Matthew Peel-Swynnerton sat in the long dining-room of the Pension Frensham, Rue1 Lord Byron, Paris; and he looked out of place there. It was an apartment about thirty feet in length, and of the width of two windows, which sufficiently2 lighted one half of a very long table with round ends. The gloom of the other extremity3 was illumined by a large mirror in a tarnished4 gilt5 frame, which filled a good portion of the wall opposite the windows. Near the mirror was a high folding-screen of four leaves, and behind this screen could be heard the sound of a door continually shutting and opening. In the long wall to the left of the windows were two doors, one dark and important, a door of state, through which a procession of hungry and a procession of sated solemn self- conscious persons passed twice daily, and the other, a smaller door, glazed7, its glass painted with wreaths of roses, not an original door of the house, but a late breach8 in the wall, that seemed to lead to the dangerous and to the naughty. The wall-paper and the window drapery were rich and forbidding, dark in hue9, mysterious of pattern. Over the state-door was a pair of antlers. And at intervals10, so high up as to defy inspection11, engravings and oil-paintings made oblong patches on the walls. They were hung from immense nails with porcelain13 heads, and they appeared to depict14 the more majestic15 aspect of man and nature. One engraving12, over the mantelpiece and nearer earth than the rest, unmistakably showed Louis Philippe and his family in attitudes of virtue16. Beneath this royal group, a vast gilt clock, flanked by pendants of the same period, gave the right time--a quarter past seven.
And down the room, filling it, ran the great white table, bordered with bowed heads and the backs of chairs. There were over thirty people at the table, and the peculiarly restrained noisiness of their knives and forks on the plates proved that they were a discreet17 and a correct people. Their clothes--blouses, bodices, and jackets--did not flatter the lust18 of the eye. Only two or three were in evening dress. They spoke19 little, and generally in a timorous20 tone, as though silence had been enjoined21. Somebody would half-whisper a remark, and then his neighbour, absently fingering her bread and lifting gaze from her plate into vacancy22, would conscientiously23 weigh the remark and half-whisper in reply: "I dare say." But a few spoke loudly and volubly, and were regarded by the rest, who envied them, as underbred.
Food was quite properly the chief preoccupation. The diners ate as those eat who are paying a fixed24 price per day for as much as they can consume while observing the rules of the game. Without moving their heads they glanced out of the corners of their eyes, watching the manoeuvres of the three starched25 maids who served. They had no conception of food save as portions laid out in rows on large silver dishes, and when a maid bent26 over them deferentially27, balancing the dish, they summed up the offering in an instant, and in an instant decided28 how much they could decently take, and to what extent they could practise the theoretic liberty of choice. And if the food for any reason did not tempt29 them, or if it egregiously30 failed to coincide with their aspirations31, they considered themselves aggrieved32. For, according to the game, they might not command; they had the right to seize all that was presented under their noses, like genteel tigers; and they had the right to refuse: that was all. The dinner was thus a series of emotional crises for the diners, who knew only that full dishes and clean plates came endlessly from the banging door behind the screen, and that ravaged33 dishes and dirty plates vanished endlessly through the same door. They were all eating similar food simultaneously35; they began together and they finished together. The flies that haunted the paper-bunches which hung from the chandeliers to the level of the flower-vases, were more free. The sole event that chequered the exact regularity36 of the repast was the occasional arrival of a wine-bottle for one of the guests. The receiver of the wine-bottle signed a small paper in exchange for it and wrote largely a number on the label of the bottle; then, staring at the number and fearing that after all it might be misread by a stupid maid or an unscrupulous compeer, he would re- write the number on another part of the label, even more largely.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton obviously did not belong to this world. He was a young man of twenty-five or so, not handsome, but elegant. Though he was not in evening dress, though he was, as a fact, in a very light grey suit, entirely37 improper38 to a dinner, he was elegant. The suit was admirably cut, and nearly new; but he wore it as though he had never worn anything else. Also his demeanour, reserved yet free from self-consciousness, his method of handling a knife and fork, the niceties of his manner in transferring food from the silver dishes to his plate, the tone in which he ordered half a bottle of wine--all these details infallibly indicated to the company that Matthew Peel-Swynnerton was their superior. Some folks hoped that he was the son of a lord, or even a lord. He happened to be fixed at the end of the table, with his back to the window, and there was a vacant chair on either side of him; this situation favoured the hope of his high rank. In truth, he was the son, the grandson, and several times the nephew, of earthenware39 manufacturers. He noticed that the large 'compote' (as it was called in his trade) which marked the centre of the table, was the production of his firm. This surprised him, for Peel, Swynnerton and Co., known and revered40 throughout the Five Towns as 'Peels,' did not cater41 for cheap markets. A late guest startled the room, a fat, flabby, middle-aged34 man whose nose would have roused the provisional hostility43 of those who have convinced themselves that Jews are not as other men. His nose did not definitely brand him as a usurer and a murderer of Christ, but it was suspicious. His clothes hung loose, and might have been anybody's clothes. He advanced with brisk assurance to the table, bowed, somewhat too effusively44, to several people, and sat down next to Peel- Swynnerton. One of the maids at once brought him a plate of soup, and he said: "Thank you, Marie," smiling at her. He was evidently a habitue of the house. His spectacled eyes beamed the superiority which comes of knowing girls by their names. He was seriously handicapped in the race for sustenance45, being two and a half courses behind, but he drew level with speed and then, having accomplished46 this, he sighed, and pointedly47 engaged Peel- Swynnerton with his sociable48 glance.
"Ah!" he breathed out. "Nuisance when you come in late, sir!"
Peel-Swynnerton gave a reluctant affirmative.
"Doesn't only upset you! It upsets the house! Servants don't like it!"
"No," murmured Peel-Swynnerton, "I suppose not."
"However, it's not often _I_'m late," said the man. "Can't help it sometimes. Business! Worst of these French business people is that they've no notion of time. Appointments ...! God bless my soul!"
"Do you come here often?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. He detested49 the fellow, quite inexcusably, perhaps because his serviette was tucked under his chin; but he saw that the fellow was one of your determined50 talkers, who always win in the end. Moreover, as being clearly not an ordinary tourist in Paris, the fellow mildly excited his curiosity.
"I live here," said the other. "Very convenient for a bachelor, you know. Have done for years. My office is just close by. You may know my name--Lewis Mardon."
Peel-Swynnerton hesitated. The hesitation51 convicted him of not 'knowing his Paris' well.
"House-agent," said Lewis Mardon, quickly.
"Oh yes," said Peel-Swynnerton, vaguely52 recalling a vision of the name among the advertisements on newspaper kiosks.
"I expect," Mr. Mardon went on, "my name is as well-known as anybody's in Paris."
"I suppose so," assented53 Peel-Swynnerton.
The conversation fell for a few moments.
"Staying here long?" Mr. Mardon demanded, having added up Peel- Swynnerton as a man of style and of means, and being puzzled by his presence at that table.
"I don't know," said Peel-Swynnerton.
This was a lie, justified54 in the utterer's opinion as a repulse55 to Mr. Mardon's vulgar inquisitiveness56, such inquisitiveness as might have been expected from a fellow who tucked his serviette under his chin. Peel-Swynnerton knew exactly how long he would stay. He would stay until the day after the morrow; he had only about fifty francs in his pocket. He had been making a fool of himself in another quarter of Paris, and he had descended57 to the Pension Frensham as a place where he could be absolutely sure of spending not more than twelve francs a day. Its reputation was high, and it was convenient for the Galliera Museum, where he was making some drawings which he had come to Paris expressly to make, and without which he could not reputably return to England. He was capable of foolishness, but he was also capable of wisdom, and scarcely any pressure of need would have induced him to write home for money to replace the money spent on making himself into a fool.
Mr. Mardon was conscious of a check. But, being of an accommodating disposition58, he at once tried another direction.
"Good food here, eh?" he suggested.
"Very," said Peel-Swynnerton, with sincerity59. "I was quite--"
At that moment, a tall straight woman of uncertain age pushed open the principal door and stood for an instant in the doorway60. Peel- Swynnerton had just time to notice that she was handsome and pale, and that her hair was black, and then she was gone again, followed by a clipped poodle that accompanied her. She had signed with a brief gesture to one of the servants, who at once set about lighting61 the gas-jets over the table.
"Who is that?" asked Peel-Swynnerton, without reflecting that it was now he who was making advances to the fellow whose napkin covered all his shirt-front.
"That's the missis, that is," said Mr. Mardon, in a lower and semi-confidential voice.
"Oh! Mrs. Frensham?"
"Yes. But her real name is Scales," said Mr. Mardon, proudly.
"Widow, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And she runs the whole show?"
"She runs the entire contraption," said Mr. Mardon, solemnly; "and don't you make any mistake!" He was getting familiar.
Peel-Swynnerton beat him off once more, glancing with careful, uninterested nonchalance62 at the gas-burners which exploded one after another with a little plop under the application of the maid's taper63. The white table gleamed more whitely than ever under the flaring64 gas. People at the end of the room away from the window instinctively65 smiled, as though the sun had begun to shine. The aspect of the dinner was changed, ameliorated; and with the reiterated66 statement that the evenings were drawing in though it was only July, conversation became almost general. In two minutes Mr. Mardon was genially67 talking across the whole length of the table. The meal finished in a state that resembled conviviality68.
Matthew Peel-Swynnerton might not go out into the crepuscular69 delights of Paris. Unless he remained within the shelter of the Pension, he could not hope to complete successfully his re- conversion70 from folly71 to wisdom. So he bravely passed through the small rose-embroidered door into a small glass-covered courtyard, furnished with palms, wicker armchairs, and two small tables; and he lighted a pipe and pulled out of his pocket a copy of The Referee72. That retreat was called the Lounge; it was the only part of the Pension where smoking was not either a positive crime or a transgression73 against good form. He felt lonely. He said to himself grimly in one breath that pleasure was all rot, and in the next he sullenly74 demanded of the universe how it was that pleasure could not go on for ever, and why he was not Mr. Barney Barnato. Two old men entered the retreat and burnt cigarettes with many precautions. Then Mr. Lewis Mardon appeared and sat down boldly next to Matthew, like a privileged friend. After all, Mr. Mardon was better than nobody whatever, and Matthew decided to suffer him, especially as he began without preliminary skirmishing to talk about life in Paris. An irresistible75 subject! Mr. Mardon said in a worldly tone that the existence of a bachelor in Paris might easily be made agreeable. But that, of course, for himself--well, he preferred, as a general rule, the Pension Frensham sort of thing; and it was excellent for his business. Still he could not ... he knew ... He compared the advantages of what he called 'knocking about' in Paris, with the equivalent in London. His information about London was out of date, and Peel-Swynnerton was able to set him right on important details. But his information about Paris was infinitely76 precious and interesting to the younger man,, who saw that he had hitherto lived under strange misconceptions.
"Have a whiskey?" asked Mr. Mardon, suddenly. "Very good here!" he added.
"Thanks!" drawled Peel-Swynnerton.
The temptation to listen to Mr. Mardon as long as Mr. Mardon would talk was not to be overcome. And presently, when the old men had departed, they were frankly77 telling each other stories in the dimness of the retreat. Then, when the supply of stories came to an end, Mr. Mardon smacked78 his lips over the last drop of whiskey and ejaculated: "Yes!" as if giving a general confirmation79 to all that had been said.
"Do have one with me," said Matthew, politely. It was the least he could do.
The second supply of whiskies was brought into the Lounge by Mr. Mardon's Marie. He smiled on her familiarly, and remarked that he supposed she would soon be going to bed after a hard day's work. She gave a moue and a flounce in reply, and swished out.
"Carries herself well, doesn't she?" observed Mr. Mardon, as though Marie had been an exhibit at an agricultural show. "Ten years ago she was very fresh and pretty, but of course it takes it out of 'em, a place like this!"
"But still," said Peel-Swynnerton, "they must like it or they wouldn't stay--that is, unless things are very different here from what they are in England."
The conversation seemed to have stimulated80 him to examine the woman question in all its bearings, with philosophic81 curiosity.
"Oh! They LIKE it," Mr. Mardon assured him, as one who knew. "Besides, Mrs. Scales treats 'em very well. I know THAT. She's told me. She's very particular"--he looked around to see if walls had ears--"and, by Jove, you've got to be; but she treats 'em well. You'd scarcely believe the wages they get, and pickings. Now at the Hotel Moscow--know the Hotel Moscow?"
Happily Peel-Swynnerton did. He had been advised to avoid it because it catered82 exclusively for English visitors, but in the Pension Frensham he had accepted something even more exclusively British than the Hotel Moscow. Mr. Mardon was quite relieved at his affirmative.
"The Hotel Moscow is a limited company now,' said he; "English."
"Really?"
"Yes. I floated it. It was my idea. A great success! That's how I know all about the Hotel Moscow." He looked at the walls again. "I wanted to do the same here," he murmured, and Peel-Swynnerton had to show that he appreciated this confidence. "But she never would agree. I've tried her all ways. No go! It's a thousand pities."
"Paying thing, eh?"
"This place? I should say it was! And I ought to be able to judge, I reckon. Mrs. Scales is one of the shrewdest women you'd meet in a day's march. She's made a lot of money here, a lot of money. And there's no reason why a place like this shouldn't be five times as big as it is. Ten times. The scope's unlimited83, my dear sir. All that's wanted is capital. Naturally she has capital of her own, and she could get more. But then, as she says, she doesn't want the place any bigger. She says it's now just as big as she can handle. That isn't so. She's a woman who could handle anything--a born manager--but even if it was so, all she would have to do would be to retire--only leave us the place and the name. It's the name that counts. And she's made the name of Frensham worth something, I can tell you!"
"Did she get the place from her husband?" asked Peel-Swynnerton. Her own name of Scales intrigued84 him.
Mr. Mardon shook his head. "Bought it on her own, after the husband's time, for a song--a song! I know, because I knew the original Frenshams."
"You must have been in Paris a long time," said Peel-Swynnerton.
Mr. Mardon could never resist an opportunity to talk about himself. His was a wonderful history. And Peel-Swynnerton, while scorning the man for his fatuity85, was impressed. And when that was finished--
"Yes!" said Mr. Mardon after a pause,, reaffirming everything in general by a single monosyllable.
Shortly afterwards he rose, saying that his habits were regular.
"Good-night,' he said with a mechanical smile.
"G-good-night," said Peel-Swynnerton, trying to force the tone of fellowship and not succeeding. Their intimacy86, which had sprung up like a mushroom, suddenly fell into dust. Peel-Swynnerton's unspoken comment to Mr. Mardon's back was: "Ass6!" Still, the sum of Peel-Swynnerton's knowledge had indubitably been increased during the evening. And the hour was yet early. Half-past ten! The Folies-Marigny, with its beautiful architecture and its crowds of white toilettes, and its frothing of champagne87 and of beer, and its musicians in tight red coats, was just beginning to be alive-- and at a distance of scarcely a stone's-throw! Peel-Swynnerton pictured the terraced, glittering hall, which had been the prime origin of his exceeding foolishness. And he pictured all the other resorts, great and small, garlanded with white lanterns, in the Champs Elysees; and the sombre aisles88 of the Champs Elysees where mysterious pale figures walked troublingly under the shade of trees, while snatches of wild song or absurd brassy music floated up from the resorts and restaurants. He wanted to go out and spend those fifty francs that remained in his pocket. After all, why not telegraph to England for more money? "Oh, damn it!" he said savagely89, and stretched his arms and got up. The Lounge was very small, gloomy and dreary90.
One brilliant incandescent91 light burned in the hall, crudely illuminating92 the wicker fauteuils, a corded trunk with a blue-and- red label on it, a Fitzroy barometer93, a map of Paris, a coloured poster of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and the mahogany retreat of the hall-portress. In that retreat was not only the hall- portress--an aged woman with a white cap above her wrinkled pink face--but the mistress of the establishment. They were murmuring together softly; they seemed to be well disposed to one another. The portress was respectful, but the mistress was respectful also. The hall, with its one light tranquilly94 burning, was bathed in an honest calm, the calm of a day's work accomplished, of gradual relaxation95 from tension, of growing expectation of repose96. In its simplicity97 it affected98 Peel-Swynnerton as a medicine tonic99 for nerves might have affected him. In that hall, though exterior100 nocturnal life was but just stirring into activity, it seemed that the middle of the night had come, and that these two women alone watched in a mansion101 full of sleepers102. And all the recitals103 which Peel-Swynnerton and Mr. Mardon had exchanged sank to the level of pitiably foolish gossip. Peel-Swynnerton felt that his duty to the house was to retire to bed. He felt, too, that he could not leave the house without saying that he was going out, and that he lacked the courage deliberately104 to tell these two women that he was going out--at that time of night! He dropped into one of the chairs and made a second attempt to peruse105 The Referee. Useless! Either his mind was outside in the Champs Elysees, or his gaze would wander surreptitiously to the figure of Mrs. Scales. He could not well distinguish her face because it was in the shadow of the mahogany.
Then the portress came forth106 from her box, and, slightly bent, sped actively107 across the hall, smiling pleasantly at the guest as she passed him, and disappeared up the stairs. The mistress was alone in the retreat. Peel-Swynnerton jumped up brusquely, dropping the paper with a rustle108, and approached her.
"Excuse me," he said deferentially. "Have any letters come for me to-night?"
He knew that the arrival of letters for him was impossible, since nobody knew his address.
"What name?" The question was coldly polite, and the questioner looked him full in the face. Undoubtedly109 she was a handsome woman. Her hair was greying at the temples, and the skin was withered110 and crossed with lines. But she was handsome. She was one of those women of whom to their last on earth the stranger will say: "When she was young she must have been worth looking at!"--with a little transient regret that beautiful young women cannot remain for ever young. Her voice was firm and even, sweet in tone, and yet morally harsh from incessant111 traffic--with all varieties of human nature. Her eyes were the impartial112 eyes of one who is always judging. And evidently she was a proud, even a haughty113 creature, with her careful, controlled politeness. Evidently she considered herself superior to no matter what guest. Her eyes announced that she had lived and learnt, that she knew more about life than any one whom she was likely to meet, and that having pre-eminently succeeded in life, she had tremendous confidence in herself. The proof of her success was the unique Frensham's. A consciousness of the uniqueness of Frensham's was also in those eyes. Theoretically Matthew Peel-Swynnerton's mental attitude towards lodging-house keepers was condescending114, but here it was not condescending. It had the real respectfulness of a man who for the moment at any rate is impressed beyond his calculations. His glance fell as he said--
"Peel-Swynnerton." Then he looked up again.
He said the words awkwardly, and rather fearfully, as if aware that he was playing with fire. If this Mrs. Scales was the long- vanished aunt of his friend, Cyril Povey, she must know those two names, locally so famous. Did she start? Did she show a sign of being perturbed115? At first he thought he detected a symptom of emotion, but in an instant he was sure that he had detected nothing of the sort, and that it was silly to suppose that he was treading on the edge of a romance. Then she turned towards the letter-rack at her side, and he saw her face in profile. It bore a sudden and astonishing likeness116 to the profile of Cyril Povey; a resemblance unmistakable and finally decisive. The nose, and the curve of the upper lip were absolutely Cyril's. Matthew Peel- Swynnerton felt very queer. He felt like a criminal in peril117 of being caught in the act, and he could not understand why he should feel so. The landlady118 looked in the 'P' pigeon-hole, and in the 'S' pigeon-hole.
"No," she said quietly, "I see nothing for you."
Taken with a swift rash audacity119, he said: "Have you had any one named Povey here recently?"
"Povey?"
"Yes. Cyril Povey, of Bursley--in the Five Towns."
He was very impressionable, very sensitive, was Matthew Peel- Swynnerton. His voice trembled as he spoke. But hers also trembled in reply.
"Not that I remember! No! Were you expecting him to be here?"
"Well, it wasn't at all sure," he muttered. "Thank you. Good- night."
"Good-night," she said, apparently120 with the simple perfunctoriness of the landlady who says good-night to dozens of strangers every evening.
He hurried away upstairs, and met the portress coming down. "Well, well!" he thought. "Of all the queer things--!" And he kept nodding his head. At last he had encountered something REALLY strange in the spectacle of existence. It had fallen to him to discover the legendary121 woman who had fled from Bursley before he was born, and of whom nobody knew anything. What news for Cyril! What a staggering episode! He had scarcely any sleep that night. He wondered whether he would be able to meet Mrs. Scales without self-consciousness on the morrow. However, he was spared the curious ordeal122 of meeting her. She did not appear at all on the following day; nor did he see her before he left. He could not find a pretext123 for asking why she was invisible.
收听单词发音 |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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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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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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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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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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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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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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egregiously
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| adv.过份地，卓越地 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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42
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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43
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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46
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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51
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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repulse
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| n.击退，拒绝；vt.逐退，击退，拒绝 | |
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inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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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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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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crepuscular
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| adj.晨曦的；黄昏的；昏暗的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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referee
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| n.裁判员．仲裁人，代表人，鉴定人 | |
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transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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81
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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82
catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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86
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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87
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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93
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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101
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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102
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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103
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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104
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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peruse
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| v.细读，精读 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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107
actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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108
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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109
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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110
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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111
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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112
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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113
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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114
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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115
perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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117
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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118
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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119
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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120
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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121
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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122
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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123
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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