This spirit has long rocked the colleges in America. It begins, as a rule, during the immaturities and facile impressions of freshman3 year--sometimes back in preparatory school. Prosperous apostles known for their emotional acting5 go the rounds of the universities and, by frightening the amiable6 sheep and dulling the quickening of interest and intellectual curiosity which is the purpose of all education, distil7 a mysterious conviction of sin, harking back to childhood crimes and to the ever-present menace of "women." To these lectures go the wicked youths to cheer and joke and the timid to swallow the tasty pills, which would be harmless if administered to farmers' wives and pious8 drug-clerks but are rather dangerous medicine for these "future leaders of men."
This octopus9 was strong enough to wind a sinuous10 tentacle11 about Richard Caramel. The year after his graduation it called him into the slums of New York to muck about with bewildered Italians as secretary to an "Alien Young Men's Rescue Association." He labored13 at it over a year before the monotony began to weary him. The aliens kept coming inexhaustibly--Italians, Poles, Scandinavians, Czechs, Armenians--with the same wrongs, the same exceptionally ugly faces and very much the same smells, though he fancied that these grew more profuse14 and diverse as the months passed. His eventual15 conclusions about the expediency16 of service were vague, but concerning his own relation to it they were abrupt17 and decisive. Any amiable young man, his head ringing with the latest crusade, could accomplish as much as he could with the débris of Europe--and it was time for him to write.
He had been living in a down-town Y.M.C.A., but when he quit the task of making sow-ear purses out of sows' ears, he moved up-town and went to work immediately as a reporter for The Sun. He kept at this for a year, doing desultory19 writing on the side, with little success, and then one day an infelicitous20 incident peremptorily21 closed his newspaper career. On a February afternoon he was assigned to report a parade of Squadron A. Snow threatening, he went to sleep instead before a hot fire, and when he woke up did a smooth column about the muffled22 beats of the horses' hoofs23 in the snow... This he handed in. Next morning a marked copy of the paper was sent down to the City Editor with a scrawled25 note: "Fire the man who wrote this." It seemed that Squadron A had also seen the snow threatening--had postponed26 the parade until another day.
A week later he had begun "The Demon27 Lover."...
In January, the Monday of the months, Richard Caramel's nose was blue constantly, a sardonic28 blue, vaguely29 suggestive of the flames licking around a sinner. His book was nearly ready, and as it grew in completeness it seemed to grow also in its demands, sapping him, overpowering him, until he walked haggard and conquered in its shadow. Not only to Anthony and Maury did he pour out his hopes and boasts and indecisions, but to any one who could be prevailed upon to listen. He called on polite but bewildered publishers, he discussed it with his casual vis-à-vis at the Harvard Club; it was even claimed by Anthony that he had been discovered, one Sunday night, debating the transposition of Chapter Two with a literary ticket-collector in the chill and dismal30 recesses31 of a Harlem subway station. And latest among his confidantes was Mrs. Gilbert, who sat with him by the hour and alternated between Bilphism and literature in an intense cross-fire.
"Shakespeare was a Bilphist," she assured him through a fixed32 smile. "Oh, yes! He was a Bilphist. It's been proved."
At this Dick would look a bit blank.
"If you've read 'Hamlet' you can't help but see."
"Well, he--he lived in a more credulous33 age--a more religious age."
But she demanded the whole loaf:
"Oh, yes, but you see Bilphism isn't a religion. It's the science of all religions." She smiled defiantly34 at him. This was the _bon mot_ of her belief. There was something in the arrangement of words which grasped her mind so definitely that the statement became superior to any obligation to define itself. It is not unlikely that she would have accepted any idea encased in this radiant formula--which was perhaps not a formula; it was the _reductio ad absurdum_ of all formulas.
Then eventually, but gorgeously, would come Dick's turn.
"You've heard of the new poetry movement. You haven't? Well, it's a lot of young poets that are breaking away from the old forms and doing a lot of good. Well, what I was going to say was that my book is going to start a new prose movement, a sort of renaissance35."
"I'm sure it will," beamed Mrs. Gilbert. "I'm _sure_ it will. I went to Jenny Martin last Tuesday, the palmist, you know, that every one's _mad_ about. I told her my nephew was engaged upon a work and she said she knew I'd be glad to hear that his success would be _extraordinary_. But she'd never seen you or known anything about you--not even your _name_."
Having made the proper noises to express his amazement36 at this astounding37 phenomenon, Dick waved her theme by him as though he were an arbitrary traffic policeman, and, so to speak, beckoned38 forward his own traffic.
"I'm absorbed, Aunt Catherine," he assured her, "I really am. All my friends are joshing me--oh, I see the humor in it and I don't care. I think a person ought to be able to take joshing. But I've got a sort of conviction," he concluded gloomily.
"You're an ancient soul, I always say."
"Maybe I am." Dick had reached the stage where he no longer fought, but submitted. He _must_ be an ancient soul, he fancied grotesquely39; so old as to be absolutely rotten. However, the reiteration40 of the phrase still somewhat embarrassed him and sent uncomfortable shivers up his back. He changed the subject.
"Where is my distinguished41 cousin Gloria?"
"She's on the go somewhere, with some one."
Dick paused, considered, and then, screwing up his face into what was evidently begun as a smile but ended as a terrifying frown, delivered a comment.
"I think my friend Anthony Patch is in love with her."
Mrs. Gilbert started, beamed half a second too late, and breathed her "Really?" in the tone of a detective play-whisper.
"I _think_ so," corrected Dick gravely. "She's the first girl I've ever seen him with, so much."
"Well, of course," said Mrs. Gilbert with meticulous42 carelessness, "Gloria never makes me her confidante. She's very secretive. Between you and me"--she bent43 forward cautiously, obviously determined44 that only Heaven and her nephew should share her confession--"between you and me, I'd like to see her settle down."
Dick arose and paced the floor earnestly, a small, active, already rotund young man, his hands thrust unnaturally45 into his bulging47 pockets.
"I'm not claiming I'm right, mind you," he assured the infinitely-of-the-hotel steel-engraving which smirked48 respectably back at him. "I'm saying nothing that I'd want Gloria to know. But I think Mad Anthony is interested--tremendously so. He talks about her constantly. In any one else that'd be a bad sign."
"Gloria is a very young soul--" began Mrs. Gilbert eagerly, but her nephew interrupted with a hurried sentence:
"Gloria'd be a very young nut not to marry him." He stopped and faced her, his expression a battle map of lines and dimples, squeezed and strained to its ultimate show of intensity49--this as if to make up by his sincerity50 for any indiscretion in his words. "Gloria's a wild one, Aunt Catherine. She's uncontrollable. How she's done it I don't know, but lately she's picked up a lot of the funniest friends. She doesn't seem to care. And the men she used to go with around New York were--" He paused for breath.
"Yes-yes-yes," interjected Mrs. Gilbert, with an anaemic attempt to hide the immense interest with which she listened.
"Well," continued Richard Caramel gravely, "there it is. I mean that the men she went with and the people she went with used to be first rate. Now they aren't."
Mrs. Gilbert blinked very fast--her bosom51 trembled, inflated52, remained so for an instant, and with the exhalation her words flowed out in a torrent53.
She knew, she cried in a whisper; oh, yes, mothers see these things. But what could she do? He knew Gloria. He'd seen enough of Gloria to know how hopeless it was to try to deal with her. Gloria had been so spoiled--in a rather complete and unusual way. She had been suckled until she was three, for instance, when she could probably have chewed sticks. Perhaps--one never knew--it was this that had given that health and _hardiness_ to her whole personality. And then ever since she was twelve years old she'd had boys about her so thick--oh, so thick one couldn't _move_. At sixteen she began going to dances at preparatory schools, and then came the colleges; and everywhere she went, boys, boys, boys. At first, oh, until she was eighteen there had been so many that it never seemed one any more than the others, but then she began to single them out.
She knew there had been a string of affairs spread over about three years, perhaps a dozen of them altogether. Sometimes the men were undergraduates, sometimes just out of college--they lasted on an average of several months each, with short attractions in between. Once or twice they had endured longer and her mother had hoped she would be engaged, but always a new one came--a new one--
The men? Oh, she made them miserable54, literally55! There was only one who had kept any sort of dignity, and he had been a mere56 child, young Carter Kirby, of Kansas City, who was so conceited57 anyway that he just sailed out on his vanity one afternoon and left for Europe next day with his father. The others had been--wretched. They never seemed to know when she was tired of them, and Gloria had seldom been deliberately58 unkind. They would keep phoning, writing letters to her, trying to see her, making long trips after her around the country. Some of them had confided59 in Mrs. Gilbert, told her with tears in their eyes that they would never get over Gloria ... at least two of them had since married, though.... But Gloria, it seemed, struck to kill--to this day Mr. Carstairs called up once a week, and sent her flowers which she no longer bothered to refuse.
Several times, twice, at least, Mrs. Gilbert knew it had gone as far as a private engagement--with Tudor Baird and that Holcome boy at Pasadena. She was sure it had, because--this must go no further--she had come in unexpectedly and found Gloria acting, well, very much engaged indeed. She had not spoken to her daughter, of course. She had had a certain sense of delicacy61 and, besides, each time she had expected an announcement in a few weeks. But the announcement never came; instead, a new man came.
Scenes! Young men walking up and down the library like caged tigers! Young men glaring at each other in the hall as one came and the other left! Young men calling up on the telephone and being hung up upon in desperation! Young men threatening South America! ... Young men writing the most pathetic letters! (She said nothing to this effect, but Dick fancied that Mrs. Gilbert's eyes had seen some of these letters.)
... And Gloria, between tears and laughter, sorry, glad, out of love and in love, miserable, nervous, cool, amidst a great returning of presents, substitution of pictures in immemorial frames, and taking of hot baths and beginning again--with the next.
That state of things continued, assumed an air of permanency. Nothing harmed Gloria or changed her or moved her. And then out of a clear sky one day she informed her mother that undergraduates wearied her. She was absolutely going to no more college dances.
This had begun the change--not so much in her actual habits, for she danced, and had as many "dates" as ever--but they were dates in a different spirit. Previously62 it had been a sort of pride, a matter of her own vainglory. She had been, probably, the most celebrated63 and sought-after young beauty in the country. Gloria Gilbert of Kansas City! She had fed on it ruthlessly--enjoying the crowds around her, the manner in which the most desirable men singled her out; enjoying the fierce jealousy64 of other girls; enjoying the fabulous65, not to say scandalous, and, her mother was glad to say, entirely66 unfounded rumors67 about her--for instance, that she had gone in the Yale swimming-pool one night in a chiffon evening dress.
And from loving it with a vanity that was almost masculine--it had been in the nature of a triumphant68 and dazzling career--she became suddenly anaesthetic to it. She retired69. She who had dominated countless70 parties, who had blown fragrantly71 through many ballrooms72 to the tender tribute of many eyes, seemed to care no longer. He who fell in love with her now was dismissed utterly73, almost angrily. She went listlessly with the most indifferent men. She continually broke engagements, not as in the past from a cool assurance that she was irreproachable74, that the man she insulted would return like a domestic animal--but indifferently, without contempt or pride. She rarely stormed at men any more--she yawned at them. She seemed--and it was so strange--she seemed to her mother to be growing cold.
Richard Caramel listened. At first he had remained standing75, but as his aunt's discourse76 waxed in content--it stands here pruned77 by half, of all side references to the youth of Gloria's soul and to Mrs. Gilbert's own mental distresses--he drew a chair up and attended rigorously as she floated, between tears and plaintive78 helplessness, down the long story of Gloria's life. When she came to the tale of this last year, a tale of the ends of cigarettes left all over New York in little trays marked "Midnight Frolic" and "Justine Johnson's Little Club," he began nodding his head slowly, then faster and faster, until, as she finished on a staccato note, it was bobbing briskly up and down, absurdly like a doll's wired head, expressing--almost anything.
In a sense Gloria's past was an old story to him. He had followed it with the eyes of a journalist, for he was going to write a book about her some day. But his interests, just at present, were family interests. He wanted to know, in particular, who was this Joseph Bloeckman that he had seen her with several times; and those two girls she was with constantly, "this" Rachael Jerryl and "this" Miss Kane--surely Miss Kane wasn't exactly the sort one would associate with Gloria!
But the moment had passed. Mrs. Gilbert having climbed the hill of exposition was about to glide79 swiftly down the ski-jump of collapse80. Her eyes were like a blue sky seen through two round, red window-casements. The flesh about her mouth was trembling.
And at the moment the door opened, admitting into the room Gloria and the two young ladies lately mentioned.
TWO YOUNG WOMEN
"Well!"
"How do you do, Mrs. Gilbert!"
Miss Kane and Miss Jerryl are presented to Mr. Richard Caramel. "This is Dick" (laughter).
"I've heard so much about you," says Miss Kane between a giggle82 and a shout.
"How do you do," says Miss Jerryl shyly.
Richard Caramel tries to move about as if his figure were better. He is torn between his innate83 cordiality and the fact that he considers these girls rather common--not at all the Farmover type.
Gloria has disappeared into the bedroom.
"Do sit down," beams Mrs. Gilbert, who is by now quite herself. "Take off your things." Dick is afraid she will make some remark about the age of his soul, but he forgets his qualms84 in completing a conscientious85, novelist's examination of the two young women.
Muriel Kane had originated in a rising family of East Orange. She was short rather than small, and hovered86 audaciously between plumpness and width. Her hair was black and elaborately arranged. This, in conjunction with her handsome, rather bovine87 eyes, and her over-red lips, combined to make her resemble Theda Bara, the prominent motion picture actress. People told her constantly that she was a "vampire," and she believed them. She suspected hopefully that they were afraid of her, and she did her utmost under all circumstances to give the impression of danger. An imaginative man could see the red flag that she constantly carried, waving it wildly, beseechingly--and, alas88, to little spectacular avail. She was also tremendously timely: she knew the latest songs, all the latest songs--when one of them was played on the phonograph she would rise to her feet and rock her shoulders back and forth89 and snap her fingers, and if there was no music she would accompany herself by humming.
Her conversation was also timely: "I don't care," she would say, "I should worry and lose my figure"--and again: "I can't make my feet behave when I hear that tune90. Oh, baby!"
Her finger-nails were too long and ornate, polished to a pink and unnatural46 fever. Her clothes were too tight, too stylish91, too vivid, her eyes too roguish, her smile too coy. She was almost pitifully overemphasized from head to foot.
The other girl was obviously a more subtle personality. She was an exquisitely92 dressed Jewess with dark hair and a lovely milky93 pallor. She seemed shy and vague, and these two qualities accentuated94 a rather delicate charm that floated about her. Her family were "Episcopalians," owned three smart women's shops along Fifth Avenue, and lived in a magnificent apartment on Riverside Drive. It seemed to Dick, after a few moments, that she was attempting to imitate Gloria--he wondered that people invariably chose inimitable people to imitate.
"We had the most _hectic_ time!" Muriel was exclaiming enthusiastically. "There was a crazy woman behind us on the bus. She was absitively, posolutely _nutty_! She kept talking to herself about something she'd like to do to somebody or something. I was _pet_rified, but Gloria simply _wouldn't_ get off."
Mrs. Gilbert opened her mouth, properly awed95.
"Really?"
"Oh, she was crazy. But we should worry, she didn't hurt us. Ugly! Gracious! The man across from us said her face ought to be on a night-nurse in a home for the blind, and we all _howled_, naturally, so the man tried to pick us up."
Presently Gloria emerged from her bedroom and in unison97 every eye turned on her. The two girls receded98 into a shadowy background, unperceived, unmissed.
"We've been talking about you," said Dick quickly, "--your mother and I."
"Well," said Gloria.
A pause--Muriel turned to Dick.
"You're a great writer, aren't you?"
"I'm a writer," he confessed sheepishly.
"I always say," said Muriel earnestly, "that if I ever had time to write down all my experiences it'd make a wonderful book."
Rachael giggled99 sympathetically; Richard Caramel's bow was almost stately. Muriel continued:
"But I don't see how you can sit down and do it. And poetry! Lordy, I can't make two lines rhyme. Well, I should worry!"
Richard Caramel with difficulty restrained a shout of laughter. Gloria was chewing an amazing gum-drop and staring moodily100 out the window. Mrs. Gilbert cleared her throat and beamed.
"But you see," she said in a sort of universal exposition, "you're not an ancient soul--like Richard."
The Ancient Soul breathed a gasp101 of relief--it was out at last.
Then as if she had been considering it for five minutes, Gloria made a sudden announcement:
"I'm going to give a party."
"Oh, can I come?" cried Muriel with facetious102 daring.
"A dinner. Seven people: Muriel and Rachael and I, and you, Dick, and Anthony, and that man named Noble--I liked him--and Bloeckman."
Muriel and Rachael went into soft and purring ecstasies103 of enthusiasm. Mrs. Gilbert blinked and beamed. With an air of casualness Dick broke in with a question:
"Who is this fellow Bloeckman, Gloria?"
Scenting104 a faint hostility105, Gloria turned to him.
"Joseph Bloeckman? He's the moving picture man. Vice-president of 'Films Par4 Excellence106.' He and father do a lot of business."
"Oh!"
"Well, will you all come?"
They would all come. A date was arranged within the week. Dick rose, adjusted hat, coat, and muffler, and gave out a general smile.
"By-by," said Muriel, waving her hand gaily107, "call me up some time."
Richard Caramel blushed for her.
DEPLORABLE END OF THE CHEVALIER O'KEEFE
It was Monday and Anthony took Geraldine Burke to luncheon108 at the Beaux Arts--afterward109 they went up to his apartment and he wheeled out the little rolling-table that held his supply of liquor, selecting vermouth, gin, and absinthe for a proper stimulant110.
Geraldine Burke, usher111 at Keith's, had been an amusement of several months. She demanded so little that he liked her, for since a lamentable112 affair with a débutante the preceding summer, when he had discovered that after half a dozen kisses a proposal was expected, he had been wary113 of girls of his own class. It was only too easy to turn a critical eye on their imperfections: some physical harshness or a general lack of personal delicacy--but a girl who was usher at Keith's was approached with a different attitude. One could tolerate qualities in an intimate valet that would be unforgivable in a mere acquaintance on one's social level.
Geraldine, curled up at the foot of the lounge, considered him with narrow slanting114 eyes.
"You drink all the time, don't you?" she said suddenly.
"Why, I suppose so," replied Anthony in some surprise. "Don't you?"
"Nope. I go on parties sometimes--you know, about once a week, but I only take two or three drinks. You and your friends keep on drinking all the time. I should think you'd ruin your health."
Anthony was somewhat touched.
"Why, aren't you sweet to worry about me!"
"Well, I do."
"I don't drink so very much," he declared. "Last month I didn't touch a drop for three weeks. And I only get really tight about once a week."
"But you have something to drink every day and you're only twenty-five. Haven't you any ambition? Think what you'll be at forty?"
"I sincerely trust that I won't live that long."
She clicked her tongue with her teeth.
"You cra-azy!" she said as he mixed another cocktail115--and then: "Are you any relation to Adam Patch?"
"Yes, he's my grandfather."
"Really?" She was obviously thrilled.
"Absolutely."
"That's funny. My daddy used to work for him."
"He's a queer old man."
"Is he nice?" she demanded.
"Well, in private life he's seldom unnecessarily disagreeable."
"Tell us about him."
"Why," Anthony considered "--he's all shrunken up and he's got the remains116 of some gray hair that always looks as though the wind were in it. He's very moral."
"He's done a lot of good," said Geraldine with intense gravity.
"Rot!" scoffed117 Anthony. "He's a pious ass12--a chickenbrain."
Her mind left the subject and flitted on.
"Why don't you live with him?"
"Why don't I board in a Methodist parsonage?"
"You cra-azy!"
Again she made a little clicking sound to express disapproval118. Anthony thought how moral was this little waif at heart--how completely moral she would still be after the inevitable119 wave came that would wash her off the sands of respectability.
"Do you hate him?"
"I wonder. I never liked him. You never like people who do things for you."
"Does he hate you?"
"My dear Geraldine," protested Anthony, frowning humorously, "do have another cocktail. I annoy him. If I smoke a cigarette he comes into the room sniffing120. He's a prig, a bore, and something of a hypocrite. I probably wouldn't be telling you this if I hadn't had a few drinks, but I don't suppose it matters."
Geraldine was persistently121 interested. She held her glass, untasted, between finger and thumb and regarded him with eyes in which there was a touch of awe96.
"How do you mean a hypocrite?"
"Well," said Anthony impatiently, "maybe he's not. But he doesn't like the things that I like, and so, as far as I'm concerned, he's uninteresting."
"Hm." Her curiosity seemed, at length, satisfied. She sank back into the sofa and sipped122 her cocktail.
"You're a funny one," she commented thoughtfully. "Does everybody want to marry you because your grandfather is rich?"
"They don't--but I shouldn't blame them if they did. Still, you see, I never intend to marry."
She scorned this.
"You'll fall in love someday. Oh, you will--I know." She nodded wisely.
"It'd be idiotic123 to be overconfident. That's what ruined the Chevalier O'Keefe."
"Who was he?"
"A creature of my splendid mind. He's my one creation, the Chevalier."
"Cra-a-azy!" she murmured pleasantly, using the clumsy rope ladder with which she bridged all gaps and climbed after her mental superiors. Subconsciously125 she felt that it eliminated distances and brought the person whose imagination had eluded126 her back within range.
"Oh, no!" objected Anthony, "oh, no, Geraldine. You mustn't play the alienist upon the Chevalier. If you feel yourself unable to understand him I won't bring him in. Besides, I should feel a certain uneasiness because of his regrettable reputation."
"I guess I can understand anything that's got any sense to it," answered Geraldine a bit testily127.
"In that case there are various episodes in the life of the Chevalier which might prove diverting."
"Well?"
"It was his untimely end that caused me to think of him and made him apropos128 in the conversation. I hate to introduce him end foremost, but it seems inevitable that the Chevalier must back into your life."
"Well, what about him? Did he die?"
"He did! In this manner. He was an Irishman, Geraldine, a semi-fictional Irishman--the wild sort with a genteel brogue and 'reddish hair.' He was exiled from Erin in the late days of chivalry129 and, of course, crossed over to France. Now the Chevalier O'Keefe, Geraldine, had, like me, one weakness. He was enormously susceptible130 to all sorts and conditions of women. Besides being a sentimentalist he was a romantic, a vain fellow, a man of wild passions, a little blind in one eye and almost stone-blind in the other. Now a male roaming the world in this condition is as helpless as a lion without teeth, and in consequence the Chevalier was made utterly miserable for twenty years by a series of women who hated him, used him, bored him, aggravated131 him, sickened him, spent his money, made a fool of him--in brief, as the world has it, loved him.
"This was bad, Geraldine, and as the Chevalier, save for this one weakness, this exceeding susceptibility, was a man of penetration132, he decided133 that he would rescue himself once and for all from these drains upon him. With this purpose he went to a very famous monastery134 in Champagne135 called--well, anachronistically known as St. Voltaire's. It was the rule at St. Voltaire's that no monk136 could descend137 to the ground story of the monastery so long as he lived, but should exist engaged in prayer and contemplation in one of the four towers, which were called after the four commandments of the monastery rule: Poverty, Chastity, Obedience138, and Silence.
"When the day came that was to witness the Chevalier's farewell to the world he was utterly happy. He gave all his Greek books to his landlady139, and his sword he sent in a golden sheath to the King of France, and all his mementos140 of Ireland he gave to the young Huguenot who sold fish in the street where he lived.
"Then he rode out to St. Voltaire's, slew141 his horse at the door, and presented the carcass to the monastery cook.
"At five o'clock that night he felt, for the first time, free--forever free from sex. No woman could enter the monastery; no monk could descend below the second story. So as he climbed the winding142 stair that led to his cell at the very top of the Tower of Chastity he paused for a moment by an open window which looked down fifty feet on to a road below. It was all so beautiful, he thought, this world that he was leaving, the golden shower of sun beating down upon the long fields, the spray of trees in the distance, the vineyards, quiet and green, freshening wide miles before him. He leaned his elbows on the window casement81 and gazed at the winding road.
"Now, as it happened, Thérèse, a peasant girl of sixteen from a neighboring village, was at that moment passing along this same road that ran in front of the monastery. Five minutes before, the little piece of ribbon which held up the stocking on her pretty left leg had worn through and broken. Being a girl of rare modesty143 she had thought to wait until she arrived home before repairing it, but it had bothered her to such an extent that she felt she could endure it no longer. So, as she passed the Tower of Chastity, she stopped and with a pretty gesture lifted her skirt--as little as possible, be it said to her credit--to adjust her garter.
"Up in the tower the newest arrival in the ancient monastery of St. Voltaire, as though pulled forward by a gigantic and irresistible144 hand, leaned from the window. Further he leaned and further until suddenly one of the stones loosened under his weight, broke from its cement with a soft powdery sound--and, first headlong, then head over heels, finally in a vast and impressive revolution tumbled the Chevalier O'Keefe, bound for the hard earth and eternal damnation.
"Thérèse was so much upset by the occurrence that she ran all the way home and for ten years spent an hour a day in secret prayer for the soul of the monk whose neck and vows145 were simultaneously146 broken on that unfortunate Sunday afternoon.
"And the Chevalier O'Keefe, being suspected of suicide, was not buried in consecrated147 ground, but tumbled into a field near by, where he doubtless improved the quality of the soil for many years afterward. Such was the untimely end of a very brave and gallant148 gentleman. What do you think, Geraldine?"
But Geraldine, lost long before, could only smile roguishly, wave her first finger at him, and repeat her bridge-all, her explain-all:
"Crazy!" she said, "you cra-a-azy!"
His thin face was kindly149, she thought, and his eyes quite gentle. She liked him because he was arrogant150 without being conceited, and because, unlike the men she met about the theatre, he had a horror of being conspicuous151. What an odd, pointless story! But she had enjoyed the part about the stocking!
After the fifth cocktail he kissed her, and between laughter and bantering152 caresses154 and a half-stifled flare155 of passion they passed an hour. At four-thirty she claimed an engagement, and going into the bathroom she rearranged her hair. Refusing to let him order her a taxi she stood for a moment in the doorway156.
"You _will_ get married," she was insisting, "you wait and see."
Anthony was playing with an ancient tennis ball, and he bounced it carefully on the floor several times before he answered with a soup?on of acidity157:
"You're a little idiot, Geraldine."
She smiled provokingly.
"Oh, I am, am I? Want to bet?"
"That'd be silly too."
"Oh, it would, would it? Well, I'll just bet you'll marry somebody inside of a year."
Anthony bounced the tennis ball very hard. This was one of his handsome days, she thought; a sort of intensity had displaced the melancholy158 in his dark eyes.
"Geraldine," he said, at length, "in the first place I have no one I want to marry; in the second place I haven't enough money to support two people; in the third place I am entirely opposed to marriage for people of my type; in the fourth place I have a strong distaste for even the abstract consideration of it."
But Geraldine only narrowed her eyes knowingly, made her clicking sound, and said she must be going. It was late.
"Call me up soon," she reminded him as he kissed her goodbye, "you haven't for three weeks, you know."
"I will," he promised fervently159.
He shut the door and coming back into the room stood for a moment lost in thought with the tennis ball still clasped in his hand. There was one of his lonelinesses coming, one of those times when he walked the streets or sat, aimless and depressed160, biting a pencil at his desk. It was a self-absorption with no comfort, a demand for expression with no outlet161, a sense of time rushing by, ceaselessly and wastefully--assuaged only by that conviction that there was nothing to waste, because all efforts and attainments162 were equally valueless.
He thought with emotion--aloud, ejaculative, for he was hurt and confused.
"No _idea_ of getting married, by _God_!"
Of a sudden he hurled163 the tennis ball violently across the room, where it barely missed the lamp, and, rebounding164 here and there for a moment, lay still upon the floor.
SIGNLIGHT AND MOONLIGHT
For her dinner Gloria had taken a table in the Cascades165 at the Biltmore, and when the men met in the hall outside a little after eight, "that person Bloeckman" was the target of six masculine eyes. He was a stoutening, ruddy Jew of about thirty-five, with an expressive167 face under smooth sandy hair--and, no doubt, in most business gatherings168 his personality would have been considered ingratiating. He sauntered up to the three younger men, who stood in a group smoking as they waited for their hostess, and introduced himself with a little too evident assurance--nevertheless it is to be doubted whether he received the intended impression of faint and ironic170 chill: there was no hint of understanding in his manner.
"You related to Adam J. Patch?" he inquired of Anthony, emitting two slender strings171 of smoke from nostrils172 overwide.
Anthony admitted it with the ghost of a smile.
"He's a fine man," pronounced Bloeckman profoundly. "He's a fine example of an American."
"Yes," agreed Anthony, "he certainly is."
--I detest173 these underdone men, he thought coldly. Boiled looking! Ought to be shoved back in the oven; just one more minute would do it.
Bloeckman squinted174 at his watch.
"Time these girls were showing up ..."
--Anthony waited breathlessly; it came--
"... but then," with a widening smile, "you know how women are."
The three young men nodded; Bloeckman looked casually175 about him, his eyes resting critically on the ceiling and then passing lower. His expression combined that of a Middle Western farmer appraising176 his wheat crop and that of an actor wondering whether he is observed--the public manner of all good Americans. As he finished his survey he turned back quickly to the reticent177 trio, determined to strike to their very heart and core.
"You college men? ... Harvard, eh. I see the Princeton boys beat you fellows in hockey."
Unfortunate man. He had drawn178 another blank. They had been three years out and heeded179 only the big football games. Whether, after the failure of this sally, Mr. Bloeckman would have perceived himself to be in a cynical181 atmosphere is problematical, for--
Gloria arrived. Muriel arrived. Rachael arrived. After a hurried "Hello, people!" uttered by Gloria and echoed by the other two, the three swept by into the dressing182 room.
A moment later Muriel appeared in a state of elaborate undress and _crept_ toward them. She was in her element: her ebony hair was slicked straight back on her head; her eyes were artificially darkened; she reeked183 of insistent184 perfume. She was got up to the best of her ability as a siren, more popularly a "vamp"--a picker up and thrower away of men, an unscrupulous and fundamentally unmoved toyer with affections. Something in the exhaustiveness of her attempt fascinated Maury at first sight--a woman with wide hips185 affecting a panther-like litheness186! As they waited the extra three minutes for Gloria, and, by polite assumption, for Rachael, he was unable to take his eyes from her. She would turn her head away, lowering her eyelashes and biting her nether188 lip in an amazing exhibition of coyness. She would rest her hands on her hips and sway from side to side in tune to the music, saying:
"Did you ever hear such perfect ragtime189? I just can't make my shoulders behave when I hear that."
Mr. Bloeckman clapped his hands gallantly190.
"You ought to be on the stage."
"I'd like to be!" cried Muriel; "will you back me?"
"I sure will."
With becoming modesty Muriel ceased her motions and turned to Maury, asking what he had "seen" this year. He interpreted this as referring to the dramatic world, and they had a gay and exhilarating exchange of titles, after this manner:
MURIEL: Have you seen "Peg191 o' My Heart"?
MAURY: No, I haven't.
MURIEL: (_Eagerly_) It's wonderful! You want to see it.
MAURY: Have you seen "Omar, the Tentmaker"?
MURIEL: No, but I hear it's wonderful. I'm very anxious to see it. Have you seen "Fair and Warmer"?
MAURY: (_Hopefully_) Yes.
MURIEL: I don't think it's very good. It's trashy.
MAURY: (_Faintly_) Yes, that's true.
MURIEL: But I went to "Within the Law" last night and I thought it was fine. Have you seen "The Little Cafe"?...
This continued until they ran out of plays. Dick, meanwhile, turned to Mr. Bloeckman, determined to extract what gold he could from this unpromising load.
"I hear all the new novels are sold to the moving pictures as soon as they come out."
"That's true. Of course the main thing in a moving picture is a strong story."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"So many novels are all full of talk and psychology193. Of course those aren't as valuable to us. It's impossible to make much of that interesting on the screen."
"You want plots first," said Richard brilliantly.
"Of course. Plots first--" He paused, shifted his gaze. His pause spread, included the others with all the authority of a warning finger. Gloria followed by Rachael was coming out of the dressing room.
Among other things it developed during dinner that Joseph Bloeckman never danced, but spent the music time watching the others with the bored tolerance194 of an elder among children. He was a dignified195 man and a proud one. Born in Munich he had begun his American career as a peanut vender196 with a travelling circus. At eighteen he was a side show ballyhoo; later, the manager of the side show, and, soon after, the proprietor197 of a second-class vaudeville198 house. Just when the moving picture had passed out of the stage of a curiosity and become a promising192 industry he was an ambitious young man of twenty-six with some money to invest, nagging199 financial ambitions and a good working knowledge of the popular show business. That had been nine years before. The moving picture industry had borne him up with it where it threw off dozens of men with more financial ability, more imagination, and more practical ideas...and now he sat here and contemplated200 the immortal201 Gloria for whom young Stuart Holcome had gone from New York to Pasadena--watched her, and knew that presently she would cease dancing and come back to sit on his left hand.
He hoped she would hurry. The oysters202 had been standing some minutes.
Meanwhile Anthony, who had been placed on Gloria's left hand, was dancing with her, always in a certain fourth of the floor. This, had there been stags, would have been a delicate tribute to the girl, meaning "Damn you, don't cut in!" It was very consciously intimate.
"Well," he began, looking down at her, "you look mighty204 sweet to-night."
She met his eyes over the horizontal half foot that separated them.
"Thank you--Anthony."
"In fact you're uncomfortably beautiful," he added. There was no smile this time.
"And you're very charming."
"Isn't this nice?" he laughed. "We actually approve of each other."
"Don't you, usually?" She had caught quickly at his remark, as she always did at any unexplained allusion205 to herself, however faint.
He lowered his voice, and when he spoke60 there was in it no more than a wisp of badinage206.
"Does a priest approve the Pope?"
"I don't know--but that's probably the vaguest compliment I ever received."
"Perhaps I can muster207 a few bromides."
"Well, I wouldn't have you strain yourself. Look at Muriel! Right here next to us."
He glanced over his shoulder. Muriel was resting her brilliant cheek against the lapel of Maury Noble's dinner coat and her powdered left arm was apparently208 twisted around his head. One was impelled209 to wonder why she failed to seize the nape of his neck with her hand. Her eyes, turned ceiling-ward, rolled largely back and forth; her hips swayed, and as she danced she kept up a constant low singing. This at first seemed to be a translation of the song into some foreign tongue but became eventually apparent as an attempt to fill out the metre of the song with the only words she knew--the words of the title--
"He's a rag-picker, A rag-picker; A rag-time picking man, Rag-picking, picking, pick, pick, Rag-pick, pick, pick."
--and so on, into phrases still more strange and barbaric. When she caught the amused glances of Anthony and Gloria she acknowledged them only with a faint smile and a half-closing of her eyes, to indicate that the music entering into her soul had put her into an ecstatic and exceedingly seductive trance.
The music ended and they returned to their table, whose solitary210 but dignified occupant arose and tendered each of them a smile so ingratiating that it was as if he were shaking their hands and congratulating them on a brilliant performance.
"Blockhead never will dance! I think he has a wooden leg," remarked Gloria to the table at large. The three young men started and the gentleman referred to winced212 perceptibly.
This was the one rough spot in the course of Bloeckman's acquaintance with Gloria. She relentlessly214 punned on his name. First it had been "Block-house." lately, the more invidious "Blockhead." He had requested with a strong undertone of irony215 that she use his first name, and this she had done obediently several times--then slipping, helpless, repentant216 but dissolved in laughter, back into "Blockhead."
It was a very sad and thoughtless thing.
"I'm afraid Mr. Bloeckman thinks we're a frivolous217 crowd," sighed Muriel, waving a balanced oyster203 in his direction.
"He has that air," murmured Rachael. Anthony tried to remember whether she had said anything before. He thought not. It was her initial remark.
Mr. Bloeckman suddenly cleared his throat and said in a loud, distinct voice:
"On the contrary. When a man speaks he's merely tradition. He has at best a few thousand years back of him. But woman, why, she is the miraculous218 mouthpiece of posterity219."
In the stunned220 pause that followed this astounding remark, Anthony choked suddenly on an oyster and hurried his napkin to his face. Rachael and Muriel raised a mild if somewhat surprised laugh, in which Dick and Maury joined, both of them red in the face and restraining uproariousness with the most apparent difficulty.
"--My God!" thought Anthony. "It's a subtitle221 from one of his movies. The man's memorized it!"
Gloria alone made no sound. She fixed Mr. Bloeckman with a glance of silent reproach.
"Well, for the love of Heaven! Where on earth did you dig that up?"
Bloeckman looked at her uncertainly, not sure of her intention. But in a moment he recovered his poise222 and assumed the bland223 and consciously tolerant smile of an intellectual among spoiled and callow youth.
The soup came up from the kitchen--but simultaneously the orchestra leader came up from the bar, where he had absorbed the tone color inherent in a seidel of beer. So the soup was left to cool during the delivery of a ballad224 entitled "Everything's at Home Except Your Wife."
Then the champagne--and the party assumed more amusing proportions. The men, except Richard Caramel, drank freely; Gloria and Muriel sipped a glass apiece; Rachael Jerryl took none. They sat out the waltzes but danced to everything else--all except Gloria, who seemed to tire after a while and preferred to sit smoking at the table, her eyes now lazy, now eager, according to whether she listened to Bloeckman or watched a pretty woman among the dancers. Several times Anthony wondered what Bloeckman was telling her. He was chewing a cigar back and forth in his mouth, and had expanded after dinner to the extent of violent gestures.
Ten o'clock found Gloria and Anthony beginning a dance. Just as they were out of ear-shot of the table she said in a low voice:
"Dance over by the door. I want to go down to the drug-store."
Obediently Anthony guided her through the crowd in the designated direction; in the hall she left him for a moment, to reappear with a cloak over her arm.
"I want some gum-drops," she said, humorously apologetic; "you can't guess what for this time. It's just that I want to bite my finger-nails, and I will if I don't get some gum-drops." She sighed, and resumed as they stepped into the empty elevator: "I've been biting 'em all day. A bit nervous, you see. Excuse the pun. It was unintentional--the words just arranged themselves. Gloria Gilbert, the female wag."
Reaching the ground floor they na?vely avoided the hotel candy counter, descended226 the wide front staircase, and walking through several corridors found a drug-store in the Grand Central Station. After an intense examination of the perfume counter she made her purchase. Then on some mutual227 unmentioned impulse they strolled, arm in arm, not in the direction from which they had come, but out into Forty-third Street.
The night was alive with thaw228; it was so nearly warm that a breeze drifting low along the sidewalk brought to Anthony a vision of an unhoped-for hyacinthine spring. Above in the blue oblong of sky, around them in the caress153 of the drifting air, the illusion of a new season carried relief from the stiff and breathed-over atmosphere they had left, and for a hushed moment the traffic sounds and the murmur124 of water flowing in the gutters229 seemed an illusive230 and rarefied prolongation of that music to which they had lately danced. When Anthony spoke it was with surety that his words came from something breathless and desirous that the night had conceived in their two hearts.
"Let's take a taxi and ride around a bit!" he suggested, without looking at her.
Oh, Gloria, Gloria!
A cab yawned at the curb231. As it moved off like a boat on a labyrinthine232 ocean and lost itself among the inchoate233 night masses of the great buildings, among the now stilled, now strident, cries and clangings, Anthony put his arm around the girl, drew her over to him and kissed her damp, childish mouth.
She was silent. She turned her face up to him, pale under the wisps and patches of light that trailed in like moonshine through a foliage234. Her eyes were gleaming ripples235 in the white lake of her face; the shadows of her hair bordered the brow with a persuasive236 unintimate dusk. No love was there, surely; nor the imprint237 of any love. Her beauty was cool as this damp breeze, as the moist softness of her own lips.
"You're such a swan in this light," he whispered after a moment. There were silences as murmurous238 as sound. There were pauses that seemed about to shatter and were only to be snatched back to oblivion by the tightening239 of his arms about her and the sense that she was resting there as a caught, gossamer240 feather, drifted in out of the dark. Anthony laughed, noiselessly and exultantly241, turning his face up and away from her, half in an overpowering rush of triumph, half lest her sight of him should spoil the splendid immobility of her expression. Such a kiss--it was a flower held against the face, never to be described, scarcely to be remembered; as though her beauty were giving off emanations of itself which settled transiently and already dissolving upon his heart.
... The buildings fell away in melted shadows; this was the Park now, and after a long while the great white ghost of the Metropolitan242 Museum moved majestically243 past, echoing sonorously244 to the rush of the cab.
"Why, Gloria! Why, Gloria!"
Her eyes appeared to regard him out of many thousand years: all emotion she might have felt, all words she might have uttered, would have seemed inadequate245 beside the adequacy of her silence, ineloquent against the eloquence246 of her beauty--and of her body, close to him, slender and cool.
"Tell him to turn around," she murmured, "and drive pretty fast going back...."
Up in the supper room the air was hot. The table, littered with napkins and ash-trays, was old and stale. It was between dances as they entered, and Muriel Kane looked up with roguishness extraordinary.
"Well, where have _you_ been?"
"To call up mother," answered Gloria coolly. "I promised her I would. Did we miss a dance?"
Then followed an incident that though slight in itself Anthony had cause to reflect on many years afterward. Joseph Bloeckman, leaning well back in his chair, fixed him with a peculiar247 glance, in which several emotions were curiously248 and inextricably mingled249. He did not greet Gloria except by rising, and he immediately resumed a conversation with Richard Caramel about the influence of literature on the moving pictures.
MAGIC
The stark250 and unexpected miracle of a night fades out with the lingering death of the last stars and the premature251 birth of the first newsboys. The flame retreats to some remote and platonic252 fire; the white heat has gone from the iron and the glow from the coal.
Along the shelves of Anthony's library, filling a wall amply, crept a chill and insolent253 pencil of sunlight touching254 with frigid255 disapproval Thérèse of France and Ann the Superwoman, Jenny of the Orient Ballet and Zuleika the Conjurer--and Hoosier Cora--then down a shelf and into the years, resting pityingly on the over-invoked shades of Helen, Tha?s, Salome, and Cleopatra.
Anthony, shaved and bathed, sat in his most deeply cushioned chair and watched it until at the steady rising of the sun it lay glinting for a moment on the silk ends of the rug--and went out.
It was ten o'clock. The Sunday Times, scattered256 about his feet, proclaimed by rotogravure and editorial, by social revelation and sporting sheet, that the world had been tremendously engrossed257 during the past week in the business of moving toward some splendid if somewhat indeterminate goal. For his part Anthony had been once to his grandfather's, twice to his broker's, and three times to his tailor's--and in the last hour of the week's last day he had kissed a very beautiful and charming girl.
When he reached home his imagination had been teeming258 with high pitched, unfamiliar259 dreams. There was suddenly no question on his mind, no eternal problem for a solution and resolution. He had experienced an emotion that was neither mental nor physical, nor merely a mixture of the two, and the love of life absorbed him for the present to the exclusion260 of all else. He was content to let the experiment remain isolated261 and unique. Almost impersonally262 he was convinced that no woman he had ever met compared in any way with Gloria. She was deeply herself; she was immeasurably sincere--of these things he was certain. Beside her the two dozen schoolgirls and debutantes263, young married women and waifs and strays whom he had known were so many females, in the word's most contemptuous sense, breeders and bearers, exuding264 still that faintly odorous atmosphere of the cave and the nursery.
So far as he could see, she had neither submitted to any will of his nor caressed265 his vanity--except as her pleasure in his company was a caress. Indeed he had no reason for thinking she had given him aught that she did not give to others. This was as it should be. The idea of an entanglement266 growing out of the evening was as remote as it would have been repugnant. And she had disclaimed267 and buried the incident with a decisive untruth. Here were two young people with fancy enough to distinguish a game from its reality--who by the very casualness with which they met and passed on would proclaim themselves unharmed.
Having decided this he went to the phone and called up the Plaza268 Hotel.
Gloria was out. Her mother knew neither where she had gone nor when she would return.
It was somehow at this point that the first wrongness in the case asserted itself. There was an element of callousness269, almost of indecency, in Gloria's absence from home. He suspected that by going out she had intrigued270 him into a disadvantage. Returning she would find his name, and smile. Most discreetly272! He should have waited a few hours in order to drive home the utter inconsequence with which he regarded the incident. What an asinine273 blunder! She would think he considered himself particularly favored. She would think he was reacting with the most inept274 intimacy275 to a quite trivial episode.
He remembered that during the previous month his janitor276, to whom he had delivered a rather muddled277 lecture on the "brother-hoove man," had come up next day and, on the basis of what had happened the night before, seated himself in the window seat for a cordial and chatty half-hour. Anthony wondered in horror if Gloria would regard him as he had regarded that man. Him--Anthony Patch! Horror!
It never occurred to him that he was a passive thing, acted upon by an influence above and beyond Gloria, that he was merely the sensitive plate on which the photograph was made. Some gargantuan278 photographer had focussed the camera on Gloria and _snap_!--the poor plate could but develop, confined like all things to its nature.
But Anthony, lying upon his couch and staring at the orange lamp, passed his thin fingers incessantly279 through his dark hair and made new symbols for the hours. She was in a shop now, it seemed, moving lithely280 among the velvets and the furs, her own dress making, as she walked, a debonair282 rustle283 in that world of silken rustles284 and cool soprano laughter and scents285 of many slain286 but living flowers. The Minnies and Pearls and jewels and jennies would gather round her like courtiers, bearing wispy287 frailties288 of Georgette crepe, delicate chiffon to echo her cheeks in faint pastel, milky lace to rest in pale disarray289 against her neck--damask was used but to cover priests and divans290 in these days, and cloth of Samarand was remembered only by the romantic poets.
She would go elsewhere after a while, tilting291 her head a hundred ways under a hundred bonnets292, seeking in vain for mock cherries to match her lips or plumes293 that were graceful294 as her own supple295 body.
Noon would come--she would hurry along Fifth Avenue, a Nordic Ganymede, her fur coat swinging fashionably with her steps, her cheeks redder by a stroke of the wind's brush, her breath a delightful296 mist upon the bracing297 air--and the doors of the Ritz would revolve299, the crowd would divide, fifty masculine eyes would start, stare, as she gave back forgotten dreams to the husbands of many obese300 and comic women.
One o'clock. With her fork she would tantalize301 the heart of an adoring artichoke, while her escort served himself up in the thick, dripping sentences of an enraptured302 man.
Four o'clock: her little feet moving to melody, her face distinct in the crowd, her partner happy as a petted puppy and mad as the immemorial hatter.... Then--then night would come drifting down and perhaps another damp. The signs would spill their light into the street. Who knew? No wiser than he, they haply sought to recapture that picture done in cream and shadow they had seen on the hushed Avenue the night before. And they might, ah, they might! A thousand taxis would yawn at a thousand corners, and only to him was that kiss forever lost and done. In a thousand guises303 Tha?s would hail a cab and turn up her face for loving. And her pallor would be virginal and lovely, and her kiss chaste304 as the moon....
He sprang excitedly to his feet. How inappropriate that she should be out! He had realized at last what he wanted--to kiss her again, to find rest in her great immobility. She was the end of all restlessness, all malcontent305.
Anthony dressed and went out, as he should have done long before, and down to Richard Caramel's room to hear the last revision of the last chapter of "The Demon Lover." He did not call Gloria again until six. He did not find her in until eight and--oh, climax306 of anticlimaxes307!--she could give him no engagement until Tuesday afternoon. A broken piece of gutta-percha clattered308 to the floor as he banged up the phone.
BLACK MAGIC
Tuesday was freezing cold. He called at a bleak309 two o'clock and as they shook hands he wondered confusedly whether he had ever kissed her; it was almost unbelievable--he seriously doubted if she remembered it.
"I called you four times on Sunday," he told her.
"Did you?"
There was surprise in her voice and interest in her expression. Silently he cursed himself for having told her. He might have known her pride did not deal in such petty triumphs. Even then he had not guessed at the truth--that never having had to worry about men she had seldom used the wary subterfuges310, the playings out and haulings in, that were the stock in trade of her sisterhood. When she liked a man, that was trick enough. Did she think she loved him--there was an ultimate and fatal thrust. Her charm endlessly preserved itself.
"I was anxious to see you," he said simply. "I want to talk to you--I mean really talk, somewhere where we can be alone. May I?"
"What do you mean?"
He swallowed a sudden lump of panic. He felt that she knew what he wanted.
"I mean, not at a tea table," he said.
"Well, all right, but not to-day. I want to get some exercise. Let's walk!"
It was bitter and raw. All the evil hate in the mad heart of February was wrought311 into the forlorn and icy wind that cut its way cruelly across Central Park and down along Fifth Avenue. It was almost impossible to talk, and discomfort312 made him distracted, so much so that he turned at Sixty-first Street to find that she was no longer beside him. He looked around. She was forty feet in the rear standing motionless, her face half hidden in her fur coat collar, moved either by anger or laughter--he could not determine which. He started back.
"Don't let me interrupt your walk!" she called.
"I'm mighty sorry," he answered in confusion. "Did I go too fast?"
"I'm cold," she announced. "I want to go home. And you walk too fast."
"I'm very sorry."
Side by side they started for the Plaza. He wished he could see her face.
"Men don't usually get so absorbed in themselves when they're with me."
"I'm sorry."
"That's very interesting."
"It _is_ rather too cold to walk," he said, briskly, to hide his annoyance313.
She made no answer and he wondered if she would dismiss him at the hotel entrance. She walked in without speaking, however, and to the elevator, throwing him a single remark as she entered it:
"You'd better come up."
He hesitated for the fraction of a moment.
"Perhaps I'd better call some other time."
"Just as you say." Her words were murmured as an aside. The main concern of life was the adjusting of some stray wisps of hair in the elevator mirror. Her cheeks were brilliant, her eyes sparkled--she had never seemed so lovely, so exquisitely to be desired.
Despising himself, he found that he was walking down the tenth-floor corridor a subservient314 foot behind her; was in the sitting room while she disappeared to shed her furs. Something had gone wrong--in his own eyes he had lost a shred315 of dignity; in an unpremeditated yet significant encounter he had been completely defeated.
However, by the time she reappeared in the sitting-room316 he had explained himself to himself with sophistic satisfaction. After all he had done the strongest thing, he thought. He had wanted to come up, he had come. Yet what happened later on that afternoon must be traced to the indignity317 he had experienced in the elevator; the girl was worrying him intolerably, so much so that when she came out he involuntarily drifted into criticism.
"Who's this Bloeckman, Gloria?"
"A business friend of father's."
"Odd sort of fellow!"
"He doesn't like you either," she said with a sudden smile.
Anthony laughed.
"I'm flattered at his notice. He evidently considers me a--" He broke off with "Is he in love with you?"
"I don't know."
"The deuce you don't," he insisted. "Of course he is. I remember the look he gave me when we got back to the table. He'd probably have had me quietly assaulted by a delegation318 of movie supes if you hadn't invented that phone call."
"He didn't mind. I told him afterward what really happened."
"You told him!"
"He asked me."
"I don't like that very well," he remonstrated319.
She laughed again.
"Oh, you don't?"
"What business is it of his?"
"None. That's why I told him."
Anthony in a turmoil320 bit savagely321 at his mouth.
"Why should I lie?" she demanded directly. "I'm not ashamed of anything I do. It happened to interest him to know that I kissed you, and I happened to be in a good humor, so I satisfied his curiosity by a simple and precise 'yes.' Being rather a sensible man, after his fashion, he dropped the subject."
"Except to say that he hated me."
"Oh, it worries you? Well, if you must probe this stupendous matter to its depths he didn't say he hated you. I simply know he does."
"It doesn't wor----"
"Oh, let's drop it!" she cried spiritedly. "It's a most uninteresting matter to me."
With a tremendous effort Anthony made his acquiescence322 a twist of subject, and they drifted into an ancient question-and-answer game concerned with each other's pasts, gradually warming as they discovered the age-old, immemorial resemblances in tastes and ideas. They said things that were more revealing than they intended--but each pretended to accept the other at face, or rather word, value.
The growth of intimacy is like that. First one gives off his best picture, the bright and finished product mended with bluff323 and falsehood and humor. Then more details are required and one paints a second portrait, and a third--before long the best lines cancel out--and the secret is exposed at last; the planes of the pictures have intermingled and given us away, and though we paint and paint we can no longer sell a picture. We must be satisfied with hoping that such fatuous324 accounts of ourselves as we make to our wives and children and business associates are accepted as true.
"It seems to me," Anthony was saying earnestly, "that the position of a man with neither necessity nor ambition is unfortunate. Heaven knows it'd be pathetic of me to be sorry for myself--yet, sometimes I envy Dick."
Her silence was encouragement. It was as near as she ever came to an intentional225 lure180.
"--And there used to be dignified occupations for a gentleman who had leisure, things a little more constructive325 than filling up the landscape with smoke or juggling326 some one else's money. There's science, of course: sometimes I wish I'd taken a good foundation, say at Boston Tech. But now, by golly, I'd have to sit down for two years and struggle through the fundamentals of physics and chemistry."
She yawned.
"I've told you I don't know what anybody ought to do," she said ungraciously, and at her indifference327 his rancor328 was born again.
"Aren't you interested in anything except yourself?"
"Not much."
He glared; his growing enjoyment329 in the conversation was ripped to shreds330. She had been irritable331 and vindictive332 all day, and it seemed to him that for this moment he hated her hard selfishness. He stared morosely333 at the fire.
Then a strange thing happened. She turned to him and smiled, and as he saw her smile every rag of anger and hurt vanity dropped from him--as though his very moods were but the outer ripples of her own, as though emotion rose no longer in his breast unless she saw fit to pull an omnipotent334 controlling thread.
He moved closer and taking her hand pulled her ever so gently toward him until she half lay against his shoulder. She smiled up at him as he kissed her.
"Gloria," he whispered very softly. Again she had made a magic, subtle and pervading335 as a spilt perfume, irresistible and sweet.
Afterward, neither the next day nor after many years, could he remember the important things of that afternoon. Had she been moved? In his arms had she spoken a little--or at all? What measure of enjoyment had she taken in his kisses? And had she at any time lost herself ever so little?
Oh, for him there was no doubt. He had risen and paced the floor in sheer ecstasy336. That such a girl should be; should poise curled in a corner of the couch like a swallow newly landed from a clean swift flight, watching him with inscrutable eyes. He would stop his pacing and, half shy each time at first, drop his arm around her and find her kiss.
She was fascinating, he told her. He had never met any one like her before. He besought337 her jauntily338 but earnestly to send him away; he didn't want to fall in love. He wasn't coming to see her any more--already she had haunted too many of his ways.
What delicious romance! His true reaction was neither fear nor sorrow--only this deep delight in being with her that colored the banality339 of his words and made the mawkish340 seem sad and the posturing341 seem wise. He _would_ come back--eternally. He should have known!
"This is all. It's been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful. But this wouldn't do--and wouldn't last." As he spoke there was in his heart that tremulousness that we take for sincerity in ourselves.
Afterward he remembered one reply of hers to something he had asked her. He remembered it in this form--perhaps he had unconsciously arranged and polished it:
"A woman should be able to kiss a man beautifully and romantically without any desire to be either his wife or his mistress."
As always when he was with her she seemed to grow gradually older until at the end ruminations too deep for words would be wintering in her eyes.
An hour passed, and the fire leaped up in little ecstasies as though its fading life was sweet. It was five now, and the clock over the mantel became articulate in sound. Then as if a brutish sensibility in him was reminded by those thin, tinny beats that the petals342 were falling from the flowered afternoon, Anthony pulled her quickly to her feet and held her helpless, without breath, in a kiss that was neither a game nor a tribute.
Her arms fell to her side. In an instant she was free.
"Don't!" she said quietly. "I don't want that."
She sat down on the far side of the lounge and gazed straight before her. A frown had gathered between her eyes. Anthony sank down beside her and closed his hand over hers. It was lifeless and unresponsive.
"Why, Gloria!" He made a motion as if to put his arm about her but she drew away.
"I don't want that," she repeated.
"I'm very sorry," he said, a little impatiently. "I--I didn't know you made such fine distinctions."
She did not answer.
"Won't you kiss me, Gloria?"
"I don't want to." It seemed to him she had not moved for hours.
"A sudden change, isn't it?" Annoyance was growing in his voice.
"Is it?" She appeared uninterested. It was almost as though she were looking at some one else.
"Perhaps I'd better go."
No reply. He rose and regarded her angrily, uncertainly. Again he sat down.
"Gloria, Gloria, won't you kiss me?"
"No." Her lips, parting for the word, had just faintly stirred.
Again he got to his feet, this time with less decision, less confidence.
"Then I'll go."
Silence.
"All right--I'll go."
He was aware of a certain irremediable lack of originality343 in his remarks. Indeed he felt that the whole atmosphere had grown oppressive. He wished she would speak, rail at him, cry out upon him, anything but this pervasive344 and chilling silence. He cursed himself for a weak fool; his clearest desire was to move her, to hurt her, to see her wince213. Helplessly, involuntarily, he erred211 again.
"If you're tired of kissing me I'd better go."
He saw her lips curl slightly and his last dignity left him. She spoke, at length:
"I believe you've made that remark several times before."
He looked about him immediately, saw his hat and coat on a chair--blundered into them, during an intolerable moment. Looking again at the couch he perceived that she had not turned, not even moved. With a shaken, immediately regretted "good-by" he went quickly but without dignity from the room.
For over a moment Gloria made no sound. Her lips were still curled; her glance was straight, proud, remote. Then her eyes blurred345 a little, and she murmured three words half aloud to the death-bound fire:
"Good-by, you ass!" she said.
PANIC
The man had had the hardest blow of his life. He knew at last what he wanted, but in finding it out it seemed that he had put it forever beyond his grasp. He reached home in misery346, dropped into an armchair without even removing his overcoat, and sat there for over an hour, his mind racing298 the paths of fruitless and wretched self-absorption. She had sent him away! That was the reiterated347 burden of his despair. Instead of seizing the girl and holding her by sheer strength until she became passive to his desire, instead of beating down her will by the force of his own, he had walked, defeated and powerless, from her door, with the corners of his mouth drooping348 and what force there might have been in his grief and rage hidden behind the manner of a whipped schoolboy. At one minute she had liked him tremendously--ah, she had nearly loved him. In the next he had become a thing of indifference to her, an insolent and efficiently349 humiliated350 man.
He had no great self-reproach--some, of course, but there were other things dominant351 in him now, far more urgent. He was not so much in love with Gloria as mad for her. Unless he could have her near him again, kiss her, hold her close and acquiescent352, he wanted nothing more from life. By her three minutes of utter unwavering indifference the girl had lifted herself from a high but somehow casual position in his mind, to be instead his complete preoccupation. However much his wild thoughts varied353 between a passionate354 desire for her kisses and an equally passionate craving355 to hurt and mar24 her, the residue356 of his mind craved357 in finer fashion to possess the triumphant soul that had shone through those three minutes. She was beautiful--but especially she was without mercy. He must own that strength that could send him away.
At present no such analysis was possible to Anthony. His clarity of mind, all those endless resources which he thought his irony had brought him were swept aside. Not only for that night but for the days and weeks that followed his books were to be but furniture and his friends only people who lived and walked in a nebulous outer world from which he was trying to escape--that world was cold and full of bleak wind, and for a little while he had seen into a warm house where fires shone.
About midnight he began to realize that he was hungry. He went down into Fifty-second Street, where it was so cold that he could scarcely see; the moisture froze on his lashes187 and in the corners of his lips. Everywhere dreariness358 had come down from the north, settling upon the thin and cheerless street, where black bundled figures blacker still against the night, moved stumbling along the sidewalk through the shrieking359 wind, sliding their feet cautiously ahead as though they were on skis. Anthony turned over toward Sixth Avenue, so absorbed in his thoughts as not to notice that several passers-by had stared at him. His overcoat was wide open, and the wind was biting in, hard and full of merciless death.
... After a while a waitress spoke to him, a fat waitress with black-rimmed eye-glasses from which dangled360 a long black cord.
"Order, please!"
Her voice, he considered, was unnecessarily loud. He looked up resentfully.
"You wanna order or doncha?"
"Of course," he protested.
"Well, I ast you three times. This ain't no rest-room."
He glanced at the big clock and discovered with a start that it was after two. He was down around Thirtieth Street somewhere, and after a moment he found and translated the
(Illustration: S'DLIHC) (Transcribers note: The illustration shows the word "CHILD's" in mirror image.)
in a white semicircle of letters upon the glass front. The place was inhabited sparsely361 by three or four bleak and half-frozen night-hawks362.
"Give me some bacon and eggs and coffee, please."
The waitress bent upon him a last disgusted glance and, looking ludicrously intellectual in her corded glasses, hurried away.
God! Gloria's kisses had been such flowers. He remembered as though it had been years ago the low freshness of her voice, the beautiful lines of her body shining through her clothes, her face lily-colored under the lamps of the street--under the lamps.
Misery struck at him again, piling a sort of terror upon the ache and yearning363. He had lost her. It was true--no denying it, no softening364 it. But a new idea had seared his sky--what of Bloeckman! What would happen now? There was a wealthy man, middle-aged365 enough to be tolerant with a beautiful wife, to baby her whims366 and indulge her unreason, to wear her as she perhaps wished to be worn--a bright flower in his button-hole, safe and secure from the things she feared. He felt that she had been playing with the idea of marrying Bloeckman, and it was well possible that this disappointment in Anthony might throw her on sudden impulse into Bloeckman's arms.
The idea drove him childishly frantic367. He wanted to kill Bloeckman and make him suffer for his hideous368 presumption369. He was saying this over and over to himself with his teeth tight shut, and a perfect orgy of hate and fright in his eyes.
But, behind this obscene jealousy, Anthony was in love at last, profoundly and truly in love, as the word goes between man and woman.
His coffee appeared at his elbow and gave off for a certain time a gradually diminishing wisp of steam. The night manager, seated at his desk, glanced at the motionless figure alone at the last table, and then with a sigh moved down upon him just as the hour hand crossed the figure three on the big clock.
WISDOM
After another day the turmoil subsided370 and Anthony began to exercise a measure of reason. He was in love--he cried it passionately371 to himself. The things that a week before would have seemed insuperable obstacles, his limited income, his desire to be irresponsible and independent, had in this forty hours become the merest chaff372 before the wind of his infatuation. If he did not marry her his life would be a feeble parody373 on his own adolescence374. To be able to face people and to endure the constant reminder375 of Gloria that all existence had become, it was necessary for him to have hope. So he built hope desperately376 and tenaciously377 out of the stuff of his dream, a hope flimsy enough, to be sure, a hope that was cracked and dissipated a dozen times a day, a hope mothered by mockery, but, nevertheless, a hope that would be brawn378 and sinew to his self-respect.
Out of this developed a spark of wisdom, a true perception of his own from out the effortless past.
"Memory is short," he thought.
So very short. At the crucial point the Trust President is on the stand, a potential criminal needing but one push to be a jailbird, scorned by the upright for leagues around. Let him be acquitted--and in a year all is forgotten. "Yes, he did have some trouble once, just a technicality, I believe." Oh, memory is very short!
Anthony had seen Gloria altogether about a dozen times, say two dozen hours. Supposing he left her alone for a month, made no attempt to see her or speak to her, and avoided every place where she might possibly be. Wasn't it possible, the more possible because she had never loved him, that at the end of that time the rush of events would efface379 his personality from her conscious mind, and with his personality his offense380 and humiliation381? She would forget, for there would be other men. He winced. The implication struck out at him--other men. Two months--God! Better three weeks, two weeks----
He thought this the second evening after the catastrophe382 when he was undressing, and at this point he threw himself down on the bed and lay there, trembling very slightly and looking at the top of the canopy383.
Two weeks--that was worse than no time at all. In two weeks he would approach her much as he would have to now, without personality or confidence--remaining still the man who had gone too far and then for a period that in time was but a moment but in fact an eternity384, whined385. No, two weeks was too short a time. Whatever poignancy386 there had been for her in that afternoon must have time to dull. He must give her a period when the incident should fade, and then a new period when she should gradually begin to think of him, no matter how dimly, with a true perspective that would remember his pleasantness as well as his humiliation.
He fixed, finally, on six weeks as approximately the interval387 best suited to his purpose, and on a desk calendar he marked the days off, finding that it would fall on the ninth of April. Very well, on that day he would phone and ask her if he might call. Until then--silence.
After his decision a gradual improvement was manifest. He had taken at least a step in the direction to which hope pointed388, and he realized that the less he brooded upon her the better he would be able to give the desired impression when they met.
In another hour he fell into a deep sleep.
THE INTERVAL
Nevertheless, though, as the days passed, the glory of her hair dimmed perceptibly for him and in a year of separation might have departed completely, the six weeks held many abominable389 days. He dreaded390 the sight of Dick and Maury, imagining wildly that they knew all--but when the three met it was Richard Caramel and not Anthony who was the centre of attention; "The Demon Lover" had been accepted for immediate18 publication. Anthony felt that from now on he moved apart. He no longer craved the warmth and security of Maury's society which had cheered him no further back than November. Only Gloria could give that now and no one else ever again. So Dick's success rejoiced him only casually and worried him not a little. It meant that the world was going ahead--writing and reading and publishing--and living. And he wanted the world to wait motionless and breathless for six weeks--while Gloria forgot.
TWO ENCOUNTERS
His greatest satisfaction was in Geraldine's company. He took her once to dinner and the theatre and entertained her several times in his apartment. When he was with her she absorbed him, not as Gloria had, but quieting those erotic sensibilities in him that worried over Gloria. It didn't matter how he kissed Geraldine. A kiss was a kiss--to be enjoyed to the utmost for its short moment. To Geraldine things belonged in definite pigeonholes391: a kiss was one thing, anything further was quite another; a kiss was all right; the other things were "bad."
When half the interval was up two incidents occurred on successive days that upset his increasing calm and caused a temporary relapse.
The first was--he saw Gloria. It was a short meeting. Both bowed. Both spoke, yet neither heard the other. But when it was over Anthony read down a column of The Sun three times in succession without understanding a single sentence.
One would have thought Sixth Avenue a safe street! Having forsworn his barber at the Plaza he went around the corner one morning to be shaved, and while waiting his turn he took off coat and vest, and with his soft collar open at the neck stood near the front of the shop. The day was an oasis392 in the cold desert of March and the sidewalk was cheerful with a population of strolling sun-worshippers. A stout166 woman upholstered in velvet281, her flabby cheeks too much massaged393, swirled394 by with her poodle straining at its leash--the effect being given of a tug395 bringing in an ocean liner. Just behind them a man in a striped blue suit, walking slue-footed in white-spatted feet, grinned at the sight and catching396 Anthony's eye, winked397 through the glass. Anthony laughed, thrown immediately into that humor in which men and women were graceless and absurd phantasms, grotesquely curved and rounded in a rectangular world of their own building. They inspired the same sensations in him as did those strange and monstrous398 fish who inhabit the esoteric world of green in the aquarium399.
Two more strollers caught his eye casually, a man and a girl--then in a horrified400 instant the girl resolved herself into Gloria. He stood here powerless; they came nearer and Gloria, glancing in, saw him. Her eyes widened and she smiled politely. Her lips moved. She was less than five feet away.
"How do you do?" he muttered inanely401.
Gloria, happy, beautiful, and young--with a man he had never seen before!
It was then that the barber's chair was vacated and he read down the newspaper column three times in succession.
The second incident took place the next day. Going into the Manhattan bar about seven he was confronted with Bloeckman. As it happened, the room was nearly deserted402, and before the mutual recognition he had stationed himself within a foot of the older man and ordered his drink, so it was inevitable that they should converse403.
"Hello, Mr. Patch," said Bloeckman amiably404 enough.
Anthony took the proffered405 hand and exchanged a few aphorisms406 on the fluctuations407 of the mercury.
"Do you come in here much?" inquired Bloeckman.
"No, very seldom." He omitted to add that the Plaza bar had, until lately, been his favorite.
"Nice bar. One of the best bars in town."
Anthony nodded. Bloeckman emptied his glass and picked up his cane408. He was in evening dress.
"Well, I'll be hurrying on. I'm going to dinner with Miss Gilbert."
Death looked suddenly out at him from two blue eyes. Had he announced himself as his vis-à-vis's prospective409 murderer he could not have struck a more vital blow at Anthony. The younger man must have reddened visibly, for his every nerve was in instant clamor. With tremendous effort he mustered410 a rigid--oh, so rigid--smile, and said a conventional good-by. But that night he lay awake until after four, half wild with grief and fear and abominable imaginings.
WEAKNESS
And one day in the fifth week he called her up. He had been sitting in his apartment trying to read "L'Education Sentimental," and something in the book had sent his thoughts racing in the direction that, set free, they always took, like horses racing for a home stable. With suddenly quickened breath he walked to the telephone. When he gave the number it seemed to him that his voice faltered411 and broke like a schoolboy's. The Central must have heard the pounding of his heart. The sound of the receiver being taken up at the other end was a crack of doom412, and Mrs. Gilbert's voice, soft as maple413 syrup414 running into a glass container, had for him a quality of horror in its single "Hello-o-ah?"
"Miss Gloria's not feeling well. She's lying down, asleep. Who shall I say called?"
"Nobody!" he shouted.
In a wild panic he slammed down the receiver; collapsed415 into his armchair in the cold sweat of breathless relief.
SERENADE
The first thing he said to her was: "Why, you've bobbed your hair!" and she answered: "Yes, isn't it gorgeous?"
It was not fashionable then. It was to be fashionable in five or six years. At that time it was considered extremely daring.
"It's all sunshine outdoors," he said gravely. "Don't you want to take a walk?"
She put on a light coat and a quaintly416 piquant417 Napoleon hat of Alice Blue, and they walked along the Avenue and into the Zoo, where they properly admired the grandeur418 of the elephant and the collar-height of the giraffe, but did not visit the monkey house because Gloria said that monkeys smelt419 so bad.
Then they returned toward the Plaza, talking about nothing, but glad for the spring singing in the air and for the warm balm that lay upon the suddenly golden city. To their right was the Park, while at the left a great bulk of granite420 and marble muttered dully a millionaire's chaotic421 message to whosoever would listen: something about "I worked and I saved and I was sharper than all Adam and here I sit, by golly, by golly!"
All the newest and most beautiful designs in automobiles422 were out on Fifth Avenue, and ahead of them the Plaza loomed423 up rather unusually white and attractive. The supple, indolent Gloria walked a short shadow's length ahead of him, pouring out lazy casual comments that floated a moment on the dazzling air before they reached his ear.
"Oh!" she cried, "I want to go south to Hot Springs! I want to get out in the air and just roll around on the new grass and forget there's ever been any winter."
"Don't you, though!"
"I want to hear a million robins424 making a frightful426 racket. I sort of like birds."
"All women _are_ birds," he ventured.
"What kind am I?"--quick and eager.
"A swallow, I think, and sometimes a bird of paradise. Most girls are sparrows, of course--see that row of nurse-maids over there? They're sparrows--or are they magpies427? And of course you've met canary girls--and robin425 girls."
"And swan girls and parrot girls. All grown women are hawks, I think, or owls428."
"What am I--a buzzard?"
She laughed and shook her head.
"Oh, no, you're not a bird at all, do you think? You're a Russian wolfhound."
Anthony remembered that they were white and always looked unnaturally hungry. But then they were usually photographed with dukes and princesses, so he was properly flattered.
"Dick's a fox terrier, a trick fox terrier," she continued.
"And Maury's a cat." Simultaneously it occurred to him how like Bloeckman was to a robust429 and offensive hog430. But he preserved a discreet271 silence.
Later, as they parted, Anthony asked when he might see her again.
"Don't you ever make long engagements?" he pleaded, "even if it's a week ahead, I think it'd be fun to spend a whole day together, morning and afternoon both."
"It would be, wouldn't it?" She thought for a moment. "Let's do it next Sunday."
"All right. I'll map out a programme that'll take up every minute."
He did. He even figured to a nicety what would happen in the two hours when she would come to his apartment for tea: how the good Bounds would have the windows wide to let in the fresh breeze--but a fire going also lest there be chill in the air--and how there would be clusters of flowers about in big cool bowls that he would buy for the occasion. They would sit on the lounge.
And when the day came they did sit upon the lounge. After a while Anthony kissed her because it came about quite naturally; he found sweetness sleeping still upon her lips, and felt that he had never been away. The fire was bright and the breeze sighing in through the curtains brought a mellow431 damp, promising May and world of summer. His soul thrilled to remote harmonies; he heard the strum of far guitars and waters lapping on a warm Mediterranean432 shore--for he was young now as he would never be again, and more triumphant than death.
Six o'clock stole down too soon and rang the querulous melody of St. Anne's chimes on the corner. Through the gathering169 dusk they strolled to the Avenue, where the crowds, like prisoners released, were walking with elastic433 step at last after the long winter, and the tops of the busses were thronged434 with congenial kings and the shops full of fine soft things for the summer, the rare summer, the gay promising summer that seemed for love what the winter was for money. Life was singing for his supper on the corner! Life was handing round cocktails435 in the street! Old women there were in that crowd who felt that they could have run and won a hundred-yard dash!
In bed that night with the lights out and the cool room swimming with moonlight, Anthony lay awake and played with every minute of the day like a child playing in turn with each one of a pile of long-wanted Christmas toys. He had told her gently, almost in the middle of a kiss, that he loved her, and she had smiled and held him closer and murmured, "I'm glad," looking into his eyes. There had been a new quality in her attitude, a new growth of sheer physical attraction toward him and a strange emotional tenseness, that was enough to make him clinch436 his hands and draw in his breath at the recollection. He had felt nearer to her than ever before. In a rare delight he cried aloud to the room that he loved her.
He phoned next morning--no hesitation437 now, no uncertainty--instead a delirious438 excitement that doubled and trebled when he heard her voice:
"Good morning--Gloria."
"Good morning."
"That's all I called you up to say-dear."
"I'm glad you did."
"I wish I could see you."
"You will, to-morrow night."
"That's a long time, isn't it?"
"Yes--" Her voice was reluctant. His hand tightened439 on the receiver.
"Couldn't I come to-night?" He dared anything in the glory and revelation of that almost whispered "yes."
"I have a date."
"Oh--"
"But I might--I might be able to break it."
"Oh!"--a sheer cry, a rhapsody. "Gloria?"
"What?"
"I love you."
Another pause and then:
"I--I'm glad."
Happiness, remarked Maury Noble one day, is only the first hour after the alleviation440 of some especially intense misery. But oh, Anthony's face as he walked down the tenth-floor corridor of the Plaza that night! His dark eyes were gleaming--around his mouth were lines it was a kindness to see. He was handsome then if never before, bound for one of those immortal moments which come so radiantly that their remembered light is enough to see by for years.
He knocked and, at a word, entered. Gloria, dressed in simple pink, starched441 and fresh as a flower, was across the room, standing very still, and looking at him wide-eyed.
As he closed the door behind him she gave a little cry and moved swiftly over the intervening space, her arms rising in a premature caress as she came near. Together they crushed out the stiff folds of her dress in one triumphant and enduring embrace.
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1 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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2 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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3 freshman | |
n.大学一年级学生(可兼指男女) | |
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4 par | |
n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
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5 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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6 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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7 distil | |
vt.蒸馏;提取…的精华,精选出 | |
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8 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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9 octopus | |
n.章鱼 | |
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10 sinuous | |
adj.蜿蜒的,迂回的 | |
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11 tentacle | |
n.触角,触须,触手 | |
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12 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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13 labored | |
adj.吃力的,谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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14 profuse | |
adj.很多的,大量的,极其丰富的 | |
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15 eventual | |
adj.最后的,结局的,最终的 | |
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16 expediency | |
n.适宜;方便;合算;利己 | |
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17 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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18 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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19 desultory | |
adj.散漫的,无方法的 | |
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20 infelicitous | |
adj.不适当的 | |
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21 peremptorily | |
adv.紧急地,不容分说地,专横地 | |
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22 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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23 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24 mar | |
vt.破坏,毁坏,弄糟 | |
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25 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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27 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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28 sardonic | |
adj.嘲笑的,冷笑的,讥讽的 | |
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29 vaguely | |
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30 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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31 recesses | |
n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 );(工作或业务活动的)中止或暂停期间;学校的课间休息;某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 );将(墙)做成凹形,在(墙)上做壁龛;休息,休会,休庭 | |
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32 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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33 credulous | |
adj.轻信的,易信的 | |
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34 defiantly | |
adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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35 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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36 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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37 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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38 beckoned | |
v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39 grotesquely | |
adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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40 reiteration | |
n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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41 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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42 meticulous | |
adj.极其仔细的,一丝不苟的 | |
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43 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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44 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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45 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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46 unnatural | |
adj.不自然的;反常的 | |
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47 bulging | |
膨胀; 凸出(部); 打气; 折皱 | |
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48 smirked | |
v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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49 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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50 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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51 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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52 inflated | |
adj.(价格)飞涨的;(通货)膨胀的;言过其实的;充了气的v.使充气(于轮胎、气球等)( inflate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)膨胀;(使)通货膨胀;物价上涨 | |
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53 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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54 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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55 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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56 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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57 conceited | |
adj.自负的,骄傲自满的 | |
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58 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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59 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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60 spoke | |
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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61 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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62 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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63 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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64 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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65 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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66 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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67 rumors | |
n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷 | |
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68 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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69 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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70 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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71 fragrantly | |
adv.芬芳地;愉快地 | |
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72 ballrooms | |
n.舞厅( ballroom的名词复数 ) | |
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73 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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74 irreproachable | |
adj.不可指责的,无过失的 | |
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75 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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76 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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77 pruned | |
v.修剪(树木等)( prune的过去式和过去分词 );精简某事物,除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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78 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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79 glide | |
n./v.溜,滑行;(时间)消逝 | |
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80 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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81 casement | |
n.竖铰链窗;窗扉 | |
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82 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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83 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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84 qualms | |
n.不安;内疚 | |
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85 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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86 hovered | |
鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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87 bovine | |
adj.牛的;n.牛 | |
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88 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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89 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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90 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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91 stylish | |
adj.流行的,时髦的;漂亮的,气派的 | |
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92 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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93 milky | |
adj.牛奶的,多奶的;乳白色的 | |
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94 accentuated | |
v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 );使突出;使恶化;加重音符号于 | |
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95 awed | |
adj.充满敬畏的,表示敬畏的v.使敬畏,使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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97 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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98 receded | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 );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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99 giggled | |
v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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101 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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102 facetious | |
adj.轻浮的,好开玩笑的 | |
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103 ecstasies | |
狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 ); 出神; 入迷; 迷幻药 | |
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104 scenting | |
vt.闻到(scent的现在分词形式) | |
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105 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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106 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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107 gaily | |
adv.欢乐地,高兴地 | |
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108 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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109 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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110 stimulant | |
n.刺激物,兴奋剂 | |
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111 usher | |
n.带位员,招待员;vt.引导,护送;vi.做招待,担任引座员 | |
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112 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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113 wary | |
adj.谨慎的,机警的,小心的 | |
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114 slanting | |
倾斜的,歪斜的 | |
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115 cocktail | |
n.鸡尾酒;餐前开胃小吃;混合物 | |
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116 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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117 scoffed | |
嘲笑,嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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119 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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120 sniffing | |
n.探查法v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的现在分词 );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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121 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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122 sipped | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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124 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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125 subconsciously | |
ad.下意识地,潜意识地 | |
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126 eluded | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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127 testily | |
adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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128 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
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129 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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130 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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131 aggravated | |
使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使更严重; 激怒; 使恼火 | |
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132 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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133 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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134 monastery | |
n.修道院,僧院,寺院 | |
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135 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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136 monk | |
n.和尚,僧侣,修道士 | |
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137 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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138 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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139 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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140 mementos | |
纪念品,令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
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141 slew | |
v.(使)旋转;n.大量,许多 | |
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142 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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143 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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144 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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145 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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146 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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147 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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148 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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149 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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150 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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151 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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152 bantering | |
adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑,说笑,逗乐( banter的现在分词 );(善意地)取笑,逗弄 | |
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153 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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154 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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155 flare | |
v.闪耀,闪烁;n.潮红;突发 | |
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156 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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157 acidity | |
n.酸度,酸性 | |
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158 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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159 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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160 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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161 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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162 attainments | |
成就,造诣; 获得( attainment的名词复数 ); 达到; 造诣; 成就 | |
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163 hurled | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 );大声叫骂 | |
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164 rebounding | |
蹦跳运动 | |
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165 cascades | |
倾泻( cascade的名词复数 ); 小瀑布(尤指一连串瀑布中的一支); 瀑布状物; 倾泻(或涌出)的东西 | |
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167 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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168 gatherings | |
聚集( gathering的名词复数 ); 收集; 采集; 搜集 | |
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169 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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170 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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171 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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172 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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173 detest | |
vt.痛恨,憎恶 | |
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174 squinted | |
斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 ); 眯着眼睛; 瞟; 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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175 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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176 appraising | |
v.估价( appraise的现在分词 );估计;估量;评价 | |
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177 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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178 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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179 heeded | |
v.听某人的劝告,听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 );变平,使(某物)变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180 lure | |
n.吸引人的东西,诱惑物;vt.引诱,吸引 | |
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181 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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182 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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183 reeked | |
v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 );散发臭气;发出难闻的气味 (of sth);明显带有(令人不快或生疑的跡象) | |
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184 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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185 hips | |
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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186 litheness | |
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187 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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188 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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189 ragtime | |
n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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190 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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191 peg | |
n.木栓,木钉;vt.用木钉钉,用短桩固定 | |
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192 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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193 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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194 tolerance | |
n.宽容;容忍,忍受;耐药力;公差 | |
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195 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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196 vender | |
n.小贩 | |
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197 proprietor | |
n.所有人;业主;经营者 | |
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198 vaudeville | |
n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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199 nagging | |
adj.唠叨的,挑剔的;使人不得安宁的v.不断地挑剔或批评(某人)( nag的现在分词 );不断地烦扰或伤害(某人);无休止地抱怨;不断指责 | |
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200 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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201 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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202 oysters | |
牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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203 oyster | |
n.牡蛎;沉默寡言的人 | |
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204 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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205 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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206 badinage | |
n.开玩笑,打趣 | |
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207 muster | |
v.集合,收集,鼓起,激起;n.集合,检阅,集合人员,点名册 | |
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208 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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209 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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211 erred | |
犯错误,做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212 winced | |
赶紧避开,畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213 wince | |
n.畏缩,退避,(因痛苦,苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动;v.畏缩,退缩,退避 | |
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214 relentlessly | |
adv.不屈不挠地;残酷地;不间断 | |
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215 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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216 repentant | |
adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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217 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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218 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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219 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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220 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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221 subtitle | |
n.副题(书本中的),说明对白的字幕 | |
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222 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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223 bland | |
adj.淡而无味的,温和的,无刺激性的 | |
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224 ballad | |
n.歌谣,民谣,流行爱情歌曲 | |
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225 intentional | |
adj.故意的,有意(识)的 | |
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226 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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227 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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228 thaw | |
v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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229 gutters | |
(路边)排水沟( gutter的名词复数 ); 阴沟; (屋顶的)天沟; 贫贱的境地 | |
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230 illusive | |
adj.迷惑人的,错觉的 | |
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231 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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232 labyrinthine | |
adj.如迷宫的;复杂的 | |
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233 inchoate | |
adj.才开始的,初期的 | |
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234 foliage | |
n.叶子,树叶,簇叶 | |
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235 ripples | |
逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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236 persuasive | |
adj.有说服力的,能说得使人相信的 | |
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237 imprint | |
n.印痕,痕迹;深刻的印象;vt.压印,牢记 | |
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238 murmurous | |
adj.低声的 | |
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239 tightening | |
上紧,固定,紧密 | |
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240 gossamer | |
n.薄纱,游丝 | |
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241 exultantly | |
adv.狂欢地,欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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242 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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243 majestically | |
雄伟地; 庄重地; 威严地; 崇高地 | |
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244 sonorously | |
adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;堂皇地;朗朗地 | |
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245 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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246 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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247 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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248 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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249 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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250 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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251 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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252 platonic | |
adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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253 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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254 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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255 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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256 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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257 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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258 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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259 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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260 exclusion | |
n.拒绝,排除,排斥,远足,远途旅行 | |
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261 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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262 impersonally | |
ad.非人称地 | |
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263 debutantes | |
n.初进社交界的上流社会年轻女子( debutante的名词复数 ) | |
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264 exuding | |
v.缓慢流出,渗出,分泌出( exude的现在分词 );流露出对(某物)的神态或感情 | |
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265 caressed | |
爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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266 entanglement | |
n.纠缠,牵累 | |
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267 disclaimed | |
v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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268 plaza | |
n.广场,市场 | |
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269 callousness | |
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270 intrigued | |
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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271 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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272 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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273 asinine | |
adj.愚蠢的 | |
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274 inept | |
adj.不恰当的,荒谬的,拙劣的 | |
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275 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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276 janitor | |
n.看门人,管门人 | |
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277 muddled | |
adj.混乱的;糊涂的;头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱,弄糟( muddle的过去式);使糊涂;对付,混日子 | |
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278 gargantuan | |
adj.巨大的,庞大的 | |
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279 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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280 lithely | |
adv.柔软地,易变地 | |
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281 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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282 debonair | |
adj.殷勤的,快乐的 | |
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283 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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284 rustles | |
n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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285 scents | |
n.香水( scent的名词复数 );气味;(动物的)臭迹;(尤指狗的)嗅觉 | |
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286 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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287 wispy | |
adj.模糊的;纤细的 | |
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288 frailties | |
n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 );虚弱;(性格或行为上的)弱点;缺点 | |
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289 disarray | |
n.混乱,紊乱,凌乱 | |
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290 divans | |
n.(可作床用的)矮沙发( divan的名词复数 );(波斯或其他东方诗人的)诗集 | |
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291 tilting | |
倾斜,倾卸 | |
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292 bonnets | |
n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 );(烟囱等的)覆盖物;(苏格兰男子的)无边呢帽;(女子戴的)任何一种帽子 | |
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293 plumes | |
羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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294 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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295 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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296 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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297 bracing | |
adj.令人振奋的 | |
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298 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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299 revolve | |
vi.(使)旋转;循环出现 | |
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300 obese | |
adj.过度肥胖的,肥大的 | |
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301 tantalize | |
vt.使干着急,逗弄 | |
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302 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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303 guises | |
n.外观,伪装( guise的名词复数 )v.外观,伪装( guise的第三人称单数 ) | |
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304 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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305 malcontent | |
n.不满者,不平者;adj.抱不平的,不满的 | |
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306 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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307 anticlimaxes | |
n.突降法( anticlimax的名词复数 );虎头蛇尾;苍白无力的结尾;令人扫兴的结尾 | |
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308 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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309 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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310 subterfuges | |
n.(用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的)花招,遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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311 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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312 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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313 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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314 subservient | |
adj.卑屈的,阿谀的 | |
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315 shred | |
v.撕成碎片,变成碎片;n.碎布条,细片,些少 | |
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316 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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317 indignity | |
n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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318 delegation | |
n.代表团;派遣 | |
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319 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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320 turmoil | |
n.骚乱,混乱,动乱 | |
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321 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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322 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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323 bluff | |
v.虚张声势,用假象骗人;n.虚张声势,欺骗 | |
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324 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
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325 constructive | |
adj.建设的,建设性的 | |
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326 juggling | |
n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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327 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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328 rancor | |
n.深仇,积怨 | |
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329 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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330 shreds | |
v.撕碎,切碎( shred的第三人称单数 );用撕毁机撕毁(文件) | |
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331 irritable | |
adj.急躁的;过敏的;易怒的 | |
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332 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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333 morosely | |
adv.愁眉苦脸地,忧郁地 | |
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334 omnipotent | |
adj.全能的,万能的 | |
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335 pervading | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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336 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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337 besought | |
v.恳求,乞求(某事物)( beseech的过去式和过去分词 );(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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338 jauntily | |
adv.心满意足地;洋洋得意地;高兴地;活泼地 | |
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339 banality | |
n.陈腐;平庸;陈词滥调 | |
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340 mawkish | |
adj.多愁善感的的;无味的 | |
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341 posturing | |
做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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342 petals | |
n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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343 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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344 pervasive | |
adj.普遍的;遍布的,(到处)弥漫的;渗透性的 | |
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345 blurred | |
v.(使)变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 );(使)难以区分;模模糊糊;迷离 | |
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346 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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347 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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348 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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349 efficiently | |
adv.高效率地,有能力地 | |
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350 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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351 dominant | |
adj.支配的,统治的;占优势的;显性的;n.主因,要素,主要的人(或物);显性基因 | |
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352 acquiescent | |
adj.默许的,默认的 | |
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353 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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354 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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355 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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356 residue | |
n.残余,剩余,残渣 | |
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357 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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358 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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359 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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360 dangled | |
悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 ); 摆动不定; 用某事物诱惑…; 吊胃口 | |
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361 sparsely | |
adv.稀疏地;稀少地;不足地;贫乏地 | |
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362 hawks | |
鹰( hawk的名词复数 ); 鹰派人物,主战派人物 | |
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363 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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364 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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365 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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366 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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367 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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368 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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369 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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370 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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371 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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372 chaff | |
v.取笑,嘲笑;n.谷壳 | |
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373 parody | |
n.打油诗文,诙谐的改编诗文,拙劣的模仿;v.拙劣模仿,作模仿诗文 | |
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374 adolescence | |
n.青春期,青少年 | |
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375 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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376 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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377 tenaciously | |
坚持地 | |
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378 brawn | |
n.体力 | |
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379 efface | |
v.擦掉,抹去 | |
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380 offense | |
n.犯规,违法行为;冒犯,得罪 | |
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381 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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382 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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383 canopy | |
n.天篷,遮篷 | |
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384 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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385 whined | |
v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 );哀诉,诉怨 | |
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386 poignancy | |
n.辛酸事,尖锐 | |
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387 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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388 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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389 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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390 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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391 pigeonholes | |
n.鸽舍出入口( pigeonhole的名词复数 );小房间;文件架上的小间隔v.把…搁在分类架上( pigeonhole的第三人称单数 );把…留在记忆中;缓办;把…隔成小格 | |
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392 oasis | |
n.(沙漠中的)绿洲,宜人的地方 | |
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393 massaged | |
按摩,推拿( massage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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394 swirled | |
v.旋转,打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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395 tug | |
v.用力拖(或拉);苦干;n.拖;苦干;拖船 | |
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396 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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397 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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398 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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399 aquarium | |
n.水族馆,养鱼池,玻璃缸 | |
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400 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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401 inanely | |
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402 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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403 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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404 amiably | |
adv.和蔼可亲地,亲切地 | |
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405 proffered | |
v.提供,贡献,提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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406 aphorisms | |
格言,警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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407 fluctuations | |
波动,涨落,起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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408 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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409 prospective | |
adj.预期的,未来的,前瞻性的 | |
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410 mustered | |
v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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411 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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412 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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413 maple | |
n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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414 syrup | |
n.糖浆,糖水 | |
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415 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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416 quaintly | |
adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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417 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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418 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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419 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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420 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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421 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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422 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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423 loomed | |
v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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424 robins | |
n.知更鸟,鸫( robin的名词复数 );(签名者不分先后,以避免受责的)圆形签名抗议书(或请愿书) | |
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425 robin | |
n.知更鸟,红襟鸟 | |
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426 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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427 magpies | |
喜鹊(magpie的复数形式) | |
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428 owls | |
n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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429 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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430 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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431 mellow | |
adj.柔和的;熟透的;v.变柔和;(使)成熟 | |
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432 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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433 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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434 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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435 cocktails | |
n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 );餐前开胃菜;混合物 | |
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436 clinch | |
v.敲弯,钉牢;确定;扭住对方 [参]clench | |
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437 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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438 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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439 tightened | |
收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)变紧; (使)绷紧; 加紧 | |
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440 alleviation | |
n. 减轻,缓和,解痛物 | |
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441 starched | |
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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