The drawing-room was full of visitors, in frocks of ceremony. The old drawing-room, but newly and massively arranged with the finest Victorian furniture from dead Aunt Harriet's house at Axe1; two "Canterburys," a large bookcase, a splendid scintillant2 table solid beyond lifting, intricately tortured chairs and armchairs! The original furniture of the drawing-room was now down in the parlour, making it grand. All the house breathed opulence3; it was gorged4 with quiet, restrained expensiveness; the least considerable objects, in the most modest corners, were what Mrs. Baines would have termed 'good.' Constance and Samuel had half of all Aunt Harriet's money and half of Mrs. Baines's; the other half was accumulating for a hypothetical Sophia, Mr. Critchlow being the trustee. The business continued to flourish. People knew that Samuel Povey was buying houses. Yet Samuel and Constance had not made friends; they had not, in the Five Towns phrase, 'branched out socially,' though they had very meetly branched out on subscription5 lists. They kept themselves to themselves (emphasizing the preposition). These guests were not their guests; they were the guests of Cyril.
He had been named Samuel because Constance would have him named after his father, and Cyril because his father secretly despised the name of Samuel; and he was called Cyril; 'Master Cyril,' by Amy, definite successor to Maggie. His mother's thoughts were on Cyril as long as she was awake. His father, when not planning Cyril's welfare, was earning money whose unique object could be nothing but Cyril's welfare. Cyril was the pivot6 of the house; every desire ended somewhere in Cyril. The shop existed now solely7 for him. And those houses that Samuel bought by private treaty, or with a shamefaced air at auctions--somehow they were aimed at Cyril. Samuel and Constance had ceased to be self-justifying beings; they never thought of themselves save as the parents of Cyril.
They realized this by no means fully8. Had they been accused of monomania they would have smiled the smile of people confident in their commonsense9 and their mental balance. Nevertheless, they were monomaniacs. Instinctively10 they concealed11 the fact as much as possible; They never admitted it even to themselves. Samuel, indeed, would often say: "That child is not everybody. That child must be kept in his place." Constance was always teaching him consideration for his father as the most important person in the household. Samuel was always teaching him consideration for his mother as the most important person in the household. Nothing was left undone12 to convince him that he was a cipher13, a nonentity14, who ought to be very glad to be alive. But he knew all about his importance. He knew that the entire town was his. He knew that his parents were deceiving themselves. Even when he was punished he well knew that it was because he was so important. He never imparted any portion of this knowledge to his parents; a primeval wisdom prompted him to retain it strictly15 in his own bosom16.
He was four and a half years old, dark, like his father; handsome like his aunt, and tall for his age; not one of his features resembled a feature of his mother's, but sometimes he 'had her look.' From the capricious production of inarticulate sounds, and then a few monosyllables that described concrete things and obvious desires, he had gradually acquired an astonishing idiomatic17 command over the most difficult of Teutonic languages; there was nothing that he could not say. He could walk and run, was full of exact knowledge about God, and entertained no doubt concerning the special partiality of a minor18 deity19 called Jesus towards himself.
Now, this party was his mother's invention and scheme. His father, after flouting20 it, had said that if it was to be done at all, it should be done well, and had brought to the doing all his organizing skill. Cyril had accepted it at first--merely accepted it; but, as the day approached and the preparations increased in magnitude, he had come to look on it with favour, then with enthusiasm. His father having taken him to Daniel Povey's opposite, to choose cakes, he had shown, by his solemn and fastidious waverings, how seriously he regarded the affair.
Of course it had to occur on a Thursday afternoon. The season was summer, suitable for pale and fragile toilettes. And the eight children who sat round Aunt Harriet's great table glittered like the sun. Not Constance's specially22 provided napkins could hide that wealth and profusion23 of white lace and stitchery. Never in after-life are the genteel children of the Five Towns so richly clad as at the age of four or five years. Weeks of labour, thousands of cubic feet of gas, whole nights stolen from repose24, eyesight, and general health, will disappear into the manufacture of a single frock that accidental jam may ruin in ten seconds. Thus it was in those old days; and thus it is to-day. Cyril's guests ranged in years from four to six; they were chiefly older than their host; this was a pity, it impaired25 his importance; but up to four years a child's sense of propriety26, even of common decency27, is altogether too unreliable for a respectable party.
Round about the outskirts28 of the table were the elders, ladies the majority; they also in their best, for they had to meet each other. Constance displayed a new dress, of crimson29 silk; after having mourned for her mother she had definitely abandoned the black which, by reason of her duties in the shop, she had constantly worn from the age of sixteen to within a few months of Cyril's birth; she never went into the shop now, except casually30, on brief visits of inspection31. She was still fat; the destroyer of her figure sat at the head of the table. Samuel kept close to her; he was the only male, until Mr. Critchlow astonishingly arrived; among the company Mr. Critchlow had a grand-niece. Samuel, if not in his best, was certainly not in his everyday suit. With his large frilled shirt-front, and small black tie, and his little black beard and dark face over that, he looked very nervous and self-conscious. He had not the habit of entertaining. Nor had Constance; but her benevolence32 ever bubbling up to the calm surface of her personality made self-consciousness impossible for her. Miss Insull was also present, in shop-black, 'to help.' Lastly there was Amy, now as the years passed slowly assuming the character of a faithful retainer, though she was only twenty- three. An ugly, abrupt33, downright girl, with convenient notions of pleasure! For she would rise early and retire late in order to contrive34 an hour to go out with Master Cyril; and to be allowed to put Master Cyril to bed was, really, her highest bliss35.
All these elders were continually inserting arms into the fringe of fluffy36 children that surrounded the heaped table; removing dangerous spoons out of cups into saucers, replacing plates, passing cakes, spreading jam, whispering consolations37, explanations, and sage38 counsel. Mr. Critchlow, snow-white now but unbent, remarked that there was 'a pretty cackle,' and he sniffed39. Although the window was slightly open, the air was heavy with the natural human odour which young children transpire40. More than one mother, pressing her nose into a lacy mass, to whisper, inhaled41 that pleasant perfume with a voluptuous42 thrill.
Cyril, while attending steadily43 to the demands of his body, was in a mood which approached the ideal. Proud and radiant, he combined urbanity with a certain fine condescension44. His bright eyes, and his manner of scraping up jam with a spoon, said: "I am the king of this party. This party is solely in my honour. I know that. We all know it. Still, I will pretend that we are equals, you and I." He talked about his picture-books to a young woman on his right named Jennie, aged45 four, pale, pretty, the belle46 in fact, and Mr. Critchlow's grand-niece. The boy's attractiveness was indisputable; he could put on quite an aristocratic air. It was the most delicious sight to see them, Cyril and Jennie, so soft and delicate, so infantile on their piles of cushions and books, with their white socks and black shoes dangling47 far distant from the carpet; and yet so old, so self-contained! And they were merely an epitome48 of the whole table. The whole table was bathed in the charm and mystery of young years, of helpless fragility, gentle forms, timid elegance49, unshamed instincts, and waking souls. Constance and Samuel were very satisfied; full of praise for other people's children, but with the reserve that of course Cyril was hors concours. They both really did believe, at that moment, that Cyril was, in some subtle way which they felt but could not define, superior to all other infants.
Some one, some officious relative of a visitor, began to pass a certain cake which had brown walls, a roof of cocoa-nut icing, and a yellow body studded with crimson globules. Not a conspicuously50 gorgeous cake, not a cake to which a catholic child would be likely to attach particular importance; a good, average cake! Who could have guessed that it stood, in Cyril's esteem51, as the cake of cakes? He had insisted on his father buying it at Cousin Daniel's, and perhaps Samuel ought to have divined that for Cyril that cake was the gleam that an ardent52 spirit would follow through the wilderness53. Samuel, however, was not a careful observer, and seriously lacked imagination. Constance knew only that Cyril had mentioned the cake once or twice. Now by the hazard of destiny that cake found much favour, helped into popularity as it was by the blundering officious relative who, not dreaming what volcano she was treading on, urged its merits with simpering enthusiasm. One boy took two slices, a slice in each hand; he happened to be the visitor of whom the cake-distributor was a relative, and she protested; she expressed the shock she suffered. Whereupon both Constance and Samuel sprang forward and swore with angelic smiles that nothing could be more perfect than the propriety of that dear little fellow taking two slices of that cake. It was this hullaballoo that drew Cyril's attention to the evanescence of the cake of cakes. His face at once changed from calm pride to a dreadful anxiety. His eyes bulged54 out. His tiny mouth grew and grew, like a mouth in a nightmare. He was no longer human; he was a cake-eating tiger being balked55 of his prey56. Nobody noticed him. The officious fool of a woman persuaded Jennie to take the last slice of the cake, which was quite a thin slice.
Then every one simultaneously57 noticed Cyril, for he gave a yell. It was not the cry of a despairing soul who sees his beautiful iridescent58 dream shattered at his feet; it was the cry of the strong, masterful spirit, furious. He turned upon Jennie, sobbing59, and snatched at her cake. Unaccustomed to such behaviour from hosts, and being besides a haughty60 put-you-in-your-place beauty of the future, Jennie defended her cake. After all, it was not she who had taken two slices at once. Cyril hit her in the eye, and then crammed61 most of the slice of cake into his enormous mouth. He could not swallow it, nor even masticate62 it, for his throat was rigid63 and tight. So the cake projected from his red lips, and big tears watered it. The most awful mess you can conceive! Jennie wept loudly, and one or two others joined her in sympathy, but the rest went on eating tranquilly64, unmoved by the horror which transfixed their elders.
A host to snatch food from a guest! A host to strike a guest! A gentleman to strike a lady!
Constance whipped up Cyril from his chair and flew with him to his own room (once Samuel's), where she smacked65 him on the arm and told him he was a very, very naughty boy and that she didn't know what his father would say. She took the food out of his disgusting mouth--or as much of it as she could get at--and then she left him, on the bed. Miss Jennie was still in tears when, blushing scarlet67 and trying to smile, Constance returned to the drawing- room. Jennie would not be appeased68. Happily Jennie's mother (being about to present Jennie with a little brother--she hoped) was not present. Miss Insull had promised to see Jennie home, and it was decided69 that she should go. Mr. Critchlow, in high sardonic70 spirits, said that he would go too; the three departed together, heavily charged with Constance's love and apologies. Then all pretended, and said loudly, that what had happened was naught66, that such things were always happening at children's parties. And visitors' relatives asseverated71 that Cyril was a perfect darling and that really Mrs. Povey must not ...
But the attempt to keep up appearance was a failure.
The Methuselah of visitors, a gaping72 girl of nearly eight years, walked across the room to where Constance was standing73, and said in a loud, confidential74, fatuous75 voice:
"Cyril HAS been a rude boy, hasn't he, Mrs. Povey?"
The clumsiness of children is sometimes tragic76.
Later, there was a trickling77 stream of fluffy bundles down the crooked78 stairs and through the parlour and so out into King Street. And Constance received many compliments and sundry79 appeals that darling Cyril should be forgiven.
"I thought you said that boy was in his bedroom," said Samuel to Constance, coming into the parlour when the last guest had gone. Each avoided the other's eyes.
"Yes, isn't he?"
"No."
"The little jockey!" ("Jockey," an essay in the playful, towards making light of the jockey's sin!) "I expect he's been in search of Amy."
She went to the top of the kitchen stairs and called out: "Amy, is Master Cyril down there?"
"Master Cyril? No, mum. But he was in the parlour a bit ago, after the first and second lot had gone. I told him to go upstairs and be a good boy."
Not for a few moments did the suspicion enter the minds of Samuel and Constance that Cyril might be missing, that the house might not contain Cyril. But having once entered, the suspicion became a certainty. Amy, cross-examined, burst into sudden tears, admitting that the side-door might have been open when, having sped 'the second lot,' she criminally left Cyril alone in the parlour in order to descend80 for an instant to her kitchen. Dusk was gathering81. Amy saw the defenceless innocent wandering about all night in the deserted82 streets of a great city. A similar vision with precise details of canals, tramcar-wheels, and cellar-flaps, disturbed Constance. Samuel said that anyhow he could not have got far, that some one was bound to remark and recognize him, and restore him. "Yes, of course," thought sensible Constance. "But supposing--"
They all three searched the entire house again. Then, in the drawing-room (which was in a sad condition of anticlimax) Amy exclaimed:
"Eh, master! There's town-crier crossing the Square. Hadn't ye better have him cried?"
"Run out and stop him," Constance commanded.
And Amy flew.
Samuel and the aged town-crier parleyed at the side door, the women in the background.
"I canna' cry him without my bell," drawled the crier, stroking his shabby uniform. "My bell's at wum (home). I mun go and fetch my bell. Yo' write it down on a bit o' paper for me so as I can read it, and I'll foot off for my bell. Folk wouldna' listen to me if I hadna' gotten my bell."
Thus was Cyril cried.
"Amy," said Constance, when she and the girl were alone, "there's no use in you standing blubbering there. Get to work and clear up that drawing-room, do! The child is sure to be found soon. Your master's gone out, too."
Brave words! Constance aided in the drawing-room and kitchen. Theirs was the woman's lot in a great crisis. Plates have always to be washed.
Very shortly afterwards, Samuel Povey came into the kitchen by the underground passage which led past the two cellars to the yard and to Brougham Street. He was carrying in his arms an obscene black mass. This mass was Cyril, once white.
Constance screamed. She was at liberty to give way to her feelings, because Amy happened to be upstairs.
"Stand away!" cried Mr. Povey. "He isn't fit to touch."
And Mr. Povey made as if to pass directly onward83, ignoring the mother.
"Wherever did you find him?"
"I found him in the far cellar," said Mr. Povey, compelled to stop, after all. "He was down there with me yesterday, and it just occurred to me that he might have gone there again."
"What! All in the dark?"
"He'd lighted a candle, if you please! I'd left a candle-stick and a box of matches handy because I hadn't finished that shelving."
"Well!" Constance murmured. "I can't think how ever he dared go there all alone!"
"Can't you?" said Mr. Povey, cynically84. "I can. He simply did it to frighten us."
"Oh, Cyril!" Constance admonished85 the child. "Cyril!"
The child showed no emotion. His face was an enigma86. It might have hidden sullenness87 or mere21 callous88 indifference89, or a perfect unconsciousness of sin.
"Give him to me," said Constance.
"I'll look after him this evening," said Samuel, grimly.
"But you can't wash him," said Constance, her relief yielding to apprehension90.
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Povey. And he moved off.
"But Sam--"
"I'll look after him, I tell you!" Mr. Povey repeated, threateningly.
"But what are you going to do?" Constance asked with fear.
"Well," said Mr. Povey, "has this sort of thing got to be dealt with, or hasn't it?" He departed upstairs.
Constance overtook him at the door of Cyril's bedroom.
Mr. Povey did not wait for her to speak. His eyes were blazing.
"See here!" he admonished her cruelly. "You get away downstairs, mother!"
And he disappeared into the bedroom with his vile91 and helpless victim.
A moment later he popped his head out of the door. Constance was disobeying him. He stepped into the passage and shut the door so that Cyril should not hear.
"Now please do as I tell you," he hissed92 at his wife. "Don't let's have a scene, please."
She descended93, slowly, weeping. And Mr. Povey retired94 again to the place of execution.
Amy nearly fell on the top of Constance with a final tray of things from the drawing-room. And Constance had to tell the girl that Cyril was found. Somehow she could not resist the instinct to tell her also that the master had the affair in hand. Amy then wept.
After about an hour Mr. Povey at last reappeared. Constance was trying to count silver teaspoons95 in the parlour.
"He's in bed now," said Mr. Povey, with a magnificent attempt to be nonchalant. "You mustn't go near him."
"But have you washed him?" Constance whimpered.
"I've washed him," replied the astonishing Mr. Povey.
"What have you done to him?"
"I've punished him, of course," said Mr. Povey, like a god who is above human weaknesses. "What did you expect me to do? Someone had to do it."
Constance wiped her eyes with the edge of the white apron96 which she was wearing over her new silk dress. She surrendered; she accepted the situation; she made the best of it. And all the evening was spent in dismally97 and horribly pretending that their hearts were beating as one. Mr. Povey's elaborate, cheery kindliness98 was extremely painful.
They went to bed, and in their bedroom Constance, as she stood close to Samuel, suddenly dropped the pretence99, and with eyes and voice of anguish100 said:
"You must let me look at him."
They faced each other. For a brief instant Cyril did not exist for Constance. Samuel alone obsessed101 her, and yet Samuel seemed a strange, unknown man. It was in Constance's life one of those crises when the human soul seems to be on the very brink102 of mysterious and disconcerting cognitions, and then, the wave recedes103 as inexplicably104 as it surged up.
"Why, of course!" said Mr. Povey, turning away lightly, as though to imply that she was making tragedies out of nothing.
She gave an involuntary gesture of almost childish relief.
Cyril slept calmly. It was a triumph for Mr. Povey.
Constance could not sleep. As she lay darkly awake by her husband, her secret being seemed to be a-quiver with emotion. Not exactly sorrow; not exactly joy; an emotion more elemental than these! A sensation of the intensity105 of her life in that hour; troubling, anxious, yet not sad! She said that Samuel was quite right, quite right. And then she said that the poor little thing wasn't yet five years old, and that it was monstrous106. The two had to be reconciled. And they never could be reconciled. Always she would be between them, to reconcile them, and to be crushed by their impact. Always she would have to bear the burden of both of them. There could be no ease for her, no surcease from a tremendous preoccupation and responsibility. She could not change Samuel; besides, he was right! And though Cyril was not yet five, she felt that she could not change Cyril either. He was just as unchangeable as a growing plant. The thought of her mother and Sophia did not present itself to her; she felt, however, somewhat as Mrs. Baines had felt on historic occasions; but, being more softly kind, younger, and less chafed107 by destiny, she was conscious of no bitterness, conscious rather of a solemn blessedness.
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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scintillant
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| adj.产生火花的，闪烁（耀）的 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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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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commonsense
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| adj.有常识的；明白事理的；注重实际的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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cipher
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| n.零；无影响力的人；密码 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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idiomatic
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| adj.成语的，符合语言习惯的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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flouting
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的现在分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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outskirts
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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fluffy
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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transpire
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| v.(使)蒸发，(使)排出 ；泄露，公开 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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53
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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58
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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59
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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62
masticate
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| v.咀嚼 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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asseverated
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| v.郑重声明，断言( asseverate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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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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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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80
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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81
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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82
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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85
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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86
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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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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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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93
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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95
teaspoons
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| n.茶匙( teaspoon的名词复数 )；一茶匙的量 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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97
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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98
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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99
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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100
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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101
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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102
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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103
recedes
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的第三人称单数 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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104
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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105
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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106
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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107
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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