"Not as much as I do you," the critic of belles-lettres would insist. "If you really loved me you'd want every one to know it."
"I do," she protested; "I want to stand on the street corner like a sandwich man, informing all the passers-by."
"Then tell me all the reasons why you're going to marry me in June."
"Well, because you're so clean. You're sort of blowy clean, like I am. There's two sorts, you know. One's like Dick: he's clean like polished pans. You and I are clean like streams and winds. I can tell whenever I see a person whether he is clean, and if so, which kind of clean he is."
"We're twins."
Ecstatic thought!
"Mother says"--she hesitated uncertainly--"mother says that two souls are sometimes created together and--and in love before they're born."
Bilphism gained its easiest convert.... After a while he lifted up his head and laughed soundlessly toward the ceiling. When his eyes came back to her he saw that she was angry.
"Why did you laugh?" she cried, "you've done that twice before. There's nothing funny about our relation to each other. I don't mind playing the fool, and I don't mind having you do it, but I can't stand it when we're together."
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, don't say you're sorry! If you can't think of anything better than that, just keep quiet!"
"I love you."
"I don't care."
There was a pause. Anthony was depressed4.... At length Gloria murmured:
"I'm sorry I was mean."
"You weren't. I was the one."
Peace was restored--the ensuing moments were so much more sweet and sharp and poignant5. They were stars on this stage, each playing to an audience of two: the passion of their pretense6 created the actuality. Here, finally, was the quintessence of self-expression--yet it was probable that for the most part their love expressed Gloria rather than Anthony. He felt often like a scarcely tolerated guest at a party she was giving.
Telling Mrs. Gilbert had been an embarrassed matter. She sat stuffed into a small chair and listened with an intense and very blinky sort of concentration. She must have known it--for three weeks Gloria had seen no one else--and she must have noticed that this time there was an authentic8 difference in her daughter's attitude. She had been given special deliveries to post; she had heeded9, as all mothers seem to heed10, the hither end of telephone conversations, disguised but still rather warm--
--Yet she had delicately professed11 surprise and declared herself immensely pleased; she doubtless was; so were the geranium plants blossoming in the window-boxes, and so were the cabbies when the lovers sought the romantic privacy of hansom cabs--quaint device--and the staid bill of fares on which they scribbled12 "you know I do," pushing it over for the other to see.
But between kisses Anthony and this golden girl quarrelled incessantly13.
"Now, Gloria," he would cry, "please let me explain!"
"Don't explain. Kiss me."
"I don't think that's right. If I hurt your feelings we ought to discuss it. I don't like this kiss-and-forget."
"But I don't want to argue. I think it's wonderful that we _can_ kiss and forget, and when we can't it'll be time to argue."
At one time some gossamer15 difference attained16 such bulk that Anthony arose and punched himself into his overcoat--for a moment it appeared that the scene of the preceding February was to be repeated, but knowing how deeply she was moved he retained his dignity with his pride, and in a moment Gloria was sobbing17 in his arms, her lovely face miserable18 as a frightened little girl's.
Meanwhile they kept unfolding to each other, unwillingly19, by curious reactions and evasions21, by distastes and prejudices and unintended hints of the past. The girl was proudly incapable22 of jealousy23 and, because he was extremely jealous, this virtue24 piqued25 him. He told her recondite26 incidents of his own life on purpose to arouse some spark of it, but to no avail. She possessed27 him now--nor did she desire the dead years.
"Oh, Anthony," she would say, "always when I'm mean to you I'm sorry afterward28. I'd give my right hand to save you one little moment's pain."
And in that instant her eyes were brimming and she was not aware that she was voicing an illusion. Yet Anthony knew that there were days when they hurt each other purposely--taking almost a delight in the thrust. Incessantly she puzzled him: one hour so intimate and charming, striving desperately29 toward an unguessed, transcendent union; the next, silent and cold, apparently30 unmoved by any consideration of their love or anything he could say. Often he would eventually trace these portentous31 reticences to some physical discomfort--of these she never complained until they were over--or to some carelessness or presumption32 in him, or to an unsatisfactory dish at dinner, but even then the means by which she created the infinite distances she spread about herself were a mystery, buried somewhere back in those twenty-two years of unwavering pride.
"Why do you like Muriel?" he demanded one day.
"I don't very much."
"Then why do you go with her?"
"Just for some one to go with. They're no exertion33, those girls. They sort of believe everything I tell them--but I rather like Rachael. I think she's cute--and so clean and slick, don't you? I used to have other friends--in Kansas City and at school--casual, all of them, girls who just flitted into my range and out of it for no more reason than that boys took us places together. They didn't interest me after environment stopped throwing us together. Now they're mostly married. What does it matter--they were all just people."
"You like men better, don't you?"
"Oh, much better. I've got a man's mind."
"You've got a mind like mine. Not strongly gendered either way."
Later she told him about the beginnings of her friendship with Bloeckman. One day in Delmonico's, Gloria and Rachael had come upon Bloeckman and Mr. Gilbert having luncheon34 and curiosity had impelled35 her to make it a party of four. She had liked him--rather. He was a relief from younger men, satisfied as he was with so little. He humored her and he laughed, whether he understood her or not. She met him several times, despite the open disapproval36 of her parents, and within a month he had asked her to marry him, tendering her everything from a villa37 in Italy to a brilliant career on the screen. She had laughed in his face--and he had laughed too.
But he had not given up. To the time of Anthony's arrival in the arena38 he had been making steady progress. She treated him rather well--except that she had called him always by an invidious nickname--perceiving, meanwhile, that he was figuratively following along beside her as she walked the fence, ready to catch her if she should fall.
The night before the engagement was announced she told Bloeckman. It was a heavy blow. She did not enlighten Anthony as to the details, but she implied that he had not hesitated to argue with her. Anthony gathered that the interview had terminated on a stormy note, with Gloria very cool and unmoved lying in her corner of the sofa and Joseph Bloeckman of "Films Par7 Excellence39" pacing the carpet with eyes narrowed and head bowed. Gloria had been sorry for him but she had judged it best not to show it. In a final burst of kindness she had tried to make him hate her, there at the last. But Anthony, understanding that Gloria's indifference41 was her strongest appeal, judged how futile42 this must have been. He wondered, often but quite casually43, about Bloeckman--finally he forgot him entirely44.
HEYDAY45
One afternoon they found front seats on the sunny roof of a bus and rode for hours from the fading Square up along the sullied river, and then, as the stray beams fled the westward46 streets, sailed down the turgid Avenue, darkening with ominous47 bees from the department stores. The traffic was clotted48 and gripped in a patternless jam; the busses were packed four deep like platforms above the crowd as they waited for the moan of the traffic whistle.
"Isn't it good!" cried Gloria. "Look!"
A miller's wagon49, stark50 white with flour, driven by a powdery clown, passed in front of them behind a white horse and his black team-mate.
"What a pity!" she complained; "they'd look so beautiful in the dusk, if only both horses were white. I'm mighty51 happy just this minute, in this city."
Anthony shook his head in disagreement.
"I think the city's a mountebank52. Always struggling to approach the tremendous and impressive urbanity ascribed to it. Trying to be romantically metropolitan53."
"I don't. I think it is impressive."
"Momentarily. But it's really a transparent54, artificial sort of spectacle. It's got its press-agented stars and its flimsy, unenduring stage settings and, I'll admit, the greatest army of supers ever assembled--" He paused, laughed shortly, and added: "Technically55 excellent, perhaps, but not convincing."
"I'll bet policemen think people are fools," said Gloria thoughtfully, as she watched a large but cowardly lady being helped across the street. "He always sees them frightened and inefficient56 and old--they are," she added. And then: "We'd better get off. I told mother I'd have an early supper and go to bed. She says I look tired, damn it."
"I wish we were married," he muttered soberly; "there'll be no good night then and we can do just as we want."
"Won't it be good! I think we ought to travel a lot. I want to go to the Mediterranean57 and Italy. And I'd like to go on the stage some time--say for about a year."
"You bet. I'll write a play for you."
"Won't that be good! And I'll act in it. And then some time when we have more money"--old Adam's death was always thus tactfully alluded59 to--"we'll build a magnificent estate, won't we?"
"Oh, yes, with private swimming pools."
"Dozens of them. And private rivers. Oh, I wish it were now."
Odd coincidence--he had just been wishing that very thing. They plunged61 like divers62 into the dark eddying63 crowd and emerging in the cool fifties sauntered indolently homeward, infinitely64 romantic to each other ... both were walking alone in a dispassionate garden with a ghost found in a dream.
Halcyon66 days like boats drifting along slow-moving rivers; spring evenings full of a plaintive67 melancholy68 that made the past beautiful and bitter, bidding them look back and see that the loves of other summers long gone were dead with the forgotten waltzes of their years. Always the most poignant moments were when some artificial barrier kept them apart: in the theatre their hands would steal together, join, give and return gentle pressures through the long dark; in crowded rooms they would form words with their lips for each other's eyes--not knowing that they were but following in the footsteps of dusty generations but comprehending dimly that if truth is the end of life happiness is a mode of it, to be cherished in its brief and tremulous moment. And then, one fairy night, May became June. Sixteen days now--fifteen--fourteen----
THREE DIGRESSIONS
Just before the engagement was announced Anthony had gone up to Tarrytown to see his grandfather, who, a little more wizened69 and grizzly70 as time played its ultimate chuckling71 tricks, greeted the news with profound cynicism.
"Oh, you're going to get married, are you?" He said this with such a dubious72 mildness and shook his head up and down so many times that Anthony was not a little depressed. While he was unaware73 of his grandfather's intentions he presumed that a large part of the money would come to him. A good deal would go in charities, of course; a good deal to carry on the business of reform.
"Are you going to work?"
"Why--" temporized74 Anthony, somewhat disconcerted. "I _am_ working. You know--"
"Ah, I mean work," said Adam Patch dispassionately.
"I'm not quite sure yet what I'll do. I'm not exactly a beggar, grampa," he asserted with some spirit.
The old man considered this with eyes half closed. Then almost apologetically he asked:
"How much do you save a year?"
"Nothing so far--"
"And so after just managing to get along on your money you've decided76 that by some miracle two of you can get along on it."
"Gloria has some money of her own. Enough to buy clothes."
"How much?"
Without considering this question impertinent, Anthony answered it.
"About a hundred a month."
"That's altogether about seventy-five hundred a year." Then he added softly: "It ought to be plenty. If you have any sense it ought to be plenty. But the question is whether you have any or not."
"I suppose it is." It was shameful77 to be compelled to endure this pious78 browbeating79 from the old man, and his next words were stiffened80 with vanity. "I can manage very well. You seem convinced that I'm utterly81 worthless. At any rate I came up here simply to tell you that I'm getting married in June. Good-by, sir." With this he turned away and headed for the door, unaware that in that instant his grandfather, for the first time, rather liked him.
"Wait!" called Adam Patch, "I want to talk to you."
Anthony faced about.
"Well, sir?"
"Sit down. Stay all night."
Somewhat mollified, Anthony resumed his seat.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm going to see Gloria to-night."
"What's her name?"
"Gloria Gilbert."
"New York girl? Someone you know?"
"She's from the Middle West."
"What business her father in?"
"In a celluloid corporation or trust or something. They're from Kansas City."
"You going to be married out there?"
"Why, no, sir. We thought we'd be married in New York--rather quietly."
"Like to have the wedding out here?"
Anthony hesitated. The suggestion made no appeal to him, but it was certainly the part of wisdom to give the old man, if possible, a proprietary82 interest in his married life. In addition Anthony was a little touched.
"That's very kind of you, grampa, but wouldn't it be a lot of trouble?"
"Everything's a lot of trouble. Your father was married here--but in the old house."
"Why--I thought he was married in Boston."
Adam Patch considered.
"That's true. He _was_ married in Boston."
Anthony felt a moment's embarrassment83 at having made the correction, and he covered it up with words.
"Well, I'll speak to Gloria about it. Personally I'd like to, but of course it's up to the Gilberts, you see."
His grandfather drew a long sigh, half closed his eyes, and sank back in his chair.
"In a hurry?" he asked in a different tone.
"Not especially."
"I wonder," began Adam Patch, looking out with a mild, kindly84 glance at the lilac bushes that rustled85 against the windows, "I wonder if you ever think about the after-life."
"Why--sometimes."
"I think a great deal about the after-life." His eyes were dim but his voice was confident and clear. "I was sitting here to-day thinking about what's lying in wait for us, and somehow I began to remember an afternoon nearly sixty-five years ago, when I was playing with my little sister Annie, down where that summer-house is now." He pointed86 out into the long flower-garden, his eyes trembling of tears, his voice shaking.
"I began thinking--and it seemed to me that _you_ ought to think a little more about the after-life. You ought to be--steadier"--he paused and seemed to grope about for the right word--"more industrious--why--"
Then his expression altered, his entire personality seemed to snap together like a trap, and when he continued the softness had gone from his voice.
"--Why, when I was just two years older than you," he rasped with a cunning chuckle87, "I sent three members of the firm of Wrenn and Hunt to the poorhouse."
Anthony started with embarrassment.
"Well, good-by," added his grandfather suddenly, "you'll miss your train."
Anthony left the house unusually elated, and strangely sorry for the old man; not because his wealth could buy him "neither youth nor digestion88" but because he had asked Anthony to be married there, and because he had forgotten something about his son's wedding that he should have remembered.
Richard Caramel, who was one of the ushers89, caused Anthony and Gloria much distress91 in the last few weeks by continually stealing the rays of their spot-light. "The Demon92 Lover" had been published in April, and it interrupted the love affair as it may be said to have interrupted everything its author came in contact with. It was a highly original, rather overwritten piece of sustained description concerned with a Don Juan of the New York slums. As Maury and Anthony had said before, as the more hospitable93 critics were saying then, there was no writer in America with such power to describe the atavistic and unsubtle reactions of that section of society.
The book hesitated and then suddenly "went." Editions, small at first, then larger, crowded each other week by week. A spokesman of the Salvation95 Army denounced it as a cynical96 misrepresentation of all the uplift taking place in the underworld. Clever press-agenting spread the unfounded rumor97 that "Gypsy" Smith was beginning a libel suit because one of the principal characters was a burlesque98 of himself. It was barred from the public library of Burlington, Iowa, and a Mid-Western columnist99 announced by innuendo100 that Richard Caramel was in a sanitarium with delirium101 tremens.
The author, indeed, spent his days in a state of pleasant madness. The book was in his conversation three-fourths of the time--he wanted to know if one had heard "the latest"; he would go into a store and in a loud voice order books to be charged to him, in order to catch a chance morsel102 of recognition from clerk or customer. He knew to a town in what sections of the country it was selling best; he knew exactly what he cleared on each edition, and when he met any one who had not read it, or, as it happened only too often, had not heard of it, he succumbed103 to moody104 depression.
So it was natural for Anthony and Gloria to decide, in their jealousy, that he was so swollen105 with conceit106 as to be a bore. To Dick's great annoyance107 Gloria publicly boasted that she had never read "The Demon Lover," and didn't intend to until every one stopped talking about it. As a matter of fact, she had no time to read now, for the presents were pouring in--first a scattering108, then an avalanche109, varying from the bric-à-brac of forgotten family friends to the photographs of forgotten poor relations.
Maury gave them an elaborate "drinking set," which included silver goblets110, cocktail111 shaker, and bottle-openers. The extortion from Dick was more conventional--a tea set from Tiffany's. From Joseph Bloeckman came a simple and exquisite112 travelling clock, with his card. There was even a cigarette-holder from Bounds; this touched Anthony and made him want to weep--indeed, any emotion short of hysteria seemed natural in the half-dozen people who were swept up by this tremendous sacrifice to convention. The room set aside in the Plaza113 bulged114 with offerings sent by Harvard friends and by associates of his grandfather, with remembrances of Gloria's Farmover days, and with rather pathetic trophies115 from her former beaux, which last arrived with esoteric, melancholy messages, written on cards tucked carefully inside, beginning "I little thought when--" or "I'm sure I wish you all the happiness--" or even "When you get this I shall be on my way to--"
The most munificent116 gift was simultaneously117 the most disappointing. It was a concession118 of Adam Patch's--a check for five thousand dollars.
To most of the presents Anthony was cold. It seemed to him that they would necessitate119 keeping a chart of the marital120 status of all their acquaintances during the next half-century. But Gloria exulted121 in each one, tearing at the tissue-paper and excelsior with the rapaciousness122 of a dog digging for a bone, breathlessly seizing a ribbon or an edge of metal and finally bringing to light the whole article and holding it up critically, no emotion except rapt interest in her unsmiling face.
"Look, Anthony!"
"Darn nice, isn't it!"
No answer until an hour later when she would give him a careful account of her precise reaction to the gift, whether it would have been improved by being smaller or larger, whether she was surprised at getting it, and, if so, just how much surprised.
Mrs. Gilbert arranged and rearranged a hypothetical house, distributing the gifts among the different rooms, tabulating123 articles as "second-best clock" or "silver to use _every_ day," and embarrassing Anthony and Gloria by semi-facetious references to a room she called the nursery. She was pleased by old Adam's gift and thereafter had it that he was a very ancient soul, "as much as anything else." As Adam Patch never quite decided whether she referred to the advancing senility of his mind or to some private and psychic124 schema of her own, it cannot be said to have pleased him. Indeed he always spoke94 of her to Anthony as "that old woman, the mother," as though she were a character in a comedy he had seen staged many times before. Concerning Gloria he was unable to make up his mind. She attracted him but, as she herself told Anthony, he had decided that she was frivolous126 and was afraid to approve of her.
Five days!--A dancing platform was being erected127 on the lawn at Tarrytown. Four days!--A special train was chartered to convey the guests to and from New York. Three days!----
THE DIARY
She was dressed in blue silk pajamas128 and standing40 by her bed with her hand on the light to put the room in darkness, when she changed her mind and opening a table drawer brought out a little black book--a "Line-a-day" diary. This she had kept for seven years. Many of the pencil entries were almost illegible129 and there were notes and references to nights and afternoons long since forgotten, for it was not an intimate diary, even though it began with the immemorial "I am going to keep a diary for my children." Yet as she thumbed over the pages the eyes of many men seemed to look out at her from their half-obliterated names. With one she had gone to New Haven130 for the first time--in 1908, when she was sixteen and padded shoulders were fashionable at Yale--she had been flattered because "Touch down" Michaud had "rushed" her all evening. She sighed, remembering the grown-up satin dress she had been so proud of and the orchestra playing "Yama-yama, My Yama Man" and "Jungle-Town." So long ago!--the names: Eltynge Reardon, Jim Parsons, "Curly" McGregor, Kenneth Cowan, "Fish-eye" Fry (whom she had liked for being so ugly), Carter Kirby--he had sent her a present; so had Tudor Baird;--Marty Reffer, the first man she had been in love with for more than a day, and Stuart Holcome, who had run away with her in his automobile131 and tried to make her marry him by force. And Larry Fenwick, whom she had always admired because he had told her one night that if she wouldn't kiss him she could get out of his car and walk home. What a list!
... And, after all, an obsolete132 list. She was in love now, set for the eternal romance that was to be the synthesis of all romance, yet sad for these men and these moonlights and for the "thrills" she had had--and the kisses. The past--her past, oh, what a joy! She had been exuberantly133 happy.
Turning over the pages her eyes rested idly on the scattered134 entries of the past four months. She read the last few carefully.
"_April 1st_.--I know Bill Carstairs hates me because I was so disagreeable, but I hate to be sentimentalized over sometimes. We drove out to the Rockyear Country Club and the most wonderful moon kept shining through the trees. My silver dress is getting tarnished136. Funny how one forgets the other nights at Rockyear--with Kenneth Cowan when I loved him so!
"_April 3rd_.--After two hours of Schroeder who, they inform me, has millions, I've decided that this matter of sticking to things wears one out, particularly when the things concerned are men. There's nothing so often overdone137 and from to-day I swear to be amused. We talked about 'love'--how banal138! With how many men have I talked about love?
"_April 11th_.--Patch actually called up to-day! and when he forswore me about a month ago he fairly raged out the door. I'm gradually losing faith in any man being susceptible139 to fatal injuries.
"_April 20th_.--Spent the day with Anthony. Maybe I'll marry him some time. I kind of like his ideas--he stimulates140 all the originality142 in me. Blockhead came around about ten in his new car and took me out Riverside Drive. I liked him to-night: he's so considerate. He knew I didn't want to talk so he was quiet all during the ride.
"_April 21st_.--Woke up thinking of Anthony and sure enough he called and sounded sweet on the phone--so I broke a date for him. To-day I feel I'd break anything for him, including the ten commandments and my neck. He's coming at eight and I shall wear pink and look very fresh and starched----"
She paused here, remembering that after he had gone that night she had undressed with the shivering April air streaming in the windows. Yet it seemed she had not felt the cold, warmed by the profound banalities burning in her heart.
The next entry occurred a few days later:
"_April 24th_.--I want to marry Anthony, because husbands are so often 'husbands' and I must marry a lover.
"There are four general types of husbands.
"(1) The husband who always wants to stay in in the evening, has no vices143 and works for a salary. Totally undesirable144!
"(2) The atavistic master whose mistress one is, to wait on his pleasure. This sort always considers every pretty woman 'shallow,' a sort of peacock with arrested development.
"(3) Next comes the worshipper, the idolater of his wife and all that is his, to the utter oblivion of everything else. This sort demands an emotional actress for a wife. God! it must be an exertion to be thought righteous.
"(4) And Anthony--a temporarily passionate65 lover with wisdom enough to realize when it has flown and that it must fly. And I want to get married to Anthony.
"What grubworms women are to crawl on their bellies145 through colorless marriages! Marriage was created not to be a background but to need one. Mine is going to be outstanding. It can't, shan't be the setting--it's going to be the performance, the live, lovely, glamourous performance, and the world shall be the scenery. I refuse to dedicate my life to posterity146. Surely one owes as much to the current generation as to one's unwanted children. What a fate--to grow rotund and unseemly, to lose my self-love, to think in terms of milk, oatmeal, nurse, diapers.... Dear dream children, how much more beautiful you are, dazzling little creatures who flutter (all dream children must flutter) on golden, golden wings----
"Such children, however, poor dear babies, have little in common with the wedded147 state.
"_June 7th_.--Moral question: Was it wrong to make Bloeckman love me? Because I did really make him. He was almost sweetly sad to-night. How opportune148 it was that my throat is swollen plunk together and tears were easy to muster150. But he's just the past--buried already in my plentiful151 lavender.
"_June 8th_.--And to-day I've promised not to chew my mouth. Well, I won't, I suppose--but if he'd only asked me not to eat!
"Blowing bubbles--that's what we're doing, Anthony and me. And we blew such beautiful ones to-day, and they'll explode and then we'll blow more and more, I guess--bubbles just as big and just as beautiful, until all the soap and water is used up."
On this note the diary ended. Her eyes wandered up the page, over the June 8th's of 1912, 1910, 1907. The earliest entry was scrawled152 in the plump, bulbous hand of a sixteen-year-old girl--it was the name, Bob Lamar, and a word she could not decipher. Then she knew what it was--and, knowing, she found her eyes misty153 with tears. There in a graying blur154 was the record of her first kiss, faded as its intimate afternoon, on a rainy veranda155 seven years before. She seemed to remember something one of them had said that day and yet she could not remember. Her tears came faster, until she could scarcely see the page. She was crying, she told herself, because she could remember only the rain and the wet flowers in the yard and the smell of the damp grass.
... After a moment she found a pencil and holding it unsteadily drew three parallel lines beneath the last entry. Then she printed FINIS in large capitals, put the book back in the drawer, and crept into bed.
BREATH OF THE CAVE
Back in his apartment after the bridal dinner, Anthony snapped out his lights and, feeling impersonal156 and fragile as a piece of china waiting on a serving table, got into bed. It was a warm night--a sheet was enough for comfort--and through his wide-open windows came sound, evanescent and summery, alive with remote anticipation157. He was thinking that the young years behind him, hollow and colorful, had been lived in facile and vacillating cynicism upon the recorded emotions of men long dust. And there was something beyond that; he knew now. There was the union of his soul with Gloria's, whose radiant fire and freshness was the living material of which the dead beauty of books was made.
From the night into his high-walled room there came, persistently158, that evanescent and dissolving sound--something the city was tossing up and calling back again, like a child playing with a ball. In Harlem, the Bronx, Gramercy Park, and along the water-fronts, in little parlors159 or on pebble-strewn, moon-flooded roofs, a thousand lovers were making this sound, crying little fragments of it into the air. All the city was playing with this sound out there in the blue summer dark, throwing it up and calling it back, promising160 that, in a little while, life would be beautiful as a story, promising happiness--and by that promise giving it. It gave love hope in its own survival. It could do no more.
It was then that a new note separated itself jarringly from the soft crying of the night. It was a noise from an areaway within a hundred feet from his rear window, the noise of a woman's laughter. It began low, incessant14 and whining--some servant-maid with her fellow, he thought--and then it grew in volume and became hysterical161, until it reminded him of a girl he had seen overcome with nervous laughter at a vaudeville162 performance. Then it sank, receded163, only to rise again and include words--a coarse joke, some bit of obscure horseplay he could not distinguish. It would break off for a moment and he would just catch the low rumble164 of a man's voice, then begin again--interminably; at first annoying, then strangely terrible. He shivered, and getting up out of bed went to the window. It had reached a high point, tensed and stifled165, almost the quality of a scream--then it ceased and left behind it a silence empty and menacing as the greater silence overhead. Anthony stood by the window a moment longer before he returned to his bed. He found himself upset and shaken. Try as he might to strangle his reaction, some animal quality in that unrestrained laughter had grasped at his imagination, and for the first time in four months aroused his old aversion and horror toward all the business of life. The room had grown smothery. He wanted to be out in some cool and bitter breeze, miles above the cities, and to live serene166 and detached back in the corners of his mind. Life was that sound out there, that ghastly reiterated167 female sound.
"Oh, my _God_!" he cried, drawing in his breath sharply.
Burying his face in the pillows he tried in vain to concentrate upon the details of the next day.
MORNING
In the gray light he found that it was only five o'clock. He regretted nervously168 that he had awakened169 so early--he would appear fagged at the wedding. He envied Gloria who could hide her fatigue170 with careful pigmentation.
In his bathroom he contemplated171 himself in the mirror and saw that he was unusually white--half a dozen small imperfections stood out against the morning pallor of his complexion172, and overnight he had grown the faint stubble of a beard--the general effect, he fancied, was unprepossessing, haggard, half unwell.
On his dressing173 table were spread a number of articles which he told over carefully with suddenly fumbling174 fingers--their tickets to California, the book of traveller's checks, his watch, set to the half minute, the key to his apartment, which he must not forget to give to Maury, and, most important of all, the ring. It was of platinum175 set around with small emeralds; Gloria had insisted on this; she had always wanted an emerald wedding ring, she said.
It was the third present he had given her; first had come the engagement ring, and then a little gold cigarette-case. He would be giving her many things now--clothes and jewels and friends and excitement. It seemed absurd that from now on he would pay for all her meals. It was going to cost: he wondered if he had not underestimated for this trip, and if he had not better cash a larger check. The question worried him.
Then the breathless impendency of the event swept his mind clear of details. This was the day--unsought, unsuspected six months before, but now breaking in yellow light through his east window, dancing along the carpet as though the sun were smiling at some ancient and reiterated gag of his own.
Anthony laughed in a nervous one-syllable snort.
"By God!" he muttered to himself, "I'm as good as married!"
THE USHERS
_Six young men in_ CROSS PATCH'S _library growing more and more cheery under the influence of Mumm's Extra Dry, set surreptitiously in cold pails by the bookcases._
THE FIRST YOUNG MAN: By golly! Believe me, in my next book I'm going to do a wedding scene that'll knock 'em cold!
THE SECOND YOUNG MAN: Met a débutante th'other day said she thought your book was powerful. As a rule young girls cry for this primitive176 business.
THE THIRD YOUNG MAN: Where's Anthony?
THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Walking up and down outside talking to himself.
SECOND YOUNG MAN: Lord! Did you see the minister? Most peculiar177 looking teeth.
FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Think they're natural. Funny thing people having gold teeth.
SIXTH YOUNG MAN: They say they love 'em. My dentist told me once a woman came to him and insisted on having two of her teeth covered with gold. No reason at all. All right the way they were.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Hear you got out a book, Dicky. 'Gratulations!
DICK: (_Stiffly_) Thanks.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (_Innocently_) What is it? College stories?
DICK: (_More stiffly_) No. Not college stories.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: Pity! Hasn't been a good book about Harvard for years.
DICK: (_Touchily_) Why don't you supply the lack?
THIRD YOUNG MAN: I think I saw a squad178 of guests turn the drive in a Packard just now.
SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Might open a couple more bottles on the strength of that.
THIRD YOUNG MAN: It was the shock of my life when I heard the old man was going to have a wet wedding. Rabid prohibitionist179, you know.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: (_Snapping his fingers excitedly_) By gad180! I knew I'd forgotten something. Kept thinking it was my vest.
DICK: What was it?
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! By gad!
SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Here! Here! Why the tragedy?
SECOND YOUNG MAN: What'd you forget? The way home?
DICK: (_Maliciously_) He forgot the plot for his book of Harvard stories.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: No, sir, I forgot the present, by George! I forgot to buy old Anthony a present. I kept putting it off and putting it off, and by gad I've forgotten it! What'll they think?
SIXTH YOUNG MAN: (_Facetiously_) That's probably what's been holding up the wedding.
(THE FOURTH YOUNG MAN _looks nervously at his watch. Laughter._)
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: By gad! What an ass2 I am!
SECOND YOUNG MAN: What d'you make of the bridesmaid who thinks she's Nora Bayes? Kept telling me she wished this was a ragtime181 wedding. Name's Haines or Hampton.
DICK: (_Hurriedly spurring his imagination_) Kane, you mean, Muriel Kane. She's a sort of debt of honor, I believe. Once saved Gloria from drowning, or something of the sort.
SECOND YOUNG MAN: I didn't think she could stop that perpetual swaying long enough to swim. Fill up my glass, will you? Old man and I had a long talk about the weather just now.
MAURY: Who? Old Adam?
SECOND YOUNG MAN: No, the bride's father. He must be with a weather bureau.
DICK: He's my uncle, Otis.
OTIS: Well, it's an honorable profession. (_Laughter._)
SIXTH YOUNG MAN: Bride your cousin, isn't she?
DICK: Yes, Cable, she is.
CABLE: She certainly is a beauty. Not like you, Dicky. Bet she brings old Anthony to terms.
MAURY: Why are all grooms182 given the title of "old"? I think marriage is an error of youth.
DICK: Maury, the professional cynic.
MAURY: Why, you intellectual faker!
FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Battle of the highbrows here, Otis. Pick up what crumbs183 you can.
DICK: Faker yourself! What do _you_ know?
MAURY: What do _you_ know?
LICK: Ask me anything. Any branch of knowledge.
MAURY: All right. What's the fundamental principle of biology?
DICK: You don't know yourself.
MAURY: Don't hedge!
DICK: Well, natural selection?
MAURY: Wrong.
DICK: I give it up.
MAURY: Ontogony recapitulates184 phyllogony.
FIFTH YOUNG MAN: Take your base!
MAURY: Ask you another. What's the influence of mice on the clover crop? (_Laughter._)
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: What's the influence of rats on the Decalogue?
MAURY: Shut up, you saphead. There _is_ a connection.
DICK: What is it then?
MAURY: (_Pausing a moment in growing disconcertion_) Why, let's see. I seem to have forgotten exactly. Something about the bees eating the clover.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: And the clover eating the mice! Haw! Haw!
MAURY: (_Frowning_) Let me just think a minute.
DICK: (_Sitting up suddenly_) Listen!
(_A volley of chatter185 explodes in the adjoining room. The six young men arise, feeling at their neckties._)
DICK: (_Weightily_) We'd better join the firing squad. They're going to take the picture, I guess. No, that's afterward.
OTIS: Cable, you take the ragtime bridesmaid.
FOURTH YOUNG MAN: I wish to God I'd sent that present.
MAURY: If you'll give me another minute I'll think of that about the mice.
OTIS: I was usher90 last month for old Charlie McIntyre and----
(_They move slowly toward the door as the chatter becomes a babel and the practising preliminary to the overture186 issues in long pious groans187 from ADAM PATCH'S organ_.)
ANTHONY
There were five hundred eyes boring through the back of his cutaway and the sun glinting on the clergyman's inappropriately bourgeois188 teeth. With difficulty he restrained a laugh. Gloria was saying something in a clear proud voice and he tried to think that the affair was irrevocable, that every second was significant, that his life was being slashed189 into two periods and that the face of the world was changing before him. He tried to recapture that ecstatic sensation of ten weeks before. All these emotions eluded190 him, he did not even feel the physical nervousness of that very morning--it was all one gigantic aftermath. And those gold teeth! He wondered if the clergyman were married; he wondered perversely191 if a clergyman could perform his own marriage service....
But as he took Gloria into his arms he was conscious of a strong reaction. The blood was moving in his veins192 now. A languorous193 and pleasant content settled like a weight upon him, bringing responsibility and possession. He was married.
GLORIA
So many, such mingled194 emotions, that no one of them was separable from the others! She could have wept for her mother, who was crying quietly back there ten feet and for the loveliness of the June sunlight flooding in at the windows. She was beyond all conscious perceptions. Only a sense, colored with delirious195 wild excitement, that the ultimately important was happening--and a trust, fierce and passionate, burning in her like a prayer, that in a moment she would be forever and securely safe.
Late one night they arrived in Santa Barbara, where the night clerk at the Hotel Lafcadio refused to admit them, on the grounds that they were not married.
The clerk thought that Gloria was beautiful. He did not think that anything so beautiful as Gloria could be moral.
"CON3 AMORE"
That first half-year--the trip West, the long months' loiter along the California coast, and the gray house near Greenwich where they lived until late autumn made the country dreary--those days, those places, saw the enraptured196 hours. The breathless idyl of their engagement gave way, first, to the intense romance of the more passionate relationship. The breathless idyl left them, fled on to other lovers; they looked around one day and it was gone, how they scarcely knew. Had either of them lost the other in the days of the idyl, the love lost would have been ever to the loser that dim desire without fulfilment which stands back of all life. But magic must hurry on, and the lovers remain....
The idyl passed, bearing with it its extortion of youth. Came a day when Gloria found that other men no longer bored her; came a day when Anthony discovered that he could sit again late into the evening, talking with Dick of those tremendous abstractions that had once occupied his world. But, knowing they had had the best of love, they clung to what remained. Love lingered--by way of long conversations at night into those stark hours when the mind thins and sharpens and the borrowings from dreams become the stuff of all life, by way of deep and intimate kindnesses they developed toward each other, by way of their laughing at the same absurdities197 and thinking the same things noble and the same things sad.
It was, first of all, a time of discovery. The things they found in each other were so diverse, so intermixed and, moreover, so sugared with love as to seem at the time not so much discoveries as isolated198 phenomena--to be allowed for, and to be forgotten. Anthony found that he was living with a girl of tremendous nervous tension and of the most high-handed selfishness. Gloria knew within a month that her husband was an utter coward toward any one of a million phantasms created by his imagination. Her perception was intermittent199, for this cowardice200 sprang out, became almost obscenely evident, then faded and vanished as though it had been only a creation of her own mind. Her reactions to it were not those attributed to her sex--it roused her neither to disgust nor to a premature201 feeling of motherhood. Herself almost completely without physical fear, she was unable to understand, and so she made the most of what she felt to be his fear's redeeming202 feature, which was that though he was a coward under a shock and a coward under a strain--when his imagination was given play--he had yet a sort of dashing recklessness that moved her on its brief occasions almost to admiration203, and a pride that usually steadied him when he thought he was observed.
The trait first showed itself in a dozen incidents of little more than nervousness--his warning to a taxi-driver against fast driving, in Chicago; his refusal to take her to a certain tough café she had always wished to visit; these of course admitted the conventional interpretation--that it was of her he had been thinking; nevertheless, their culminative weight disturbed her. But something that occurred in a San Francisco hotel, when they had been married a week, gave the matter certainty.
It was after midnight and pitch dark in their room. Gloria was dozing205 off and Anthony's even breathing beside her made her suppose that he was asleep, when suddenly she saw him raise himself on his elbow and stare at the window.
"What is it, dearest?" she murmured.
"Nothing"--he had relaxed to his pillow and turned toward her--"nothing, my darling wife."
"Don't say 'wife.' I'm your mistress. Wife's such an ugly word. Your 'permanent mistress' is so much more tangible206 and desirable.... Come into my arms," she added in a rush of tenderness; "I can sleep so well, so well with you in my arms."
Coming into Gloria's arms had a quite definite meaning. It required that he should slide one arm under her shoulder, lock both arms about her, and arrange himself as nearly as possible as a sort of three-sided crib for her luxurious207 ease. Anthony, who tossed, whose arms went tinglingly to sleep after half an hour of that position, would wait until she was asleep and roll her gently over to her side of the bed--then, left to his own devices, he would curl himself into his usual knots.
Gloria, having attained sentimental135 comfort, retired208 into her doze60. Five minutes ticked away on Bloeckman's travelling clock; silence lay all about the room, over the unfamiliar209, impersonal furniture and the half-oppressive ceiling that melted imperceptibly into invisible walls on both sides. Then there was suddenly a rattling210 flutter at the window, staccato and loud upon the hushed, pent air.
With a leap Anthony was out of the bed and standing tense beside it.
"Who's there?" he cried in an awful voice.
Gloria lay very still, wide awake now and engrossed211 not so much in the rattling as in the rigid212 breathless figure whose voice had reached from the bedside into that ominous dark.
The sound stopped; the room was quiet as before--then Anthony pouring words in at the telephone.
"Some one just tried to get into the room! ...
"There's some one at the window!" His voice was emphatic213 now, faintly terrified.
"All right! Hurry!" He hung up the receiver; stood motionless.
... There was a rush and commotion214 at the door, a knocking--Anthony went to open it upon an excited night clerk with three bell-boys grouped staring behind him. Between thumb and finger the night clerk held a wet pen with the threat of a weapon; one of the bell-boys had seized a telephone directory and was looking at it sheepishly. Simultaneously the group was joined by the hastily summoned house-detective, and as one man they surged into the room.
Lights sprang on with a click. Gathering215 a piece of sheet about her Gloria dove away from sight, shutting her eyes to keep out the horror of this unpremeditated visitation. There was no vestige216 of an idea in her stricken sensibilities save that her Anthony was at grievous fault.
... The night clerk was speaking from the window, his tone half of the servant, half of the teacher reproving a schoolboy.
"Nobody out there," he declared conclusively217; "my golly, nobody _could_ be out there. This here's a sheer fall to the street of fifty feet. It was the wind you heard, tugging218 at the blind."
"Oh."
Then she was sorry for him. She wanted only to comfort him and draw him back tenderly into her arms, to tell them to go away because the thing their presence connotated was odious219. Yet she could not raise her head for shame. She heard a broken sentence, apologies, conventions of the employee and one unrestrained snicker from a bell-boy.
"I've been nervous as the devil all evening," Anthony was saying; "somehow that noise just shook me--I was only about half awake."
"Sure, I understand," said the night clerk with comfortable tact58; "been that way myself."
The door closed; the lights snapped out; Anthony crossed the floor quietly and crept into bed. Gloria, feigning220 to be heavy with sleep, gave a quiet little sigh and slipped into his arms.
"What was it, dear?"
"Nothing," he answered, his voice still shaken; "I thought there was somebody at the window, so I looked out, but I couldn't see any one and the noise kept up, so I phoned down-stairs. Sorry if I disturbed you, but I'm awfully221 darn nervous to-night."
Catching222 the lie, she gave an interior start--he had not gone to the window, nor near the window. He had stood by the bed and then sent in his call of fear.
"Oh," she said--and then: "I'm so sleepy."
For an hour they lay awake side by side, Gloria with her eyes shut so tight that blue moons formed and revolved223 against backgrounds of deepest mauve, Anthony staring blindly into the darkness overhead.
After many weeks it came gradually out into the light, to be laughed and joked at. They made a tradition to fit over it--whenever that overpowering terror of the night attacked Anthony, she would put her arms about him and croon, soft as a song:
"I'll protect my Anthony. Oh, nobody's ever going to harm my Anthony!"
He would laugh as though it were a jest they played for their mutual225 amusement, but to Gloria it was never quite a jest. It was, at first, a keen disappointment; later, it was one of the times when she controlled her temper.
The management of Gloria's temper, whether it was aroused by a lack of hot water for her bath or by a skirmish with her husband, became almost the primary duty of Anthony's day. It must be done just so--by this much silence, by that much pressure, by this much yielding, by that much force. It was in her angers with their attendant cruelties that her inordinate226 egotism chiefly displayed itself. Because she was brave, because she was "spoiled," because of her outrageous227 and commendable228 independence of judgment229, and finally because of her arrogant230 consciousness that she had never seen a girl as beautiful as herself, Gloria had developed into a consistent, practising Nietzschean. This, of course, with overtones of profound sentiment.
There was, for example, her stomach. She was used to certain dishes, and she had a strong conviction that she could not possibly eat anything else. There must be a lemonade and a tomato sandwich late in the morning, then a light lunch with a stuffed tomato. Not only did she require food from a selection of a dozen dishes, but in addition this food must be prepared in just a certain way. One of the most annoying half hours of the first fortnight occurred in Los Angeles, when an unhappy waiter brought her a tomato stuffed with chicken salad instead of celery.
"We always serve it that way, madame," he quavered to the gray eyes that regarded him wrathfully.
Gloria made no answer, but when the waiter had turned discreetly231 away she banged both fists upon the table until the china and silver rattled232.
"Poor Gloria!" laughed Anthony unwittingly, "you can't get what you want ever, can you?"
"I can't eat _stuff_!" she flared233 up.
"I'll call back the waiter."
"I don't want you to! He doesn't know anything, the darn _fool_!"
"Well, it isn't the hotel's fault. Either send it back, forget it, or be a sport and eat it."
"Shut up!" she said succinctly234.
"Why take it out on me?"
"Oh, I'm _not_," she wailed235, "but I simply _can't_ eat it."
Anthony subsided236 helplessly.
"We'll go somewhere else," he suggested.
"I don't _want_ to go anywhere else. I'm tired of being trotted237 around to a dozen cafés and not getting _one thing_ fit to eat."
"When did we go around to a dozen cafés?"
"You'd _have_ to in _this_ town," insisted Gloria with ready sophistry238.
Anthony, bewildered, tried another tack224.
"Why don't you try to eat it? It can't be as bad as you think."
"Just--because--I--don't--like--chicken!"
She picked up her fork and began poking239 contemptuously at the tomato, and Anthony expected her to begin flinging the stuffings in all directions. He was sure that she was approximately as angry as she had ever been--for an instant he had detected a spark of hate directed as much toward him as toward any one else--and Gloria angry was, for the present, unapproachable.
Then, surprisingly, he saw that she had tentatively raised the fork to her lips and tasted the chicken salad. Her frown had not abated240 and he stared at her anxiously, making no comment and daring scarcely to breathe. She tasted another forkful--in another moment she was eating. With difficulty Anthony restrained a chuckle; when at length he spoke his words had no possible connection with chicken salad.
This incident, with variations, ran like a lugubrious241 fugue through the first year of marriage; always it left Anthony baffled, irritated, and depressed. But another rough brushing of temperaments242, a question of laundry-bags, he found even more annoying as it ended inevitably243 in a decisive defeat for him.
One afternoon in Coronado, where they made the longest stay of their trip, more than three weeks, Gloria was arraying herself brilliantly for tea. Anthony, who had been down-stairs listening to the latest rumor bulletins of war in Europe, entered the room, kissed the back of her powdered neck, and went to his dresser. After a great pulling out and pushing in of drawers, evidently unsatisfactory, he turned around to the Unfinished Masterpiece.
"Got any handkerchiefs, Gloria?" he asked. Gloria shook her golden head.
"Not a one. I'm using one of yours."
"The last one, I deduce." He laughed dryly.
"Is it?" She applied244 an emphatic though very delicate contour to her lips.
"Isn't the laundry back?"
"I don't know."
Anthony hesitated--then, with sudden discernment, opened the closet door. His suspicions were verified. On the hook provided hung the blue bag furnished by the hotel. This was full of his clothes--he had put them there himself. The floor beneath it was littered with an astonishing mass of finery--lingerie, stockings, dresses, nightgowns, and pajamas--most of it scarcely worn but all of it coming indubitably under the general heading of Gloria's laundry.
He stood holding the closet door open.
"Why, Gloria!"
"What?"
The lip line was being erased245 and corrected according to some mysterious perspective; not a finger trembled as she manipulated the lip-stick, not a glance wavered in his direction. It was a triumph of concentration.
"Haven't you ever sent out the laundry?"
"Is it there?"
"It most certainly is."
"Well, I guess I haven't, then."
"Gloria," began Anthony, sitting down on the bed and trying to catch her mirrored eyes, "you're a nice fellow, you are! I've sent it out every time it's been sent since we left New York, and over a week ago you promised you'd do it for a change. All you'd have to do would be to cram246 your own junk into that bag and ring for the chambermaid."
"Oh, why fuss about the laundry?" exclaimed Gloria petulantly247, "I'll take care of it."
"I haven't fussed about it. I'd just as soon divide the bother with you, but when we run out of handkerchiefs it's darn near time something's done."
Anthony considered that he was being extraordinarily248 logical. But Gloria, unimpressed, put away her cosmetics249 and casually offered him her back.
"Hook me up," she suggested; "Anthony, dearest, I forgot all about it. I meant to, honestly, and I will to-day. Don't be cross with your sweetheart."
What could Anthony do then but draw her down upon his knee and kiss a shade of color from her lips.
"But I don't mind," she murmured with a smile, radiant and magnanimous. "You can kiss all the paint off my lips any time you want."
They went down to tea. They bought some handkerchiefs in a notion store near by. All was forgotten.
But two days later Anthony looked in the closet and saw the bag still hung limp upon its hook and that the gay and vivid pile on the floor had increased surprisingly in height.
"Gloria!" he cried.
"Oh--" Her voice was full of real distress. Despairingly Anthony went to the phone and called the chambermaid.
"It seems to me," he said impatiently, "that you expect me to be some sort of French valet to you."
Gloria laughed, so infectiously that Anthony was unwise enough to smile. Unfortunate man! In some intangible manner his smile made her mistress of the situation--with an air of injured righteousness she went emphatically to the closet and began pushing her laundry violently into the bag. Anthony watched her--ashamed of himself.
"There!" she said, implying that her fingers had been worked to the bone by a brutal250 taskmaster.
He considered, nevertheless, that he had given her an object-lesson and that the matter was closed, but on the contrary it was merely beginning. Laundry pile followed laundry pile--at long intervals251; dearth252 of handkerchief followed dearth of handkerchief--at short ones; not to mention dearth of sock, of shirt, of everything. And Anthony found at length that either he must send it out himself or go through the increasingly unpleasant ordeal253 of a verbal battle with Gloria.
GLORIA AND GENERAL LEE
On their way East they stopped two days in Washington, strolling about with some hostility254 in its atmosphere of harsh repellent light, of distance without freedom, of pomp without splendor--it seemed a pasty-pale and self-conscious city. The second day they made an ill-advised trip to General Lee's old home at Arlington.
The bus which bore them was crowded with hot, unprosperous people, and Anthony, intimate to Gloria, felt a storm brewing255. It broke at the Zoo, where the party stopped for ten minutes. The Zoo, it seemed, smelt256 of monkeys. Anthony laughed; Gloria called down the curse of Heaven upon monkeys, including in her malevolence257 all the passengers of the bus and their perspiring258 offspring who had hied themselves monkey-ward.
Eventually the bus moved on to Arlington. There it met other busses and immediately a swarm259 of women and children were leaving a trail of peanut-shells through the halls of General Lee and crowding at length into the room where he was married. On the wall of this room a pleasing sign announced in large red letters "Ladies' Toilet." At this final blow Gloria broke down.
"I think it's perfectly260 terrible!" she said furiously, "the idea of letting these people come here! And of encouraging them by making these houses show-places."
"Well," objected Anthony, "if they weren't kept up they'd go to pieces."
"What if they did!" she exclaimed as they sought the wide pillared porch. "Do you think they've left a breath of 1860 here? This has become a thing of 1914."
"Don't you want to preserve old things?"
"But you _can't_, Anthony. Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they're preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. That graveyard261 at Tarrytown, for instance. The asses262 who give money to preserve things have spoiled that too. Sleepy Hollow's gone; Washington Irving's dead and his books are rotting in our estimation year by year--then let the graveyard rot too, as it should, as all things should. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics263 up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants264."
"So you think that just as a time goes to pieces its houses ought to go too?"
"Of course! Would you value your Keats letter if the signature was traced over to make it last longer? It's just because I love the past that I want this house to look back on its glamourous moment of youth and beauty, and I want its stairs to creak as if to the footsteps of women with hoop265 skirts and men in boots and spurs. But they've made it into a blondined, rouged-up old woman of sixty. It hasn't any right to look so prosperous. It might care enough for Lee to drop a brick now and then. How many of these--these _animals_"--she waved her hand around--"get anything from this, for all the histories and guide-books and restorations in existence? How many of them who think that, at best, appreciation266 is talking in undertones and walking on tiptoes would even come here if it was any trouble? I want it to smell of magnolias instead of peanuts and I want my shoes to crunch267 on the same gravel268 that Lee's boots crunched269 on. There's no beauty without poignancy270 and there's no poignancy without the feeling that it's going, men, names, books, houses--bound for dust--mortal--"
A small boy appeared beside them and, swinging a handful of banana-peels, flung them valiantly271 in the direction of the Potomac.
SENTIMENT
Simultaneously with the fall of Liège, Anthony and Gloria arrived in New York. In retrospect272 the six weeks seemed miraculously273 happy. They had found to a great extent, as most young couples find in some measure, that they possessed in common many fixed274 ideas and curiosities and odd quirks275 of mind; they were essentially276 companionable.
But it had been a struggle to keep many of their conversations on the level of discussions. Arguments were fatal to Gloria's disposition277. She had all her life been associated either with her mental inferiors or with men who, under the almost hostile intimidation278 of her beauty, had not dared to contradict her; naturally, then, it irritated her when Anthony emerged from the state in which her pronouncements were an infallible and ultimate decision.
He failed to realize, at first, that this was the result partly of her "female" education and partly of her beauty, and he was inclined to include her with her entire sex as curiously279 and definitely limited. It maddened him to find she had no sense of justice. But he discovered that, when a subject did interest her, her brain tired less quickly than his. What he chiefly missed in her mind was the pedantic280 teleology--the sense of order and accuracy, the sense of life as a mysteriously correlated piece of patchwork281, but he understood after a while that such a quality in her would have been incongruous.
Of the things they possessed in common, greatest of all was their almost uncanny pull at each other's hearts. The day they left the hotel in Coronado she sat down on one of the beds while they were packing, and began to weep bitterly.
"Dearest--" His arms were around her; he pulled her head down upon his shoulder. "What is it, my own Gloria? Tell me."
"We're going away," she sobbed282. "Oh, Anthony, it's sort of the first place we've lived together. Our two little beds here--side by side--they'll be always waiting for us, and we're never coming back to 'em any more."
She was tearing at his heart as she always could. Sentiment came over him, rushed into his eyes.
"Gloria, why, we're going on to another room. And two other little beds. We're going to be together all our lives."
Words flooded from her in a low husky voice.
"But it won't be--like our two beds--ever again. Everywhere we go and move on and change, something's lost--something's left behind. You can't ever quite repeat anything, and I've been so yours, here--"
He held her passionately75 near, discerning far beyond any criticism of her sentiment, a wise grasping of the minute, if only an indulgence of her desire to cry--Gloria the idler, caresser of her own dreams, extracting poignancy from the memorable283 things of life and youth.
Later in the afternoon when he returned from the station with the tickets he found her asleep on one of the beds, her arm curled about a black object which he could not at first identify. Coming closer he found it was one of his shoes, not a particularly new one, nor clean one, but her face, tear-stained, was pressed against it, and he understood her ancient and most honorable message. There was almost ecstasy284 in waking her and seeing her smile at him, shy but well aware of her own nicety of imagination.
With no appraisal285 of the worth or dross286 of these two things, it seemed to Anthony that they lay somewhere near the heart of love.
THE GRAY HOUSE
It is in the twenties that the actual momentum287 of life begins to slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty an organ-grinder is a more or less moth-eaten man who grinds an organ--and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma288 of humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory. A brilliant ball, gay with light romantic laughter, wears through its own silks and satins to show the bare framework of a man-made thing--oh, that eternal hand!--a play, most tragic289 and most divine, becomes merely a succession of speeches, sweated over by the eternal plagiarist290 in the clammy hours and acted by men subject to cramps291, cowardice, and manly292 sentiment.
And this time with Gloria and Anthony, this first year of marriage, and the gray house caught them in that stage when the organ-grinder was slowly undergoing his inevitable293 metamorphosis. She was twenty-three; he was twenty-six.
The gray house was, at first, of sheerly pastoral intent. They lived impatiently in Anthony's apartment for the first fortnight after the return from California, in a stifled atmosphere of open trunks, too many callers, and the eternal laundry-bags. They discussed with their friends the stupendous problem of their future. Dick and Maury would sit with them agreeing solemnly, almost thoughtfully, as Anthony ran through his list of what they "ought" to do, and where they "ought" to live.
"I'd like to take Gloria abroad," he complained, "except for this damn war--and next to that I'd sort of like to have a place in the country, somewhere near New York, of course, where I could write--or whatever I decide to do."
Gloria laughed.
"Isn't he cute?" she required of Maury. "'Whatever he decides to do!' But what am _I_ going to do if he works? Maury, will you take me around if Anthony works?"
"Anyway, I'm not going to work yet," said Anthony quickly.
It was vaguely294 understood between them that on some misty day he would enter a sort of glorified295 diplomatic service and be envied by princes and prime ministers for his beautiful wife.
"Well," said Gloria helplessly, "I'm sure I don't know. We talk and talk and never get anywhere, and we ask all our friends and they just answer the way we want 'em to. I wish somebody'd take care of us."
"Why don't you go out to--out to Greenwich or something?" suggested Richard Caramel.
"I'd like that," said Gloria, brightening. "Do you think we could get a house there?"
Dick shrugged296 his shoulders and Maury laughed.
"You two amuse me," he said. "Of all the unpractical people! As soon as a place is mentioned you expect us to pull great piles of photographs out of our pockets showing the different styles of architecture available in bungalows298."
"That's just what I don't want," wailed Gloria, "a hot stuffy299 bungalow297, with a lot of babies next door and their father cutting the grass in his shirt sleeves--"
"For Heaven's sake, Gloria," interrupted Maury, "nobody wants to lock you up in a bungalow. Who in God's name brought bungalows into the conversation? But you'll never get a place anywhere unless you go out and hunt for it."
"Go where? You say 'go out and hunt for it,' but where?"
With dignity Maury waved his hand paw-like about the room.
"Out anywhere. Out in the country. There're lots of places."
"Thanks."
"Look here!" Richard Caramel brought his yellow eye rakishly into play. "The trouble with you two is that you're all disorganized. Do you know anything about New York State? Shut up, Anthony, I'm talking to Gloria."
"Well," she admitted finally, "I've been to two or three house parties in Portchester and around in Connecticut--but, of course, that isn't in New York State, is it? And neither is Morristown," she finished with drowsy300 irrelevance301.
There was a shout of laughter.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Dick, "neither is Morristown!' No, and neither is Santa Barbara, Gloria. Now listen. To begin with, unless you have a fortune there's no use considering any place like Newport or Southhampton or Tuxedo302. They're out of the question."
They all agreed to this solemnly.
"And personally I hate New Jersey303. Then, of course, there's upper New York, above Tuxedo."
"Too cold," said Gloria briefly304. "I was there once in an automobile."
"Well, it seems to me there're a lot of towns like Rye between New York and Greenwich where you could buy a little gray house of some--"
Gloria leaped at the phrase triumphantly305. For the first time since their return East she knew what she wanted.
"Oh, _yes_!" she cried. "Oh, _yes_! that's it: a little gray house with sort of white around and a whole lot of swamp maples306 just as brown and gold as an October picture in a gallery. Where can we find one?"
"Unfortunately, I've mislaid my list of little gray houses with swamp maples around them--but I'll try to find it. Meanwhile you take a piece of paper and write down the names of seven possible towns. And every day this week you take a trip to one of those towns."
"Oh, gosh!" protested Gloria, collapsing308 mentally, "why won't you do it for us? I hate trains."
"Well, hire a car, and--"
Gloria yawned.
"I'm tired of discussing it. Seems to me all we do is talk about where to live."
"My exquisite wife wearies of thought," remarked Anthony ironically. "She must have a tomato sandwich to stimulate141 her jaded309 nerves. Let's go out to tea."
As the unfortunate upshot of this conversation, they took Dick's advice literally310, and two days later went out to Rye, where they wandered around with an irritated real estate agent, like bewildered babes in the wood. They were shown houses at a hundred a month which closely adjoined other houses at a hundred a month; they were shown isolated houses to which they invariably took violent dislikes, though they submitted weakly to the agent's desire that they "look at that stove--some stove!" and to a great shaking of doorposts and tapping of walls, intended evidently to show that the house would not immediately collapse311, no matter how convincingly it gave that impression. They gazed through windows into interiors furnished either "commercially" with slab-like chairs and unyielding settees, or "home-like" with the melancholy bric-à-brac of other summers--crossed tennis rackets, fit-form couches, and depressing Gibson girls. With a feeling of guilt312 they looked at a few really nice houses, aloof313, dignified314, and cool--at three hundred a month. They went away from Rye thanking the real estate agent very much indeed.
On the crowded train back to New York the seat behind was occupied by a super-respirating Latin whose last few meals had obviously been composed entirely of garlic. They reached the apartment gratefully, almost hysterically315, and Gloria rushed for a hot bath in the reproachless bathroom. So far as the question of a future abode316 was concerned both of them were incapacitated for a week.
The matter eventually worked itself out with unhoped-for romance. Anthony ran into the living room one afternoon fairly radiating "the idea."
"I've got it," he was exclaiming as though he had just caught a mouse. "We'll get a car."
"Gee317 whiz! Haven't we got troubles enough taking care of ourselves?"
"Give me a second to explain, can't you? just let's leave our stuff with Dick and just pile a couple of suitcases in our car, the one we're going to buy--we'll have to have one in the country anyway--and just start out in the direction of New Haven. You see, as we get out of commuting318 distance from New York, the rents'll get cheaper, and as soon as we find a house we want we'll just settle down."
By his frequent and soothing319 interpolation of the word "just" he aroused her lethargic320 enthusiasm. Strutting321 violently about the room, he simulated a dynamic and irresistible322 efficiency. "We'll buy a car to-morrow."
Life, limping after imagination's ten-league boots, saw them out of town a week later in a cheap but sparkling new roadster, saw them through the chaotic323 unintelligible324 Bronx, then over a wide murky325 district which alternated cheerless blue-green wastes with suburbs of tremendous and sordid326 activity. They left New York at eleven and it was well past a hot and beatific327 noon when they moved rakishly through Pelham.
"These aren't towns," said Gloria scornfully, "these are just city blocks plumped down coldly into waste acres. I imagine all the men here have their mustaches stained from drinking their coffee too quickly in the morning."
"And play pinochle on the commuting trains."
"What's pinochle?"
"Don't be so literal. How should I know? But it sounds as though they ought to play it."
"I like it. It sounds as if it were something where you sort of cracked your knuckles328 or something.... Let me drive."
Anthony looked at her suspiciously.
"You swear you're a good driver?"
"Since I was fourteen."
He stopped the car cautiously at the side of the road and they changed seats. Then with a horrible grinding noise the car was put in gear, Gloria adding an accompaniment of laughter which seemed to Anthony disquieting329 and in the worst possible taste.
"Here we go!" she yelled. "Whoo-oop!"
Their heads snapped back like marionettes on a single wire as the car leaped ahead and curved retchingly about a standing milk-wagon, whose driver stood up on his seat and bellowed330 after them. In the immemorial tradition of the road Anthony retorted with a few brief epigrams as to the grossness of the milk-delivering profession. He cut his remarks short, however, and turned to Gloria with the growing conviction that he had made a grave mistake in relinquishing331 control and that Gloria was a driver of many eccentricities332 and of infinite carelessness.
"Remember now!" he warned her nervously, "the man said we oughtn't to go over twenty miles an hour for the first five thousand miles."
She nodded briefly, but evidently intending to accomplish the prohibitive distance as quickly as possible, slightly increased her speed. A moment later he made another attempt.
"See that sign? Do you want to get us pinched?"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake," cried Gloria in exasperation333, "you _always_ exaggerate things so!"
"Well, I don't want to get arrested."
"Who's arresting you? You're so persistent--just like you were about my cough medicine last night."
"It was for your own good."
"Ha! I might as well be living with mama."
"What a thing to say to me!"
A standing policeman swerved334 into view, was hastily passed.
"See him?" demanded Anthony.
"Oh, you drive me crazy! He didn't arrest us, did he?"
"When he does it'll be too late," countered Anthony brilliantly.
Her reply was scornful, almost injured.
"Why, this old thing won't _go_ over thirty-five."
"It isn't old."
"It is in spirit."
That afternoon the car joined the laundry-bags and Gloria's appetite as one of the trinity of contention335. He warned her of railroad tracks; he pointed out approaching automobiles336; finally he insisted on taking the wheel and a furious, insulted Gloria sat silently beside him between the towns of Larchmont and Rye.
But it was due to this furious silence of hers that the gray house materialized from its abstraction, for just beyond Rye he surrendered gloomily to it and re-relinquished the wheel. Mutely he beseeched her and Gloria, instantly cheered, vowed337 to be more careful. But because a discourteous338 street-car persisted callously339 in remaining upon its track Gloria ducked down a side-street--and thereafter that afternoon was never able to find her way back to the Post Road. The street they finally mistook for it lost its Post-Road aspect when it had gone five miles from Cos Cob. Its macadam became gravel, then dirt--moreover, it narrowed and developed a border of maple307 trees, through which filtered the weltering sun, making its endless experiments with shadow designs upon the long grass.
"We're lost now," complained Anthony.
"Read that sign!"
"Marietta--Five Miles. What's Marietta?"
"Never heard of it, but let's go on. We can't turn here and there's probably a detour340 back to the Post Road."
The way became scarred with deepening ruts and insidious341 shoulders of stone. Three farmhouses342 faced them momentarily, slid by. A town sprang up in a cluster of dull roofs around a white tall steeple.
Then Gloria, hesitating between two approaches, and making her choice too late, drove over a fire-hydrant and ripped the transmission violently from the car.
It was dark when the real-estate agent of Marietta showed them the gray house. They came upon it just west of the village, where it rested against a sky that was a warm blue cloak buttoned with tiny stars. The gray house had been there when women who kept cats were probably witches, when Paul Revere343 made false teeth in Boston preparatory to arousing the great commercial people, when our ancestors were gloriously deserting Washington in droves. Since those days the house had been bolstered344 up in a feeble corner, considerably345 repartitioned and newly plastered inside, amplified346 by a kitchen and added to by a side-porch--but, save for where some jovial347 oaf had roofed the new kitchen with red tin, Colonial it defiantly348 remained.
"How did you happen to come to Marietta?" demanded the real-estate agent in a tone that was first cousin to suspicion. He was showing them through four spacious349 and airy bedrooms.
"We broke down," explained Gloria. "I drove over a fire-hydrant and we had ourselves towed to the garage and then we saw your sign."
The man nodded, unable to follow such a sally of spontaneity. There was something subtly immoral350 in doing anything without several months' consideration.
They signed a lease that night and, in the agent's car, returned jubilantly to the somnolent351 and dilapidated Marietta Inn, which was too broken for even the chance immoralities and consequent gaieties of a country road-house. Half the night they lay awake planning the things they were to do there. Anthony was going to work at an astounding352 pace on his history and thus ingratiate himself with his cynical grandfather.... When the car was repaired they would explore the country and join the nearest "really nice" club, where Gloria would play golf "or something" while Anthony wrote. This, of course, was Anthony's idea--Gloria was sure she wanted but to read and dream and be fed tomato sandwiches and lemonades by some angelic servant still in a shadowy hinterland. Between paragraphs Anthony would come and kiss her as she lay indolently in the hammock.... The hammock! a host of new dreams in tune149 to its imagined rhythm, while the wind stirred it and waves of sun undulated over the shadows of blown wheat, or the dusty road freckled353 and darkened with quiet summer rain....
And guests--here they had a long argument, both of them trying to be extraordinarily mature and far-sighted. Anthony claimed that they would need people at least every other week-end "as a sort of change." This provoked an involved and extremely sentimental conversation as to whether Anthony did not consider Gloria change enough. Though he assured her that he did, she insisted upon doubting him.... Eventually the conversation assumed its eternal monotone: "What then? Oh, what'll we do then?"
"Well, we'll have a dog," suggested Anthony.
"I don't want one. I want a kitty." She went thoroughly354 and with great enthusiasm into the history, habits, and tastes of a cat she had once possessed. Anthony considered that it must have been a horrible character with neither personal magnetism355 nor a loyal heart.
Later they slept, to wake an hour before dawn with the gray house dancing in phantom356 glory before their dazzled eyes.
THE SOUL OF GLORIA
For that autumn the gray house welcomed them with a rush of sentiment that falsified its cynical old age. True, there were the laundry-bags, there was Gloria's appetite, there was Anthony's tendency to brood and his imaginative "nervousness," but there were intervals also of an unhoped-for serenity357. Close together on the porch they would wait for the moon to stream across the silver acres of farmland, jump a thick wood and tumble waves of radiance at their feet. In such a moonlight Gloria's face was of a pervading358, reminiscent white, and with a modicum359 of effort they would slip off the blinders of custom and each would find in the other almost the quintessential romance of the vanished June.
One night while her head lay upon his heart and their cigarettes glowed in swerving360 buttons of light through the dome361 of darkness over the bed, she spoke for the first time and fragmentarily of the men who had hung for brief moments on her beauty.
"Do you ever think of them?" he asked her.
"Only occasionally--when something happens that recalls a particular man."
"What do you remember--their kisses?"
"All sorts of things.... Men are different with women."
"Different in what way?"
"Oh, entirely--and quite inexpressibly. Men who had the most firmly rooted reputation for being this way or that would sometimes be surprisingly inconsistent with me. Brutal men were tender, negligible men were astonishingly loyal and lovable, and, often, honorable men took attitudes that were anything but honorable."
"For instance?"
"Well, there was a boy named Percy Wolcott from Cornell who was quite a hero in college, a great athlete, and saved a lot of people from a fire or something like that. But I soon found he was stupid in a rather dangerous way."
"What way?"
"It seems he had some na?ve conception of a woman 'fit to be his wife,' a particular conception that I used to run into a lot and that always drove me wild. He demanded a girl who'd never been kissed and who liked to sew and sit home and pay tribute to his self-esteem. And I'll bet a hat if he's gotten an idiot to sit and be stupid with him he's tearing out on the side with some much speedier lady."
"I'd be sorry for his wife."
"I wouldn't. Think what an ass she'd be not to realize it before she married him. He's the sort whose idea of honoring and respecting a woman would be never to give her any excitement. With the best intentions, he was deep in the dark ages."
"What was his attitude toward you?"
"I'm coming to that. As I told you--or did I tell you?--he was mighty good-looking: big brown honest eyes and one of those smiles that guarantee the heart behind it is twenty-karat gold. Being young and credulous362, I thought he had some discretion363, so I kissed him fervently364 one night when we were riding around after a dance at the Homestead at Hot Springs. It had been a wonderful week, I remember--with the most luscious365 trees spread like green lather366, sort of, all over the valley and a mist rising out of them on October mornings like bonfires lit to turn them brown--"
"How about your friend with the ideals?" interrupted Anthony.
"It seems that when he kissed me he began to think that perhaps he could get away with a little more, that I needn't be 'respected' like this Beatrice Fairfax glad-girl of his imagination."
"What'd he do?"
"Not much. I pushed him off a sixteen-foot embankment before he was well started."
"Hurt him?" inquired Anthony with a laugh.
"Broke his arm and sprained367 his ankle. He told the story all over Hot Springs, and when his arm healed a man named Barley368 who liked me fought him and broke it over again. Oh, it was all an awful mess. He threatened to sue Barley, and Barley--he was from Georgia--was seen buying a gun in town. But before that mama had dragged me North again, much against my will, so I never did find out all that happened--though I saw Barley once in the Vanderbilt lobby."
Anthony laughed long and loud.
"What a career! I suppose I ought to be furious because you've kissed so many men. I'm not, though."
At this she sat up in bed.
"It's funny, but I'm so sure that those kisses left no mark on me--no taint204 of promiscuity369, I mean--even though a man once told me in all seriousness that he hated to think I'd been a public drinking glass."
"He had his nerve."
"I just laughed and told him to think of me rather as a loving-cup that goes from hand to hand but should be valued none the less."
"Somehow it doesn't bother me--on the other hand it would, of course, if you'd done any more than kiss them. But I believe _you're_ absolutely incapable of jealousy except as hurt vanity. Why don't you care what I've done? Wouldn't you prefer it if I'd been absolutely innocent?"
"It's all in the impression it might have made on you. _My_ kisses were because the man was good-looking, or because there was a slick moon, or even because I've felt vaguely sentimental and a little stirred. But that's all--it's had utterly no effect on me. But you'd remember and let memories haunt you and worry you."
"Haven't you ever kissed any one like you've kissed me?"
"No," she answered simply. "As I've told you, men have tried--oh, lots of things. Any pretty girl has that experience.... You see," she resumed, "it doesn't matter to me how many women you've stayed with in the past, so long as it was merely a physical satisfaction, but I don't believe I could endure the idea of your ever having lived with another woman for a protracted370 period or even having wanted to marry some possible girl. It's different somehow. There'd be all the little intimacies371 remembered--and they'd dull that freshness that after all is the most precious part of love."
Rapturously he pulled her down beside him on the pillow.
"Oh, my darling," he whispered, "as if I remembered anything but your dear kisses."
Then Gloria, in a very mild voice:
"Anthony, did I hear anybody say they were thirsty?"
Anthony laughed abruptly372 and with a sheepish and amused grin got out of bed.
"With just a _little_ piece of ice in the water," she added. "Do you suppose I could have that?"
Gloria used the adjective "little" whenever she asked a favor--it made the favor sound less arduous373. But Anthony laughed again--whether she wanted a cake of ice or a marble of it, he must go down-stairs to the kitchen.... Her voice followed him through the hall: "And just a _little_ cracker374 with just a _little_ marmalade on it...."
"Oh, gosh!" sighed Anthony in rapturous slang, "she's wonderful, that girl! She _has_ it!"
"When we have a baby," she began one day--this, it had already been decided, was to be after three years--"I want it to look like you."
"Except its legs," he insinuated375 slyly.
"Oh, yes, except his legs. He's got to have my legs. But the rest of him can be you."
"My nose?"
Gloria hesitated.
"Well, perhaps my nose. But certainly your eyes--and my mouth, and I guess my shape of the face. I wonder; I think he'd be sort of cute if he had my hair."
"My dear Gloria, you've appropriated the whole baby."
"Well, I didn't mean to," she apologized cheerfully.
"Let him have my neck at least," he urged, regarding himself gravely in the glass. "You've often said you liked my neck because the Adam's apple doesn't show, and, besides, your neck's too short."
"Why, it is _not_!" she cried indignantly, turning to the mirror, "it's just right. I don't believe I've ever seen a better neck."
"It's too short," he repeated teasingly.
"Short?" Her tone expressed exasperated376 wonder.
"Short? You're crazy!" She elongated377 and contracted it to convince herself of its reptilian378 sinuousness379. "Do you call _that_ a short neck?"
"One of the shortest I've ever seen."
For the first time in weeks tears started from Gloria's eyes and the look she gave him had a quality of real pain.
"Oh, Anthony--"
"My Lord, Gloria!" He approached her in bewilderment and took her elbows in his hands. "Don't cry, _please_! Didn't you know I was only kidding? Gloria, look at me! Why, dearest, you've got the longest neck I've ever seen. Honestly."
Her tears dissolved in a twisted smile.
"Well--you shouldn't have said that, then. Let's talk about the b-baby."
Anthony paced the floor and spoke as though rehearsing for a debate.
"To put it briefly, there are two babies we could have, two distinct and logical babies, utterly differentiated380. There's the baby that's the combination of the best of both of us. Your body, my eyes, my mind, your intelligence--and then there is the baby which is our worst--my body, your disposition, and my irresolution381."
"I like that second baby," she said.
"What I'd really like," continued Anthony, "would be to have two sets of triplets one year apart and then experiment with the six boys--"
"Poor me," she interjected.
"--I'd educate them each in a different country and by a different system and when they were twenty-three I'd call them together and see what they were like."
"Let's have 'em all with my neck," suggested Gloria.
THE END OF A CHAPTER
The car was at length repaired and with a deliberate vengeance382 took up where it left off the business of causing infinite dissension. Who should drive? How fast should Gloria go? These two questions and the eternal recriminations involved ran through the days. They motored to the Post-Road towns, Rye, Portchester, and Greenwich, and called on a dozen friends, mostly Gloria's, who all seemed to be in different stages of having babies and in this respect as well as in others bored her to a point of nervous distraction383. For an hour after each visit she would bite her fingers furiously and be inclined to take out her rancor384 on Anthony.
"I loathe385 women," she cried in a mild temper. "What on earth can you say to them--except talk 'lady-lady'? I've enthused over a dozen babies that I've wanted only to choke. And every one of those girls is either incipiently386 jealous and suspicious of her husband if he's charming or beginning to be bored with him if he isn't."
"Don't you ever intend to see any women?"
"I don't know. They never seem clean to me--never--never. Except just a few. Constance Shaw--you know, the Mrs. Merriam who came over to see us last Tuesday--is almost the only one. She's so tall and fresh-looking and stately."
"I don't like them so tall."
Though they went to several dinner dances at various country clubs, they decided that the autumn was too nearly over for them to "go out" on any scale, even had they been so inclined. He hated golf; Gloria liked it only mildly, and though she enjoyed a violent rush that some undergraduates gave her one night and was glad that Anthony should be proud of her beauty, she also perceived that their hostess for the evening, a Mrs. Granby, was somewhat disquieted387 by the fact that Anthony's classmate, Alec Granby, joined with enthusiasm in the rush. The Granbys never phoned again, and though Gloria laughed, it piqued her not a little.
"You see," she explained to Anthony, "if I wasn't married it wouldn't worry her--but she's been to the movies in her day and she thinks I may be a vampire388. But the point is that placating389 such people requires an effort that I'm simply unwilling20 to make.... And those cute little freshmen390 making eyes at me and paying me idiotic391 compliments! I've grown up, Anthony."
Marietta itself offered little social life. Half a dozen farm-estates formed a hectagon around it, but these belonged to ancient men who displayed themselves only as inert392, gray-thatched lumps in the back of limousines393 on their way to the station, whither they were sometimes accompanied by equally ancient and doubly massive wives. The townspeople were a particularly uninteresting type--unmarried females were predominant for the most part--with school-festival horizons and souls bleak394 as the forbidding white architecture of the three churches. The only native with whom they came into close contact was the broad-hipped, broad-shouldered Swedish girl who came every day to do their work. She was silent and efficient, and Gloria, after finding her weeping violently into her bowed arms upon the kitchen table, developed an uncanny fear of her and stopped complaining about the food. Because of her untold395 and esoteric grief the girl stayed on.
Gloria's penchant396 for premonitions and her bursts of vague supernaturalism were a surprise to Anthony. Either some complex, properly and scientifically inhibited397 in the early years with her Bilphistic mother, or some inherited hypersensitiveness, made her susceptible to any suggestion of the psychic, and, far from gullible398 about the motives399 of people, she was inclined to credit any extraordinary happening attributed to the whimsical perambulations of the buried. The desperate squeakings about the old house on windy nights that to Anthony were burglars with revolvers ready in hand represented to Gloria the auras, evil and restive400, of dead generations, expiating401 the inexpiable upon the ancient and romantic hearth402. One night, because of two swift bangs down-stairs, which Anthony fearfully but unavailingly investigated, they lay awake nearly until dawn asking each other examination-paper questions about the history of the world.
In October Muriel came out for a two weeks' visit. Gloria had called her on long-distance, and Miss Kane ended the conversation characteristically by saying "All-ll-ll righty. I'll be there with bells!" She arrived with a dozen popular songs under her arm.
"You ought to have a phonograph out here in the country," she said, "just a little Vic--they don't cost much. Then whenever you're lonesome you can have Caruso or Al Jolson right at your door."
She worried Anthony to distraction by telling him that "he was the first clever man she had ever known and she got so tired of shallow people." He wondered that people fell in love with such women. Yet he supposed that under a certain impassioned glance even she might take on a softness and promise.
But Gloria, violently showing off her love for Anthony, was diverted into a state of purring content.
Finally Richard Caramel arrived for a garrulous403 and to Gloria painfully literary week-end, during which he discussed himself with Anthony long after she lay in childlike sleep up-stairs.
"It's been mighty funny, this success and all," said Dick. "Just before the novel appeared I'd been trying, without success, to sell some short stories. Then, after my book came out, I polished up three and had them accepted by one of the magazines that had rejected them before. I've done a lot of them since; publishers don't pay me for my book till this winter."
"Don't let the victor belong to the spoils."
"You mean write trash?" He considered. "If you mean deliberately404 injecting a slushy fade-out into each one, I'm not. But I don't suppose I'm being so careful. I'm certainly writing faster and I don't seem to be thinking as much as I used to. Perhaps it's because I don't get any conversation, now that you're married and Maury's gone to Philadelphia. Haven't the old urge and ambition. Early success and all that."
"Doesn't it worry you?"
"Frantically405. I get a thing I call sentence-fever that must be like buck-fever--it's a sort of intense literary self-consciousness that comes when I try to force myself. But the really awful days aren't when I think I can't write. They're when I wonder whether any writing is worth while at all--I mean whether I'm not a sort of glorified buffoon406."
"I like to hear you talk that way," said Anthony with a touch of his old patronizing insolence407. "I was afraid you'd gotten a bit idiotic over your work. Read the damnedest interview you gave out----"
Dick interrupted with an agonized408 expression.
"Good Lord! Don't mention it. Young lady wrote it--most admiring young lady. Kept telling me my work was 'strong,' and I sort of lost my head and made a lot of strange pronouncements. Some of it was good, though, don't you think?"
"Oh, yes; that part about the wise writer writing for the youth of his generation, the critic of the next, and the schoolmaster of ever afterward."
"Oh, I believe a lot of it," admitted Richard Caramel with a faint beam. "It simply was a mistake to give it out."
In November they moved into Anthony's apartment, from which they sallied triumphantly to the Yale-Harvard and Harvard-Princeton football games, to the St. Nicholas ice-skating rink, to a thorough round of the theatres and to a miscellany of entertainments--from small, staid dances to the great affairs that Gloria loved, held in those few houses where lackeys409 with powdered wigs410 scurried411 around in magnificent Anglomania under the direction of gigantic majordomos. Their intention was to go abroad the first of the year or, at any rate, when the war was over. Anthony had actually completed a Chestertonian essay on the twelfth century by way of introduction to his proposed book and Gloria had done some extensive research work on the question of Russian sable412 coats--in fact the winter was approaching quite comfortably, when the Bilphistic demiurge decided suddenly in mid-December that Mrs. Gilbert's soul had aged125 sufficiently413 in its present incarnation. In consequence Anthony took a miserable and hysterical Gloria out to Kansas City, where, in the fashion of mankind, they paid the terrible and mind-shaking deference414 to the dead.
Mr. Gilbert became, for the first and last time in his life, a truly pathetic figure. That woman he had broken to wait upon his body and play congregation to his mind had ironically deserted415 him--just when he could not much longer have supported her. Never again would he be able so satisfactorily to bore and bully416 a human soul.
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12 scribbled | |
v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 );乱画;草草地写;匆匆记下 | |
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13 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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14 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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15 gossamer | |
n.薄纱,游丝 | |
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16 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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17 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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18 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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19 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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20 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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21 evasions | |
逃避( evasion的名词复数 ); 回避; 遁辞; 借口 | |
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22 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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23 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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24 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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25 piqued | |
v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 );激起(好奇心) | |
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26 recondite | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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27 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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28 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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29 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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30 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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31 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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32 presumption | |
n.推测,可能性,冒昧,放肆,[法律]推定 | |
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33 exertion | |
n.尽力,努力 | |
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34 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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35 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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36 disapproval | |
n.反对,不赞成 | |
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37 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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38 arena | |
n.竞技场,运动场所;竞争场所,舞台 | |
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39 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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40 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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41 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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42 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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43 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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44 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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45 heyday | |
n.全盛时期,青春期 | |
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46 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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47 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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48 clotted | |
adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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50 stark | |
adj.荒凉的;严酷的;完全的;adv.完全地 | |
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51 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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52 mountebank | |
n.江湖郎中;骗子 | |
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53 metropolitan | |
adj.大城市的,大都会的 | |
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54 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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55 technically | |
adv.专门地,技术上地 | |
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56 inefficient | |
adj.效率低的,无效的 | |
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57 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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58 tact | |
n.机敏,圆滑,得体 | |
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59 alluded | |
提及,暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 doze | |
v.打瞌睡;n.打盹,假寐 | |
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61 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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62 divers | |
adj.不同的;种种的 | |
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63 eddying | |
涡流,涡流的形成 | |
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64 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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65 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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66 halcyon | |
n.平静的,愉快的 | |
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67 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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68 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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69 wizened | |
adj.凋谢的;枯槁的 | |
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70 grizzly | |
adj.略为灰色的,呈灰色的;n.灰色大熊 | |
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71 chuckling | |
轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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72 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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73 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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74 temporized | |
v.敷衍( temporize的过去式和过去分词 );拖延;顺应时势;暂时同意 | |
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75 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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76 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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77 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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78 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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79 browbeating | |
v.(以言辞或表情)威逼,恫吓( browbeat的现在分词 ) | |
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80 stiffened | |
加强的 | |
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81 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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82 proprietary | |
n.所有权,所有的;独占的;业主 | |
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83 embarrassment | |
n.尴尬;使人为难的人(事物);障碍;窘迫 | |
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84 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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85 rustled | |
v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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87 chuckle | |
vi./n.轻声笑,咯咯笑 | |
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88 digestion | |
n.消化,吸收 | |
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89 ushers | |
n.引座员( usher的名词复数 );招待员;门房;助理教员v.引,领,陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90 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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91 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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92 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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93 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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94 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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95 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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96 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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97 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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98 burlesque | |
v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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99 columnist | |
n.专栏作家 | |
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100 innuendo | |
n.暗指,讽刺 | |
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101 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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102 morsel | |
n.一口,一点点 | |
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103 succumbed | |
不再抵抗(诱惑、疾病、攻击等)( succumb的过去式和过去分词 ); 屈从; 被压垮; 死 | |
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104 moody | |
adj.心情不稳的,易怒的,喜怒无常的 | |
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105 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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106 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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107 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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108 scattering | |
n.[物]散射;散乱,分散;在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的;分散在不同范围的;广泛扩散的;(选票)数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式);散布;驱散 | |
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109 avalanche | |
n.雪崩,大量涌来 | |
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110 goblets | |
n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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111 cocktail | |
n.鸡尾酒;餐前开胃小吃;混合物 | |
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112 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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113 plaza | |
n.广场,市场 | |
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114 bulged | |
凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 ); 充满; 塞满(某物) | |
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115 trophies | |
n.(为竞赛获胜者颁发的)奖品( trophy的名词复数 );奖杯;(尤指狩猎或战争中获得的)纪念品;(用于比赛或赛跑名称)奖 | |
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116 munificent | |
adj.慷慨的,大方的 | |
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117 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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118 concession | |
n.让步,妥协;特许(权) | |
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119 necessitate | |
v.使成为必要,需要 | |
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120 marital | |
adj.婚姻的,夫妻的 | |
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121 exulted | |
狂喜,欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122 rapaciousness | |
n.贪婪;强取,贪婪 | |
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123 tabulating | |
把(数字、事实)列成表( tabulate的现在分词 ); 制表 | |
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124 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
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125 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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126 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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127 ERECTED | |
adj. 直立的,竖立的,笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立,建立 | |
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128 pajamas | |
n.睡衣裤 | |
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129 illegible | |
adj.难以辨认的,字迹模糊的 | |
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130 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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131 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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132 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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133 exuberantly | |
adv.兴高采烈地,活跃地,愉快地 | |
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134 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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135 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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136 tarnished | |
(通常指金属)(使)失去光泽,(使)变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 ); 玷污,败坏 | |
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137 overdone | |
v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 );太夸张;把…煮得太久;(工作等)过度 | |
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138 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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139 susceptible | |
adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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140 stimulates | |
v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 );激励;使兴奋;起兴奋作用,起刺激作用,起促进作用 | |
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141 stimulate | |
vt.刺激,使兴奋;激励,使…振奋 | |
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142 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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143 vices | |
缺陷( vice的名词复数 ); 恶习; 不道德行为; 台钳 | |
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144 undesirable | |
adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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145 bellies | |
n.肚子( belly的名词复数 );腹部;(物体的)圆形或凸起部份;腹部…形的 | |
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146 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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147 wedded | |
adj.正式结婚的;渴望…的,执著于…的v.嫁,娶,(与…)结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148 opportune | |
adj.合适的,适当的 | |
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149 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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150 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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151 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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152 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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154 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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155 veranda | |
n.走廊;阳台 | |
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156 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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157 anticipation | |
n.预期,预料,期望 | |
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158 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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159 parlors | |
客厅( parlor的名词复数 ); 起居室; (旅馆中的)休息室; (通常用来构成合成词)店 | |
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160 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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161 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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162 vaudeville | |
n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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163 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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164 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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165 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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166 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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167 reiterated | |
反复地说,重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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168 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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169 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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170 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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171 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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172 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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173 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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174 fumbling | |
n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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175 platinum | |
n.白金 | |
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176 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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177 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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178 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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179 Prohibitionist | |
禁酒主义者 | |
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180 gad | |
n.闲逛;v.闲逛 | |
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181 ragtime | |
n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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182 grooms | |
n.新郎( groom的名词复数 );马夫v.照料或梳洗(马等)( groom的第三人称单数 );使做好准备;训练;(给动物)擦洗 | |
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183 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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184 recapitulates | |
n.总结,扼要重述( recapitulate的名词复数 )v.总结,扼要重述( recapitulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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185 chatter | |
vi./n.喋喋不休;短促尖叫;(牙齿)打战 | |
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186 overture | |
n.前奏曲、序曲,提议,提案,初步交涉 | |
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187 groans | |
n.呻吟,叹息( groan的名词复数 );呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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188 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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189 slashed | |
v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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190 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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191 perversely | |
adv. 倔强地 | |
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192 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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193 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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194 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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195 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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196 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197 absurdities | |
n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 );荒谬;谬论;荒谬的行为 | |
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198 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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199 intermittent | |
adj.间歇的,断断续续的 | |
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200 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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201 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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202 redeeming | |
补偿的,弥补的 | |
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203 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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204 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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205 dozing | |
v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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206 tangible | |
adj.有形的,可触摸的,确凿的,实际的 | |
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207 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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208 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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209 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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210 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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211 engrossed | |
adj.全神贯注的 | |
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212 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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213 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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214 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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215 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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216 vestige | |
n.痕迹,遗迹,残余 | |
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217 conclusively | |
adv.令人信服地,确凿地 | |
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218 tugging | |
n.牵引感v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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219 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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220 feigning | |
假装,伪装( feign的现在分词 ); 捏造(借口、理由等) | |
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221 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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222 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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223 revolved | |
v.(使)旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 );细想 | |
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224 tack | |
n.大头钉;假缝,粗缝 | |
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225 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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226 inordinate | |
adj.无节制的;过度的 | |
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227 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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228 commendable | |
adj.值得称赞的 | |
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229 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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230 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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231 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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232 rattled | |
慌乱的,恼火的 | |
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233 Flared | |
adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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234 succinctly | |
adv.简洁地;简洁地,简便地 | |
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235 wailed | |
v.哭叫,哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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236 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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237 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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238 sophistry | |
n.诡辩 | |
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239 poking | |
n. 刺,戳,袋 vt. 拨开,刺,戳 vi. 戳,刺,捅,搜索,伸出,行动散慢 | |
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240 abated | |
减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 ); 减去; 降价; 撤消(诉讼) | |
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241 lugubrious | |
adj.悲哀的,忧郁的 | |
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242 temperaments | |
性格( temperament的名词复数 ); (人或动物的)气质; 易冲动; (性情)暴躁 | |
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243 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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244 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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245 erased | |
v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;清除 | |
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246 cram | |
v.填塞,塞满,临时抱佛脚,为考试而学习 | |
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247 petulantly | |
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248 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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249 cosmetics | |
n.化妆品 | |
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250 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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251 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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252 dearth | |
n.缺乏,粮食不足,饥谨 | |
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253 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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254 hostility | |
n.敌对,敌意;抵制[pl.]交战,战争 | |
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255 brewing | |
n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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256 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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257 malevolence | |
n.恶意,狠毒 | |
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258 perspiring | |
v.出汗,流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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259 swarm | |
n.(昆虫)等一大群;vi.成群飞舞;蜂拥而入 | |
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260 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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261 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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262 asses | |
n. 驴,愚蠢的人,臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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263 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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264 stimulants | |
n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 );含兴奋剂的饮料;刺激物;激励物 | |
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265 hoop | |
n.(篮球)篮圈,篮 | |
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266 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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267 crunch | |
n.关键时刻;艰难局面;v.发出碎裂声 | |
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268 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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269 crunched | |
v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 );嘎吱作响;(快速大量地)处理信息;数字捣弄 | |
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270 poignancy | |
n.辛酸事,尖锐 | |
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271 valiantly | |
adv.勇敢地,英勇地;雄赳赳 | |
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272 retrospect | |
n.回顾,追溯;v.回顾,回想,追溯 | |
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273 miraculously | |
ad.奇迹般地 | |
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274 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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275 quirks | |
n.奇事,巧合( quirk的名词复数 );怪癖 | |
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276 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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277 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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278 intimidation | |
n.恐吓,威胁 | |
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279 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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280 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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281 patchwork | |
n.混杂物;拼缝物 | |
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282 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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283 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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284 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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285 appraisal | |
n.对…作出的评价;评价,鉴定,评估 | |
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286 dross | |
n.渣滓;无用之物 | |
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287 momentum | |
n.动力,冲力,势头;动量 | |
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288 stigma | |
n.耻辱,污名;(花的)柱头 | |
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289 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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290 plagiarist | |
n.剽窃者,文抄公 | |
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291 cramps | |
n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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292 manly | |
adj.有男子气概的;adv.男子般地,果断地 | |
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293 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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294 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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295 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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296 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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297 bungalow | |
n.平房,周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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298 bungalows | |
n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 );单层小屋,多于一层的小屋 | |
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299 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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300 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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301 irrelevance | |
n.无关紧要;不相关;不相关的事物 | |
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302 tuxedo | |
n.礼服,无尾礼服 | |
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303 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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304 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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305 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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306 maples | |
槭树,枫树( maple的名词复数 ); 槭木 | |
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307 maple | |
n.槭树,枫树,槭木 | |
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308 collapsing | |
压扁[平],毁坏,断裂 | |
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309 jaded | |
adj.精疲力竭的;厌倦的;(因过饱或过多而)腻烦的;迟钝的 | |
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310 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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311 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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312 guilt | |
n.犯罪;内疚;过失,罪责 | |
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313 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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314 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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315 hysterically | |
ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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316 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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317 gee | |
n.马;int.向右!前进!,惊讶时所发声音;v.向右转 | |
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318 commuting | |
交换(的) | |
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319 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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320 lethargic | |
adj.昏睡的,懒洋洋的 | |
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321 strutting | |
加固,支撑物 | |
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322 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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323 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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324 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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325 murky | |
adj.黑暗的,朦胧的;adv.阴暗地,混浊地;n.阴暗;昏暗 | |
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326 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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327 beatific | |
adj.快乐的,有福的 | |
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328 knuckles | |
n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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329 disquieting | |
adj.令人不安的,令人不平静的v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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330 bellowed | |
v.发出吼叫声,咆哮(尤指因痛苦)( bellow的过去式和过去分词 );(愤怒地)说出(某事),大叫 | |
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331 relinquishing | |
交出,让给( relinquish的现在分词 ); 放弃 | |
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332 eccentricities | |
n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 );反常;怪癖 | |
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333 exasperation | |
n.愤慨 | |
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334 swerved | |
v.(使)改变方向,改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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335 contention | |
n.争论,争辩,论战;论点,主张 | |
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336 automobiles | |
n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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337 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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338 discourteous | |
adj.不恭的,不敬的 | |
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339 callously | |
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340 detour | |
n.绕行的路,迂回路;v.迂回,绕道 | |
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341 insidious | |
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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342 farmhouses | |
n.农舍,农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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343 revere | |
vt.尊崇,崇敬,敬畏 | |
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344 bolstered | |
v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 );支撑;给予必要的支持;援助 | |
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345 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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346 amplified | |
放大,扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 ); 增强; 详述 | |
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347 jovial | |
adj.快乐的,好交际的 | |
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348 defiantly | |
adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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349 spacious | |
adj.广阔的,宽敞的 | |
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350 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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351 somnolent | |
adj.想睡的,催眠的;adv.瞌睡地;昏昏欲睡地;使人瞌睡地 | |
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352 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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353 freckled | |
adj.雀斑;斑点;晒斑;(使)生雀斑v.雀斑,斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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354 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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355 magnetism | |
n.磁性,吸引力,磁学 | |
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356 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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357 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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358 pervading | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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359 modicum | |
n.少量,一小份 | |
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360 swerving | |
v.(使)改变方向,改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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361 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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362 credulous | |
adj.轻信的,易信的 | |
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363 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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364 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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365 luscious | |
adj.美味的;芬芳的;肉感的,引与性欲的 | |
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366 lather | |
n.(肥皂水的)泡沫,激动 | |
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367 sprained | |
v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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368 barley | |
n.大麦,大麦粒 | |
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369 promiscuity | |
n.混杂,混乱;(男女的)乱交 | |
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370 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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371 intimacies | |
亲密( intimacy的名词复数 ); 密切; 亲昵的言行; 性行为 | |
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372 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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373 arduous | |
adj.艰苦的,费力的,陡峭的 | |
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374 cracker | |
n.(无甜味的)薄脆饼干 | |
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375 insinuated | |
v.暗示( insinuate的过去式和过去分词 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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376 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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377 elongated | |
v.延长,加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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378 reptilian | |
adj.(像)爬行动物的;(像)爬虫的;卑躬屈节的;卑鄙的n.两栖动物;卑劣的人 | |
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379 sinuousness | |
n.弯曲;错综复杂 | |
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380 differentiated | |
区分,区别,辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 ); 区别对待; 表明…间的差别,构成…间差别的特征 | |
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381 irresolution | |
n.不决断,优柔寡断,犹豫不定 | |
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382 vengeance | |
n.报复,报仇,复仇 | |
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383 distraction | |
n.精神涣散,精神不集中,消遣,娱乐 | |
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384 rancor | |
n.深仇,积怨 | |
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385 loathe | |
v.厌恶,嫌恶 | |
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386 incipiently | |
adv.起初地,早期地 | |
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387 disquieted | |
v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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388 vampire | |
n.吸血鬼 | |
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389 placating | |
v.安抚,抚慰,使平静( placate的现在分词 ) | |
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390 freshmen | |
n.(中学或大学的)一年级学生( freshman的名词复数 ) | |
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391 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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392 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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393 limousines | |
n.豪华轿车( limousine的名词复数 );(往返机场接送旅客的)中型客车,小型公共汽车 | |
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394 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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395 untold | |
adj.数不清的,无数的 | |
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396 penchant | |
n.爱好,嗜好;(强烈的)倾向 | |
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397 inhibited | |
a.拘谨的,拘束的 | |
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398 gullible | |
adj.易受骗的;轻信的 | |
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399 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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400 restive | |
adj.不安宁的,不安静的 | |
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401 expiating | |
v.为(所犯罪过)接受惩罚,赎(罪)( expiate的现在分词 ) | |
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402 hearth | |
n.壁炉炉床,壁炉地面 | |
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403 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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404 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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405 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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406 buffoon | |
n.演出时的丑角 | |
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407 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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408 agonized | |
v.使(极度)痛苦,折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 );苦斗;苦苦思索;感到极度痛苦 | |
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409 lackeys | |
n.听差( lackey的名词复数 );男仆(通常穿制服);卑躬屈膝的人;被待为奴仆的人 | |
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410 wigs | |
n.假发,法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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411 scurried | |
v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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412 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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413 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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414 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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415 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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416 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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