everything” in an irritating way and yet ignorant.
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收听单词发音
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1
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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2
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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3
grimacing
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的现在分词 ) | |
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4
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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5
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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7
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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8
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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9
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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10
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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13
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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14
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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15
con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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16
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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17
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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18
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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19
contraction
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| n.缩略词，缩写式，害病 | |
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20
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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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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22
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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24
sleeked
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| 使…光滑而发亮( sleek的过去式 ) | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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28
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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30
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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32
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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33
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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34
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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35
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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36
puckering
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 )；小褶纹；小褶皱 | |
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cannons
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| n.加农炮，大炮，火炮( cannon的名词复数 ) | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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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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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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muzzles
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| 枪口( muzzle的名词复数 )； （防止动物咬人的）口套； （四足动物的）鼻口部； （狗）等凸出的鼻子和口 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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conceitedly
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| 自满地 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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fluting
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| 有沟槽的衣料； 吹笛子； 笛声； 刻凹槽 | |
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rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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