_The room itself is in messy disorder8. On the table is a dish of fruit, which is real but appears artificial. Around it are grouped an ominous9 assortment11 of decanters, glasses, and heaped ash-trays, the latter still raising wavy12 smoke-ladders into the stale air, the effect on the whole needing but a skull13 to resemble that venerable chromo, once a fixture14 in every "den," which presents the appendages15 to the life of pleasure with delightful16 and awe17-inspiring sentiment._
_After a while the sprightly18 solo of the supercricket is interrupted rather than joined by a new sound--the melancholy19 wail20 of an erratically21 fingered flute22. It is obvious that the musician is practising rather than performing, for from time to time the gnarled strain breaks off and, after an interval24 of indistinct mutterings, recommences._
_Just prior to the seventh false start a third sound contributes to the subdued25 discord26. It is a taxi outside. A minute's silence, then the taxi again, its boisterous27 retreat almost obliterating28 the scrape of footsteps on the cinder29 walk. The door-bell shrieks30 alarmingly through the house._
_From the kitchen enters a small, fatigued31 Japanese, hastily buttoning a servant's coat of white duck. He opens the front screen-door and admits a handsome young man of thirty, clad in the sort of well-intentioned clothes peculiar32 to those who serve mankind. To his whole personality clings a well-intentioned air: his glance about the room is compounded of curiosity and a determined33 optimism; when he looks at Tana the entire burden of uplifting the godless Oriental is in his eyes. His name is_ FREDERICK E. PARAMORE. _He was at Harvard with_ ANTHONY, _where because of the initials of their surnames they were constantly placed next to each other in classes. A fragmentary acquaintance developed--but since that time they have never met._
_Nevertheless,_ PARAMORE _enters the room with a certain air of arriving for the evening._
_Tana is answering a question._
TANA: (_Grinning with ingratiation_) Gone to Inn for dinnah. Be back half-hour. Gone since ha' past six.
PARAMORE: (_Regarding the glasses on the table_) Have they company?
TANA: Yes. Company. Mistah Caramel, Mistah and Missays Barnes, Miss Kane, all stay here.
PARAMORE: I see. (_Kindly_) They've been having a spree, I see.
TANA: I no un'stan'.
PARAMORE: They've been having a fling.
TANA: Yes, they have drink. Oh, many, many, many drink.
PARAMORE: (_Receding delicately from the subject_) "Didn't I hear the sounds of music as I approached the house"?
TANA:(_With a spasmodic giggle_)Yes, I play.
PARAMORE: One of the Japanese instruments.
(_He is quite obviously a subscriber37 to the "National Geographic38 Magazine_.")
TANA: I play flu-u-ute, Japanese flu-u-ute.
PARAMORE: What song were you playing? One of your Japanese melodies?
TANA:(_His brow undergoing preposterous39 contraction_) I play train song. How you call?--railroad song. So call in my countree. Like train. It go so-o-o; that mean whistle; train start. Then go so-o-o; that mean train go. Go like that. Vera nice song in my countree. Children song.
PARAMORE: It sounded very nice. (_It is apparent at this point that only a gigantic effort at control restrains Tana from rushing up-stairs for his post cards, including the six made in America_.)
TANA: I fix high-ball for gentleman?
PARAMORE: "No, thanks. I don't use it". (_He smiles_.)
(TANA _withdraws into the kitchen, leaving the intervening door slightly ajar. From the crevice40 there suddenly issues again the melody of the Japanese train song--this time not a practice, surely, but a performance, a lusty, spirited performance._
_The phone rings._ TANA, _absorbed in his harmonics, gives no heed41, so_ PARAMORE _takes up the receiver_.)
PARAMORE: Hello.... Yes.... No, he's not here now, but he'll be back any moment.... Butterworth? Hello, I didn't quite catch the name.... Hello, hello, hello. Hello! ... Huh!
(_The phone obstinately42 refuses to yield up any more sound. Paramore replaces the receiver._
_At this point the taxi motif43 re-enters, wafting44 with it a second young man; he carries a suitcase and opens the front door without ringing the bell._)
MAURY: (_In the hall_) "Oh, Anthony! Yoho"! (_He comes into the large room and sees_ PARAMORE) How do?
PARAMORE: (_Gazing at him with gathering45 intensity_) Is this--is this Maury Noble?
MAURY: "That's it". (_He advances, smiling, and holding out his hand_) How are you, old boy? Haven't seen you for years.
(_He has vaguely47 associated the face with Harvard, but is not even positive about that. The name, if he ever knew it, he has long since forgotten. However, with a fine sensitiveness and an equally commendable48 charity_ PARAMORE _recognizes the fact and tactfully relieves the situation_.)
PARAMORE: You've forgotten Fred Paramore? We were both in old Unc Robert's history class.
MAURY: No, I haven't, Unc--I mean Fred. Fred was--I mean Unc was a great old fellow, wasn't he?
PARAMORE: (_Nodding his head humorously several times_) Great old character. Great old character.
MAURY: (_After a short pause_) Yes--he was. Where's Anthony?
PARAMORE: The Japanese servant told me he was at some inn. Having dinner, I suppose.
MAURY: (_Looking at his watch_) Gone long?
PARAMORE: I guess so. The Japanese told me they'd be back shortly.
MAURY: Suppose we have a drink.
PARAMORE: No, thanks. I don't use it. (_He smiles_.)
MAURY: Mind if I do? (_Yawning as he helps himself from a bottle_) What have you been doing since you left college?
PARAMORE: Oh, many things. I've led a very active life. Knocked about here and there. (_His tone implies anything front lion-stalking to organized crime._)
MAURY: Oh, been over to Europe?
PARAMORE: No, I haven't--unfortunately.
MAURY: I guess we'll all go over before long.
PARAMORE: Do you really think so?
MAURY: Sure! Country's been fed on sensationalism for more than two years. Everybody getting restless. Want to have some fun.
PARAMORE: Then you don't believe any ideals are at stake?
MAURY: Nothing of much importance. People want excitement every so often.
PARAMORE: (_Intently_) It's very interesting to hear you say that. Now I was talking to a man who'd been over there----
(_During the ensuing testament50, left to be filled in by the reader with such phrases as "Saw with his own eyes," "Splendid spirit of France," and "Salvation51 of civilization,"_ MAURY _sits with lowered eyelids52, dispassionately bored._)
MAURY: (_At the first available opportunity_) By the way, do you happen to know that there's a German agent in this very house?
PARAMORE: (_Smiling cautiously_) Are you serious?
MAURY: Absolutely. Feel it my duty to warn you.
PARAMORE: (_Convinced_) A governess?
MAURY: (_In a whisper, indicating the kitchen with his thumb_) _Tana!_ That's not his real name. I understand he constantly gets mail addressed to Lieutenant55 Emile Tannenbaum.
PARAMORE: (_Laughing with hearty56 tolerance_) You were kidding me.
MAURY: I may be accusing him falsely. But, you haven't told me what you've been doing.
PARAMORE: For one thing--writing.
MAURY: Fiction?
PARAMORE: No. Non-fiction.
MAURY: What's that? A sort of literature that's half fiction and half fact?
PARAMORE: Oh, I've confined myself to fact. I've been doing a good deal of social-service work.
MAURY: Oh!
(_An immediate57 glow of suspicion leaps into his eyes. It is as though_ PARAMORE _had announced himself as an amateur pickpocket58._)
PARAMORE: At present I'm doing service work in Stamford. Only last week some one told me that Anthony Patch lived so near.
(_They are interrupted by a clamor outside, unmistakable as that of two sexes in conversation and laughter. Then there enter the room in a body_ ANTHONY, GLORIA, RICHARD CARAMEL, MURIEL KANE, RACHAEL BARNES _and_ RODMAN BARNES, _her husband. They surge about_ MAURY, _illogically replying_ "Fine!" _to his general_ "Hello." ... ANTHONY, _meanwhile, approaches his other guest._)
ANTHONY: Well, I'll be darned. How are you? Mighty59 glad to see you.
PARAMORE: It's good to see you, Anthony. I'm stationed in Stamford, so I thought I'd run over. (_Roguishly_) We have to work to beat the devil most of the time, so we're entitled to a few hours' vacation.
(_In an agony of concentration_ ANTHONY _tries to recall the name. After a struggle of parturition60 his memory gives up the fragment "Fred," around which he hastily builds the sentence "Glad you did, Fred!" Meanwhile the slight hush61 prefatory to an introduction has fallen upon the company._ MAURY, _who could help, prefers to look on in malicious62 enjoyment63._)
ANTHONY: (_In desperation_) Ladies and gentlemen, this is--this is Fred.
MURIEL: (_With obliging levity_) Hello, Fred!
(RICHARD CARAMEL _and_ PARAMORE _greet each other intimately by their first names, the latter recollecting64 that_ DICK _was one of the men in his class who had never before troubled to speak to him._ DICK _fatuously imagines that_ PARAMORE _is some one he has previously65 met in_ ANTHONY'S _house._
_The three young women go up-stairs._)
MAURY: (_In an undertone to_ DICK) Haven't seen Muriel since Anthony's wedding.
DICK: She's now in her prime. Her latest is "I'll say so!"
(ANTHONY _struggles for a while with_ PARAMORE _and at length attempts to make the conversation general by asking every one to have a drink._)
MAURY: I've done pretty well on this bottle. I've gone from "Proof" down to "Distillery." (_He indicates the words on the label._)
ANTHONY: (_To_ PARAMORE) Never can tell when these two will turn up. Said good-by to them one afternoon at five and darned if they didn't appear about two in the morning. A big hired touring-car from New York drove up to the door and out they stepped, drunk as lords, of course.
(_In an ecstasy66 of consideration_ PARAMORE _regards the cover of a book which he holds in his hand._ MAURY _and_ DICK _exchange a glance._)
DICK: (_Innocently, to_ PARAMORE) You work here in town?
PARAMORE: No, I'm in the Laird Street Settlement in Stamford. (_To_ ANTHONY) You have no idea of the amount of poverty in these small Connecticut towns. Italians and other immigrants. Catholics mostly, you know, so it's very hard to reach them.
ANTHONY: (_Politely_) Lot of crime?
PARAMORE: Not so much crime as ignorance and dirt.
MAURY: That's my theory: immediate electrocution of all ignorant and dirty people. I'm all for the criminals--give color to life. Trouble is if you started to punish ignorance you'd have to begin in the first families, then you could take up the moving picture people, and finally Congress and the clergy67.
PARAMORE: (_Smiling uneasily_) I was speaking of the more fundamental ignorance--of even our language.
MAURY: (_Thoughtfully_) I suppose it is rather hard. Can't even keep up with the new poetry.
PARAMORE: It's only when the settlement work has gone on for months that one realizes how bad things are. As our secretary said to me, your finger-nails never seem dirty until you wash your hands. Of course we're already attracting much attention.
MAURY: (_Rudely_) As your secretary might say, if you stuff paper into a grate it'll burn brightly for a moment.
(_At this point_ GLORIA, _freshly tinted69 and lustful70 of admiration71 and entertainment, rejoins the party, followed by her two friends. For several moments the conversation becomes entirely72 fragmentary._ GLORIA _calls_ ANTHONY _aside._)
GLORIA: Please don't drink much, Anthony.
ANTHONY: Why?
GLORIA: Because you're so simple when you're drunk.
ANTHONY: Good Lord! What's the matter now?
GLORIA: (_After a pause during which her eyes gaze coolly into his_) Several things. In the first place, why do you insist on paying for everything? Both those men have more money than you!
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria! They're my guests!
GLORIA: That's no reason why you should pay for a bottle of champagne73 Rachael Barnes smashed. Dick tried to fix that second taxi bill, and you wouldn't let him.
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria--
GLORIA: When we have to keep selling bonds to even pay our bills, it's time to cut down on excess generosities74. Moreover, I wouldn't be quite so attentive75 to Rachael Barnes. Her husband doesn't like it any more than I do!
ANTHONY: Why, Gloria--
GLORIA: (_Mimicking him sharply_) "Why, Gloria!" But that's happened a little too often this summer--with every pretty woman you meet. It's grown to be a sort of habit, and I'm _not_ going to stand it! If you can play around, I can, too. (_Then, as an afterthought_) By the way, this Fred person isn't a second Joe Hull76, is he?
ANTHONY: Heavens, no! He probably came up to get me to wheedle77 some money out of grandfather for his flock.
(GLORIA _turns away from a very depressed_ ANTHONY _and returns to her guests._
_By nine o'clock these can be divided into two classes--those who have been drinking consistently and those who have taken little or nothing. In the second group are the_ BARNESES, MURIEL, _and_ FREDERICK E. PARAMORE.)
MURIEL: I wish I could write. I get these ideas but I never seem to be able to put them in words.
DICK: As Goliath said, he understood how David felt, but he couldn't express himself. The remark was immediately adopted for a motto by the Philistines79.
MURIEL: I don't get you. I must be getting stupid in my old age.
GLORIA: (_Weaving unsteadily among the company like an exhilarated angel_) If any one's hungry there's some French pastry81 on the dining room table.
MAURY: Can't tolerate those Victorian designs it comes in.
MURIEL: (_Violently amused_) _I'll_ say you're tight, Maury.
(_Her bosom83 is still a pavement that she offers to the hoofs84 of many passing stallions, hoping that their iron shoes may strike even a spark of romance in the darkness ..._
_Messrs._ BARNES _and_ PARAMORE _have been engaged in conversation upon some wholesome85 subject, a subject so wholesome that_ MR. BARNES _has been trying for several moments to creep into the more tainted air around the central lounge. Whether_ PARAMORE _is lingering in the gray house out of politeness or curiosity, or in order at some future time to make a sociological report on the decadence86 of American life, is problematical._)
MAURY: Fred, I imagined you were very broad-minded.
PARAMORE: I am.
MURIEL: Me, too. I believe one religion's as good as another and everything.
PARAMORE: There's some good in all religions.
MURIEL: I'm a Catholic but, as I always say, I'm not working at it.
PARAMORE: (_With a tremendous burst of tolerance_) The Catholic religion is a very--a very powerful religion.
MAURY: Well, such a broad-minded man should consider the raised plane of sensation and the stimulated87 optimism contained in this cocktail88.
PARAMORE: (_Taking the drink, rather defiantly_) Thanks, I'll try--one.
MAURY: One? Outrageous91! Here we have a class of 'nineteen ten reunion, and you refuse to be even a little pickled. Come on!
"_Here's a health to King Charles, Here's a health to King Charles, Bring the bowl that you boast_----"
(PARAMORE _joins in with a hearty voice_.)
MAURY: Fill the cup, Frederick. You know everything's subordinated to nature's purposes with us, and her purpose with you is to make you a rip-roaring tippler.
PARAMORE: If a fellow can drink like a gentleman--
MAURY: What is a gentleman, anyway?
ANTHONY: A man who never has pins under his coat lapel.
MAURY: Nonsense! A man's social rank is determined by the amount of bread he eats in a sandwich.
DICK: He's a man who prefers the first edition of a book to the last edition of a newspaper.
RACHAEL: A man who never gives an impersonation of a dope-fiend.
MAURY: An American who can fool an English butler into thinking he's one.
MURIEL: A man who comes from a good family and went to Yale or Harvard or Princeton, and has money and dances well, and all that.
MAURY: At last--the perfect definition! Cardinal92 Newman's is now a back number.
PARAMORE: I think we ought to look on the question more broad-mindedly. Was it Abraham Lincoln who said that a gentleman is one who never inflicts93 pain?
MAURY: It's attributed, I believe, to General Ludendorff.
PARAMORE: Surely you're joking.
MAURY: Have another drink.
PARAMORE: I oughtn't to. (_Lowering his voice for_ MAURY'S _ear alone_) What if I were to tell you this is the third drink I've ever taken in my life?
(DICK _starts the phonograph, which provokes_ MURIEL _to rise and sway from side to side, her elbows against her ribs94, her forearms perpendicular95 to her body and out like fins96._)
MURIEL: Oh, let's take up the rugs and dance!
(_This suggestion is received by_ ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _with interior groans97 and sickly smiles of acquiescence98._)
MURIEL: Come on, you lazy-bones. Get up and move the furniture back.
DICK: Wait till I finish my drink.
MAURY: (_Intent on his purpose toward_ PARAMORE) I'll tell you what. Let's each fill one glass, drink it off and then we'll dance.
(_A wave of protest which breaks against the rock of_ MAURY'S _insistence._)
MURIEL: My head is simply going _round_ now.
RACHAEL: (_In an undertone to_ ANTHONY) Did Gloria tell you to stay away from me?
ANTHONY: (_Confused_) Why, certainly not. Of course not.
(RACHAEL _smiles at him inscrutably. Two years have given her a sort of hard, well-groomed beauty._)
MAURY: (_Holding up his glass_) Here's to the defeat of democracy and the fall of Christianity.
MURIEL: Now really!
(_She flashes a mock-reproachful glance at_ MAURY _and then drinks._
_They all drink, with varying degrees of difficulty._)
MURIEL: Clear the floor!
(_It seems inevitable99 that this process is to be gone through, so_ ANTHONY _and_ GLORIA _join in the great moving of tables, piling of chairs, rolling of carpets, and breaking of lamps. When the furniture has been stacked in ugly masses at the sides, there appears a space about eight feet square._)
MURIEL: Oh, let's have music!
MAURY: Tana will render the love song of an eye, ear, nose, and throat specialist.
(_Amid some confusion due to the fact that_ TANA _has retired100 for the night, preparations are made for the performance. The pajamaed Japanese, flute in hand, is wrapped in a comforter and placed in a chair atop one of the tables, where he makes a ludicrous and grotesque101 spectacle._ PARAMORE _is perceptibly drunk and so enraptured102 with the notion that he increases the effect by simulating funny-paper staggers and even venturing on an occasional hiccough._)
PARAMORE: (_To_ GLORIA) Want to dance with me?
GLORIA: No, sir! Want to do the swan dance. Can you do it?
PARAMORE: Sure. Do them all.
GLORIA: All right. You start from that side of the room and I'll start from this.
MURIEL: Let's go!
(_Then Bedlam103 creeps screaming out of the bottles:_ TANA _plunges into the recondite104 mazes105 of the train song, the plaintive106 "tootle toot-toot" blending its melancholy cadences107 with the_ "Poor Butter-fly (tink-atink), by the blossoms wait-ing" _of the phonograph._ MURIEL _is too weak with laughter to do more than cling desperately108 to_ BARNES, _who, dancing with the ominous rigidity109 of an army officer, tramps without humor around the small space._ ANTHONY _is trying to hear_ RACHAEL'S _whisper--without attracting_ GLORIA's _attention...._
_But the grotesque, the unbelievable, the histrionic incident is about to occur, one of those incidents in which life seems set upon the passionate53 imitation of the lowest forms of literature._ PARAMORE _has been trying to emulate_ GLORIA, _and as the commotion110 reaches its height he begins to spin round and round, more and more dizzily--he staggers, recovers, staggers again and then falls in the direction of the hall ... almost into the arms of old_ ADAM PATCH, _whose approach has been rendered inaudible by the pandemonium111 in the room._
ADAM PATCH _is very white. He leans upon a stick. The man with him is_ EDWARD SHUTTLEWORTH, _and it is he who seizes_ PARAMORE _by the shoulder and deflects112 the course of his fall away from the venerable philanthropist._
_The time required for quiet to descend113 upon the room like a monstrous114 pall115 may be estimated at two minutes, though for a short period after that the phonograph gags and the notes of the Japanese train song dribble116 from the end of_ TANA'S _flute. Of the nine people only_ BARNES, PARAMORE, _and_ TANA _are unaware117 of the late-comer's identity. Of the nine not one is aware that_ ADAM PATCH _has that morning made a contribution of fifty thousand dollars to the cause of national prohibition118._
_It is given to_ PARAMORE _to break the gathering silence; the high tide of his life's depravity is reached in his incredible remark._)
PARAMORE: (_Crawling rapidly toward the kitchen on his hands and knees_) I'm not a guest here--I work here.
(_Again silence falls--so deep now, so weighted with intolerably contagious119 apprehension120, that_ RACHAEL _gives a nervous little giggle36, and_ DICK _finds himself telling over and over a line from Swinburne, grotesquely121 appropriate to the scene:_
"One gaunt bleak122 blossom of scentless123 breath."
... _Out of the hush the voice of_ ANTHONY, _sober and strained, saying something to_ ADAM PATCH; _then this, too, dies away._)
SHUTTLEWORTH: (_Passionately_) Your grandfather thought he would motor over to see your house. I phoned from Rye and left a message.
(_A series of little gasps125, emanating126, apparently127, from nowhere, from no one, fall into the next pause._ ANTHONY _is the color of chalk._ GLORIA'S _lips are parted and her level gaze at the old man is tense and frightened. There is not one smile in the room. Not one? Or does_ CROSS PATCH'S _drawn mouth tremble slightly open, to expose the even rows of his thin teeth? He speaks--five mild and simple words._)
ADAM PATCH: We'll go back now, Shuttleworth--(_And that is all. He turns, and assisted by his cane129 goes out through the hall, through the front door, and with hellish portentousness130 his uncertain footsteps crunch131 on the gravel132 path under the August moon._)
RETROSPECT133
In this extremity134 they were like two goldfish in a bowl from which all the water had been drawn128; they could not even swim across to each other.
Gloria would be twenty-six in May. There was nothing, she had said, that she wanted, except to be young and beautiful for a long time, to be gay and happy, and to have money and love. She wanted what most women want, but she wanted it much more fiercely and passionately54. She had been married over two years. At first there had been days of serene135 understanding, rising to ecstasies136 of proprietorship137 and pride. Alternating with these periods had occurred sporadic138 hates, enduring a short hour, and forgetfulnesses lasting139 no longer than an afternoon. That had been for half a year.
Then the serenity140, the content, had become less jubilant, had become, gray--very rarely, with the spur of jealousy141 or forced separation, the ancient ecstasies returned, the apparent communion of soul and soul, the emotional excitement. It was possible for her to hate Anthony for as much as a full day, to be carelessly incensed142 at him for as long as a week. Recrimination had displaced affection as an indulgence, almost as an entertainment, and there were nights when they would go to sleep trying to remember who was angry and who should be reserved next morning. And as the second year waned143 there had entered two new elements. Gloria realized that Anthony had become capable of utter indifference144 toward her, a temporary indifference, more than half lethargic145, but one from which she could no longer stir him by a whispered word, or a certain intimate smile. There were days when her caresses146 affected147 him as a sort of suffocation148. She was conscious of these things; she never entirely admitted them to herself.
It was only recently that she perceived that in spite of her adoration149 of him, her jealousy, her servitude, her pride, she fundamentally despised him--and her contempt blended indistinguishably with her other emotions.... All this was her love--the vital and feminine illusion that had directed itself toward him one April night, many months before.
On Anthony's part she was, in spite of these qualifications, his sole preoccupation. Had he lost her he would have been a broken man, wretchedly and sentimentally150 absorbed in her memory for the remainder of life. He seldom took pleasure in an entire day spent alone with her--except on occasions he preferred to have a third person with them. There were times when he felt that if he were not left absolutely alone he would go mad--there were a few times when he definitely hated her. In his cups he was capable of short attractions toward other women, the hitherto-suppressed outcroppings of an experimental temperament151.
That spring, that summer, they had speculated upon future happiness--how they were to travel from summer land to summer land, returning eventually to a gorgeous estate and possible idyllic153 children, then entering diplomacy154 or politics, to accomplish, for a while, beautiful and important things, until finally as a white-haired (beautifully, silkily, white-haired) couple they were to loll about in serene glory, worshipped by the bourgeoisie of the land.... These times were to begin "when we get our money"; it was on such dreams rather than on any satisfaction with their increasingly irregular, increasingly dissipated life that their hope rested. On gray mornings when the jests of the night before had shrunk to ribaldries without wit or dignity, they could, after a fashion, bring out this batch155 of common hopes and count them over, then smile at each other and repeat, by way of clinching156 the matter, the terse157 yet sincere Nietzscheanism of Gloria's defiant89 "I don't care!"
Things had been slipping perceptibly. There was the money question, increasingly annoying, increasingly ominous; there was the realization158 that liquor had become a practical necessity to their amusement--not an uncommon159 phenomenon in the British aristocracy of a hundred years ago, but a somewhat alarming one in a civilization steadily80 becoming more temperate160 and more circumspect161. Moreover, both of them seemed vaguely weaker in fibre, not so much in what they did as in their subtle reactions to the civilization about them. In Gloria had been born something that she had hitherto never needed--the skeleton, incomplete but nevertheless unmistakable, of her ancient abhorrence162, a conscience. This admission to herself was coincidental with the slow decline of her physical courage.
Then, on the August morning after Adam Patch's unexpected call, they awoke, nauseated163 and tired, dispirited with life, capable only of one pervasive164 emotion--fear.
PANIC
"Well?" Anthony sat up in bed and looked down at her. The corners of his lips were drooping165 with depression, his voice was strained and hollow.
Her reply was to raise her hand to her mouth and begin a slow, precise nibbling166 at her finger.
"We've done it," he said after a pause; then, as she was still silent, he became exasperated167. "Why don't you say something?"
"What on earth do you want me to say?"
"What are you thinking?"
"Nothing."
"Then stop biting your finger!"
Ensued a short confused discussion of whether or not she had been thinking. It seemed essential to Anthony that she should muse82 aloud upon last night's disaster. Her silence was a method of settling the responsibility on him. For her part she saw no necessity for speech--the moment required that she should gnaw168 at her finger like a nervous child.
"I've got to fix up this damn mess with my grandfather," he said with uneasy conviction. A faint newborn respect was indicated by his use of "my grandfather" instead of "grampa."
"You can't," she affirmed abruptly169. "You can't--_ever_. He'll never forgive you as long as he lives."
"Perhaps not," agreed Anthony miserably170. "Still--I might possibly square myself by some sort of reformation and all that sort of thing--"
"He looked sick," she interrupted, "pale as flour."
"He _is_ sick. I told you that three months ago."
"I wish he'd died last week!" she said petulantly171. "Inconsiderate old fool!"
Neither of them laughed.
"But just let me say," she added quietly, "the next time I see you acting68 with any woman like you did with Rachael Barnes last night, I'll leave you--_just--like--that!_ I'm simply _not_ going to stand it!"
Anthony quailed172.
"Oh, don't be absurd," he protested. "You know there's no woman in the world for me except you--none, dearest."
His attempt at a tender note failed miserably--the more imminent173 danger stalked back into the foreground.
"If I went to him," suggested Anthony, "and said with appropriate biblical quotations174 that I'd walked too long in the way of unrighteousness and at last seen the light--" He broke off and glanced with a whimsical expression at his wife. "I wonder what he'd do?"
"I don't know."
She was speculating as to whether or not their guests would have the acumen175 to leave directly after breakfast.
Not for a week did Anthony muster176 the courage to go to Tarrytown. The prospect177 was revolting and left alone he would have been incapable178 of making the trip--but if his will had deteriorated179 in these past three years, so had his power to resist urging. Gloria compelled him to go. It was all very well to wait a week, she said, for that would give his grandfather's violent animosity time to cool--but to wait longer would be an error--it would give it a chance to harden.
He went, in trepidation180 ... and vainly. Adam Patch was not well, said Shuttleworth indignantly. Positive instructions had been given that no one was to see him. Before the ex-"gin-physician's" vindictive181 eye Anthony's front wilted182. He walked out to his taxicab with what was almost a slink--recovering only a little of his self-respect as he boarded the train; glad to escape, boylike, to the wonder palaces of consolation183 that still rose and glittered in his own mind.
Gloria was scornful when he returned to Marietta. Why had he not forced his way in? That was what she would have done!
Between them they drafted a letter to the old man, and after considerable revision sent it off. It was half an apology, half a manufactured explanation. The letter was not answered.
Came a day in September, a day slashed184 with alternate sun and rain, sun without warmth, rain without freshness. On that day they left the gray house, which had seen the flower of their love. Four trunks and three monstrous crates185 were piled in the dismantled186 room where, two years before, they had sprawled187 lazily, thinking in terms of dreams, remote, languorous188, content. The room echoed with emptiness. Gloria, in a new brown dress edged with fur, sat upon a trunk in silence, and Anthony walked nervously189 to and fro smoking, as they waited for the truck that would take their things to the city.
"What are those?" she demanded, pointing to some books piled upon one of the crates.
"That's my old stamp collection," he confessed sheepishly. "I forgot to pack it."
"Anthony, it's so silly to carry it around."
"Well, I was looking through it the day we left the apartment last spring, and I decided190 not to store it."
"Can't you sell it? Haven't we enough junk?"
"I'm sorry," he said humbly191.
With a thunderous rattling192 the truck rolled up to the door. Gloria shook her fist defiantly90 at the four walls.
"I'm so glad to go!" she cried, "so glad. Oh, my God, how I hate this house!"
So the brilliant and beautiful lady went up with her husband to New York. On the very train that bore them away they quarrelled--her bitter words had the frequency, the regularity193, the inevitability194 of the stations they passed.
"Don't be cross," begged Anthony piteously. "We've got nothing but each other, after all."
"We haven't even that, most of the time," cried Gloria.
"When haven't we?"
"A lot of times--beginning with one occasion on the station platform at Redgate."
"You don't mean to say that--"
"No," she interrupted coolly, "I don't brood over it. It came and went--and when it went it took something with it."
She finished abruptly. Anthony sat in silence, confused, depressed78. The drab visions of train-side Mamaroneck, Larchmont, Rye, Pelham Manor195, succeeded each other with intervals196 of bleak and shoddy wastes posing ineffectually as country. He found himself remembering how on one summer morning they two had started from New York in search of happiness. They had never expected to find it, perhaps, yet in itself that quest had been happier than anything he expected forevermore. Life, it seemed, must be a setting up of props197 around one--otherwise it was disaster. There was no rest, no quiet. He had been futile198 in longing199 to drift and dream; no one drifted except to maelstroms, no one dreamed, without his dreams becoming fantastic nightmares of indecision and regret.
Pelham! They had quarrelled in Pelham because Gloria must drive. And when she set her little foot on the accelerator the car had jumped off spunkily, and their two heads had jerked back like marionettes worked by a single string.
The Bronx--the houses gathering and gleaming in the sun, which was falling now through wide refulgent200 skies and tumbling caravans201 of light down into the streets. New York, he supposed, was home--the city of luxury and mystery, of preposterous hopes and exotic dreams. Here on the outskirts202 absurd stucco palaces reared themselves in the cool sunset, poised203 for an instant in cool unreality, glided204 off far away, succeeded by the mazed205 confusion of the Harlem River. The train moved in through the deepening twilight206, above and past half a hundred cheerful sweating streets of the upper East Side, each one passing the car window like the space between the spokes207 of a gigantic wheel, each one with its vigorous colorful revelation of poor children swarming209 in feverish210 activity like vivid ants in alleys211 of red sand. From the tenement212 windows leaned rotund, moon-shaped mothers, as constellations213 of this sordid214 heaven; women like dark imperfect jewels, women like vegetables, women like great bags of abominably215 dirty laundry.
"I like these streets," observed Anthony aloud. "I always feel as though it's a performance being staged for me; as though the second I've passed they'll all stop leaping and laughing and, instead, grow very sad, remembering how poor they are, and retreat with bowed heads into their houses. You often get that effect abroad, but seldom in this country."
Down in a tall busy street he read a dozen Jewish names on a line of stores; in the door of each stood a dark little man watching the passers from intent eyes--eyes gleaming with suspicion, with pride, with clarity, with cupidity216, with comprehension. New York--he could not dissociate it now from the slow, upward creep of this people--the little stores, growing, expanding, consolidating217, moving, watched over with hawk's eyes and a bee's attention to detail--they slathered out on all sides. It was impressive--in perspective it was tremendous.
Gloria's voice broke in with strange appropriateness upon his thoughts.
"I wonder where Bloeckman's been this summer."
THE APARTMENT
After the sureties of youth there sets in a period of intense and intolerable complexity218. With the soda-jerker this period is so short as to be almost negligible. Men higher in the scale hold out longer in the attempt to preserve the ultimate niceties of relationship, to retain "impractical219" ideas of integrity. But by the late twenties the business has grown too intricate, and what has hitherto been imminent and confusing has become gradually remote and dim. Routine comes down like twilight on a harsh landscape, softening220 it until it is tolerable. The complexity is too subtle, too varied222; the values are changing utterly223 with each lesion of vitality224; it has begun to appear that we can learn nothing from the past with which to face the future--so we cease to be impulsive225, convincible men, interested in what is ethically226 true by fine margins227, we substitute rules of conduct for ideas of integrity, we value safety above romance, we become, quite unconsciously, pragmatic. It is left to the few to be persistently228 concerned with the nuances of relationships--and even this few only in certain hours especially set aside for the task.
Anthony Patch had ceased to be an individual of mental adventure, of curiosity, and had become an individual of bias229 and prejudice, with a longing to be emotionally undisturbed. This gradual change had taken place through the past several years, accelerated by a succession of anxieties preying230 on his mind. There was, first of all, the sense of waste, always dormant231 in his heart, now awakened232 by the circumstances of his position. In his moments of insecurity he was haunted by the suggestion that life might be, after all, significant. In his early twenties the conviction of the futility233 of effort, of the wisdom of abnegation, had been confirmed by the philosophies he had admired as well as by his association with Maury Noble, and later with his wife. Yet there had been occasions--just before his first meeting with Gloria, for example, and when his grandfather had suggested that he should go abroad as a war correspondent--upon which his dissatisfaction had driven him almost to a positive step.
One day just before they left Marietta for the last time, in carelessly turning over the pages of a Harvard Alumni Bulletin, he had found a column which told him what his contemporaries had been about in this six years since graduation. Most of them were in business, it was true, and several were converting the heathen of China or America to a nebulous protestantism; but a few, he found, were working constructively234 at jobs that were neither sinecures235 nor routines. There was Calvin Boyd, for instance, who, though barely out of medical school, had discovered a new treatment for typhus, had shipped abroad and was mitigating236 some of the civilization that the Great Powers had brought to Servia; there was Eugene Bronson, whose articles in The New Democracy were stamping him as a man with ideas transcending237 both vulgar timeliness and popular hysteria; there was a man named Daly who had been suspended from the faculty238 of a righteous university for preaching Marxian doctrines239 in the classroom: in art, science, politics, he saw the authentic241 personalities242 of his time emerging--there was even Severance243, the quarter-back, who had given up his life rather neatly244 and gracefully245 with the Foreign Legion on the Aisne.
He laid down the magazine and thought for a while about these diverse men. In the days of his integrity he would have defended his attitude to the last--an Epicurus in Nirvana, he would have cried that to struggle was to believe, to believe was to limit. He would as soon have become a churchgoer because the prospect of immortality246 gratified him as he would have considered entering the leather business because the intensity46 of the competition would have kept him from unhappiness. But at present he had no such delicate scruples247. This autumn, as his twenty-ninth year began, he was inclined to close his mind to many things, to avoid prying248 deeply into motive249 and first causes, and mostly to long passionately for security from the world and from himself. He hated to be alone, as has been said he often dreaded250 being alone with Gloria.
Because of the chasm251 which his grandfather's visit had opened before him, and the consequent revulsion from his late mode of life, it was inevitable that he should look around in this suddenly hostile city for the friends and environments that had once seemed the warmest and most secure. His first step was a desperate attempt to get back his old apartment.
In the spring of 1912 he had signed a four-year lease at seventeen hundred a year, with an option of renewal252. This lease had expired the previous May. When he had first rented the rooms they had been mere253 potentialities, scarcely to be discerned as that, but Anthony had seen into these potentialities and arranged in the lease that he and the landlord should each spend a certain amount in improvements. Rents had gone up in the past four years, and last spring when Anthony had waived254 his option the landlord, a Mr. Sohenberg, had realized that he could get a much bigger price for what was now a prepossessing apartment. Accordingly, when Anthony approached him on the subject in September he was met with Sohenberg's offer of a three-year lease at twenty-five hundred a year. This, it seemed to Anthony, was outrageous. It meant that well over a third of their income would be consumed in rent. In vain he argued that his own money, his own ideas on the repartitioning, had made the rooms attractive.
In vain he offered two thousand dollars--twenty-two hundred, though they could ill afford it: Mr. Sohenberg was obdurate255. It seemed that two other gentlemen were considering it; just that sort of an apartment was in demand for the moment, and it would scarcely be business to _give_ it to Mr. Patch. Besides, though he had never mentioned it before, several of the other tenants256 had complained of noise during the previous winter--singing and dancing late at night, that sort of thing.
Internally raging Anthony hurried back to the Ritz to report his discomfiture257 to Gloria.
"I can just see you," she stormed, "letting him back you down!"
"What could I say?"
"You could have told him what he _was_. I wouldn't have _stood_ it. No other man in the world would have stood it! You just let people order you around and cheat you and bully258 you and take advantage of you as if you were a silly little boy. It's absurd!"
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't lose your temper."
"I know, Anthony, but you _are_ such an ass10!"
"Well, possibly. Anyway, we can't afford that apartment. But we can afford it better than living here at the Ritz."
"You were the one who insisted on coming here."
"Yes, because I knew you'd be miserable259 in a cheap hotel."
"Of course I would!"
"At any rate we've got to find a place to live."
"How much can we pay?" she demanded.
"Well, we can pay even his price if we sell more bonds, but we agreed last night that until I had gotten something definite to do we-"
"Oh, I know all that. I asked you how much we can pay out of just our income."
"They say you ought not to pay more than a fourth."
"How much is a fourth?"
"One hundred and fifty a month."
"Do you mean to say we've got only six hundred dollars coming in every month?" A subdued note crept into her voice.
"Of course!" he answered angrily. "Do you think we've gone on spending more than twelve thousand a year without cutting way into our capital?"
"I knew we'd sold bonds, but--have we spent that much a year? How did we?" Her awe increased.
"Oh, I'll look in those careful account-books we kept," he remarked ironically, and then added: "Two rents a good part of the time, clothes, travel--why, each of those springs in California cost about four thousand dollars. That darn car was an expense from start to finish. And parties and amusements and--oh, one thing or another."
They were both excited now and inordinately261 depressed. The situation seemed worse in the actual telling Gloria than it had when he had first made the discovery himself.
"You've got to make some money," she said suddenly.
"I know it."
"And you've got to make another attempt to see your grandfather."
"I will."
"When?"
"When we get settled."
This eventuality occurred a week later. They rented a small apartment on Fifty-seventh Street at one hundred and fifty a month. It included bedroom, living-room, kitchenette, and bath, in a thin, white-stone apartment house, and though the rooms were too small to display Anthony's best furniture, they were clean, new, and, in a blonde and sanitary262 way, not unattractive. Bounds had gone abroad to enlist263 in the British army, and in his place they tolerated rather than enjoyed the services of a gaunt, big-boned Irishwoman, whom Gloria loathed264 because she discussed the glories of Sinn Fein as she served breakfast. But they vowed265 they would have no more Japanese, and English servants were for the present hard to obtain. Like Bounds, the woman prepared only breakfast. Their other meals they took at restaurants and hotels.
What finally drove Anthony post-haste up to Tarrytown was an announcement in several New York papers that Adam Patch, the multimillionaire, the philanthropist, the venerable uplifter, was seriously ill and not expected to recover.
THE KITTEN
Anthony could not see him. The doctors' instructions were that he was to talk to no one, said Mr. Shuttleworth--who offered kindly35 to take any message that Anthony might care to intrust with him, and deliver it to Adam Patch when his condition permitted. But by obvious innuendo266 he confirmed Anthony's melancholy inference that the prodigal267 grandson would be particularly unwelcome at the bedside. At one point in the conversation Anthony, with Gloria's positive instructions in mind, made a move as though to brush by the secretary, but Shuttleworth with a smile squared his brawny268 shoulders, and Anthony saw how futile such an attempt would be.
Miserably intimidated269, he returned to New York, where husband and wife passed a restless week. A little incident that occurred one evening indicated to what tension their nerves were drawn.
Walking home along a cross-street after dinner, Anthony noticed a night-bound cat prowling near a railing.
"I always have an instinct to kick a cat," he said idly.
"I like them."
"I yielded to it once."
"When?"
"Oh, years ago; before I met you. One night between the acts of a show. Cold night, like this, and I was a little tight--one of the first times I was ever tight," he added. "The poor little beggar was looking for a place to sleep, I guess, and I was in a mean mood, so it took my fancy to kick it--"
"Oh, the poor kitty!" cried Gloria, sincerely moved. Inspired with the narrative270 instinct, Anthony enlarged on the theme.
"It was pretty bad," he admitted. "The poor little beast turned around and looked at me rather plaintively271 as though hoping I'd pick him up and be kind to him--he was really just a kitten--and before he knew it a big foot launched out at him and caught his little back"
"Oh!" Gloria's cry was full of anguish272.
"It was such a cold night," he continued, perversely273, keeping his voice upon a melancholy note. "I guess it expected kindness from somebody, and it got only pain--"
He broke off suddenly--Gloria was sobbing274. They had reached home, and when they entered the apartment she threw herself upon the lounge, crying as though he had struck at her very soul.
"Oh, the poor little kitty!" she repeated piteously, "the poor little kitty. So cold--"
"Gloria"
"Don't come near me! Please, don't come near me. You killed the soft little kitty."
Touched, Anthony knelt beside her.
"Dear," he said. "Oh, Gloria, darling. It isn't true. I invented it--every word of it."
But she would not believe him. There had been something in the details he had chosen to describe that made her cry herself asleep that night, for the kitten, for Anthony for herself, for the pain and bitterness and cruelty of all the world.
THE PASSING OF AN AMERICAN MORALIST
Old Adam died on a midnight of late November with a pious275 compliment to his God on his thin lips. He, who had been flattered so much, faded out flattering the Omnipotent276 Abstraction which he fancied he might have angered in the more lascivious277 moments of his youth. It was announced that he had arranged some sort of an armistice278 with the deity279, the terms of which were not made public, though they were thought to have included a large cash payment. All the newspapers printed his biography, and two of them ran short editorials on his sterling280 worth, and his part in the drama of industrialism, with which he had grown up. They referred guardedly to the reforms he had sponsored and financed. The memories of Comstock and Cato the Censor281 were resuscitated282 and paraded like gaunt ghosts through the columns.
Every newspaper remarked that he was survived by a single grandson, Anthony Comstock Patch, of New York.
The burial took place in the family plot at Tarrytown. Anthony and Gloria rode in the first carriage, too worried to feel grotesque, both trying desperately to glean283 presage284 of fortune from the faces of retainers who had been with him at the end.
They waited a frantic285 week for decency286, and then, having received no notification of any kind, Anthony called up his grandfather's lawyer. Mr. Brett was not he was expected back in an hour. Anthony left his telephone number.
It was the last day of November, cool and crackling outside, with a lustreless287 sun peering bleakly288 in at the windows. While they waited for the call, ostensibly engaged in reading, the atmosphere, within and without, seemed pervaded289 with a deliberate rendition of the pathetic fallacy. After an interminable while, the bell jingled290, and Anthony, starting violently, took up the receiver.
"Hello ..." His voice was strained and hollow. "Yes--I did leave word. Who is this, please? ... Yes.... Why, it was about the estate. Naturally I'm interested, and I've received no word about the reading of the will--I thought you might not have my address.... What? ... Yes ..."
Gloria fell on her knees. The intervals between Anthony's speeches were like tourniquets291 winding292 on her heart. She found herself helplessly twisting the large buttons from a velvet293 cushion. Then:
"That's--that's very, very odd--that's very odd--that's very odd. Not even any--ah--mention or any--ah--reason?"
His voice sounded faint and far away. She uttered a little sound, half gasp124, half cry.
"Yes, I'll see.... All right, thanks ... thanks...."
The phone clicked. Her eyes looking along the floor saw his feet cut the pattern of a patch of sunlight on the carpet. She arose and faced him with a gray, level glance just as his arms folded about her.
"My dearest," he whispered huskily. "He did it, God damn him!"
NEXT DAY
"Who are the heirs?" asked Mr. Haight. "You see when you can tell me so little about it--"
Mr. Haight was tall and bent294 and beetle-browed. He had been recommended to Anthony as an astute295 and tenacious296 lawyer.
"I only know vaguely," answered Anthony. "A man named Shuttleworth, who was a sort of pet of his, has the whole thing in charge as administrator297 or trustee or something--all except the direct bequests298 to charity and the provisions for servants and for those two cousins in Idaho."
"How distant are the cousins?"
"Oh, third or fourth, anyway. I never even heard of them."
Mr. Haight nodded comprehensively.
"And you want to contest a provision of the will?"
"I guess so," admitted Anthony helplessly. "I want to do what sounds most hopeful--that's what I want you to tell me."
"You want them to refuse probate to the will?"
Anthony shook his head.
"You've got me. I haven't any idea what 'probate' is. I want a share of the estate."
"Suppose you tell me some more details. For instance, do you know why the testator disinherited you?"
"Why--yes," began Anthony. "You see he was always a sucker for moral reform, and all that--"
"I know," interjected Mr. Haight humorlessly.
"--and I don't suppose he ever thought I was much good. I didn't go into business, you see. But I feel certain that up to last summer I was one of the beneficiaries. We had a house out in Marietta, and one night grandfather got the notion he'd come over and see us. It just happened that there was a rather gay party going on and he arrived without any warning. Well, he took one look, he and this fellow Shuttleworth, and then turned around and tore right back to Tarrytown. After that he never answered my letters or even let me see him."
"He was a prohibitionist300, wasn't he?"
"He was everything--regular religious maniac301."
"How long before his death was the will made that disinherited you?"
"Recently--I mean since August."
"And you think that the direct reason for his not leaving you the majority of the estate was his displeasure with your recent actions?"
"Yes."
Mr. Haight considered. Upon what grounds was Anthony thinking of contesting the will?
"Why, isn't there something about evil influence?"
"Undue302 influence is one ground--but it's the most difficult. You would have to show that such pressure was brought to bear so that the deceased was in a condition where he disposed of his property contrary to his intentions--"
"Well, suppose this fellow Shuttleworth dragged him over to Marietta just when he thought some sort of a celebration was probably going on?"
"That wouldn't have any bearing on the case. There's a strong division between advice and influence. You'd have to prove that the secretary had a sinister303 intention. I'd suggest some other grounds. A will is automatically refused probate in case of insanity304, drunkenness"--here Anthony smiled--"or feeble-mindedness through premature305 old age."
"But," objected Anthony, "his private physician, being one of the beneficiaries, would testify that he wasn't feeble-minded. And he wasn't. As a matter of fact he probably did just what he intended to with his money--it was perfectly306 consistent with everything he'd ever done in his life--"
"Well, you see, feeble-mindedness is a great deal like undue influence--it implies that the property wasn't disposed of as originally intended. The most common ground is duress--physical pressure."
Anthony shook his head.
"Not much chance on that, I'm afraid. Undue influence sounds best to me."
After more discussion, so technical as to be largely unintelligible307 to Anthony, he retained Mr. Haight as counsel. The lawyer proposed an interview with Shuttleworth, who, jointly308 with Wilson, Hiemer and Hardy309, was executor of the will. Anthony was to come back later in the week.
It transpired310 that the estate consisted of approximately forty million dollars. The largest bequest299 to an individual was of one million, to Edward Shuttleworth, who received in addition thirty thousand a year salary as administrator of the thirty-million-dollar trust fund, left to be doled311 out to various charities and reform societies practically at his own discretion312. The remaining nine millions were proportioned among the two cousins in Idaho and about twenty-five other beneficiaries: friends, secretaries, servants, and employees, who had, at one time or another, earned the seal of Adam Patch's approval.
At the end of another fortnight Mr. Haight, on a retainer's fee of fifteen thousand dollars, had begun preparations for contesting the will.
THE WINTER OF DISCONTENT
Before they had been two months in the little apartment on Fifty-seventh Street, it had assumed for both of them the same indefinable but almost material taint1 that had impregnated the gray house in Marietta. There was the odor of tobacco always--both of them smoked incessantly313; it was in their clothes, their blankets, the curtains, and the ash-littered carpets. Added to this was the wretched aura of stale wine, with its inevitable suggestion of beauty gone foul314 and revelry remembered in disgust. About a particular set of glass goblets315 on the sideboard the odor was particularly noticeable, and in the main room the mahogany table was ringed with white circles where glasses had been set down upon it. There had been many parties--people broke things; people became sick in Gloria's bathroom; people spilled wine; people made unbelievable messes of the kitchenette.
These things were a regular part of their existence. Despite the resolutions of many Mondays it was tacitly understood as the week end approached that it should be observed with some sort of unholy excitement. When Saturday came they would not discuss the matter, but would call up this person or that from among their circle of sufficiently316 irresponsible friends, and suggest a rendezvous317. Only after the friends had gathered and Anthony had set out decanters, would he murmur318 casually319 "I guess I'll have just one high-ball myself--"
Then they were off for two days--realizing on a wintry dawn that they had been the noisiest and most conspicuous320 members of the noisiest and most conspicuous party at the Boul' Mich', or the Club Ramée, or at other resorts much less particular about the hilarity321 of their clientèle. They would find that they had, somehow, squandered322 eighty or ninety dollars, how, they never knew; they customarily attributed it to the general penury323 of the "friends" who had accompanied them.
It began to be not unusual for the more sincere of their friends to remonstrate324 with them, in the very course of a party, and to predict a sombre end for them in the loss of Gloria's "looks" and Anthony's "constitution."
The story of the summarily interrupted revel208 in Marietta had, of course, leaked out in detail--"Muriel doesn't mean to tell every one she knows," said Gloria to Anthony, "but she thinks every one she tells is the only one she's going to tell"--and, diaphanously veiled, the tale had been given a conspicuous place in Town Tattle. When the terms of Adam Patch's will were made public and the newspapers printed items concerning Anthony's suit, the story was beautifully rounded out--to Anthony's infinite disparagement325. They began to hear rumors326 about themselves from all quarters, rumors founded usually on a soupcon of truth, but overlaid with preposterous and sinister detail.
Outwardly they showed no signs of deterioration327. Gloria at twenty-six was still the Gloria of twenty; her complexion328 a fresh damp setting for her candid329 eyes; her hair still a childish glory, darkening slowly from corn color to a deep russet gold; her slender body suggesting ever a nymph running and dancing through Orphic groves330. Masculine eyes, dozens of them, followed her with a fascinated stare when she walked through a hotel lobby or down the aisle331 of a theatre. Men asked to be introduced to her, fell into prolonged states of sincere admiration, made definite love to her--for she was still a thing of exquisite332 and unbelievable beauty. And for his part Anthony had rather gained than lost in appearance; his face had taken on a certain intangible air of tragedy, romantically contrasted with his trim and immaculate person.
Early in the winter, when all conversation turned on the probability of America's going into the war, when Anthony was making a desperate and sincere attempt to write, Muriel Kane arrived in New York and came immediately to see them. Like Gloria, she seemed never to change. She knew the latest slang, danced the latest dances, and talked of the latest songs and plays with all the fervor333 of her first season as a New York drifter. Her coyness was eternally new, eternally ineffectual; her clothes were extreme; her black hair was bobbed, now, like Gloria's.
"I've come up for the midwinter prom at New Haven," she announced, imparting her delightful secret. Though she must have been older then than any of the boys in college, she managed always to secure some sort of invitation, imagining vaguely that at the next party would occur the flirtation334 which was to end at the romantic altar.
"Where've you been?" inquired Anthony, unfailingly amused.
"I've been at Hot Springs. It's been slick and peppy this fall--more _men!_"
"Are you in love, Muriel?"
"What do you mean 'love'?" This was the rhetorical question of the year. "I'm going to tell you something," she said, switching the subject abruptly. "I suppose it's none of my business, but I think it's time for you two to settle down."
"Why, we are settled down."
"Yes, you are!" she scoffed335 archly. "Everywhere I go I hear stories of your escapades. Let me tell you, I have an awful time sticking up for you."
"You needn't bother," said Gloria coldly.
"Now, Gloria," she protested, "you know I'm one of your best friends."
Gloria was silent. Muriel continued:
"It's not so much the idea of a woman drinking, but Gloria's so pretty, and so many people know her by sight all around, that it's naturally conspicuous--"
"What have you heard recently?" demanded Gloria, her dignity going down before her curiosity.
"Well, for instance, that that party in Marietta _killed_ Anthony's grandfather."
Instantly husband and wife were tense with annoyance336.
"Why, I think that's outrageous."
"That's what they say," persisted Muriel stubbornly.
Anthony paced the room. "It's preposterous!" he declared. "The very people we take on parties shout the story around as a great joke--and eventually it gets back to us in some such form as this."
Gloria began running her finger through a stray red-dish curl. Muriel licked her veil as she considered her next remark.
"You ought to have a baby."
Gloria looked up wearily.
"We can't afford it."
"All the people in the slums have them," said Muriel triumphantly337.
Anthony and Gloria exchanged a smile. They had reached the stage of violent quarrels that were never made up, quarrels that smouldered and broke out again at intervals or died away from sheer indifference--but this visit of Muriel's drew them temporarily together. When the discomfort338 under which they were living was remarked upon by a third party, it gave them the impetus339 to face this hostile world together. It was very seldom, now, that the impulse toward reunion sprang from within.
Anthony found himself associating his own existence with that of the apartment's night elevator man, a pale, scraggly bearded person of about sixty, with an air of being somewhat above his station. It was probably because of this quality that he had secured the position; it made him a pathetic and memorable340 figure of failure. Anthony recollected341, without humor, a hoary342 jest about the elevator man's career being a matter of ups and downs--it was, at any rate, an enclosed life of infinite dreariness343. Each time Anthony stepped into the car he waited breathlessly for the old man's "Well, I guess we're going to have some sunshine to-day." Anthony thought how little rain or sunshine he would enjoy shut into that close little cage in the smoke-colored, windowless hall.
A darkling figure, he attained344 tragedy in leaving the life that had used him so shabbily. Three young gunmen came in one night, tied him up and left him on a pile of coal in the cellar while they went through the trunk room. When the janitor345 found him next morning he had collapsed346 from chill. He died of pneumonia347 four days later.
He was replaced by a glib348 Martinique negro, with an incongruous British accent and a tendency to be surly, whom Anthony detested349. The passing of the old man had approximately the same effect on him that the kitten story had had on Gloria. He was reminded of the cruelty of all life and, in consequence, of the increasing bitterness of his own.
He was writing--and in earnest at last. He had gone to Dick and listened for a tense hour to an elucidation350 of those minutiae351 of procedure which hitherto he had rather scornfully looked down upon. He needed money immediately--he was selling bonds every month to pay their bills. Dick was frank and explicit352:
"So far as articles on literary subjects in these obscure magazines go, you couldn't make enough to pay your rent. Of course if a man has the gift of humor, or a chance at a big biography, or some specialized353 knowledge, he may strike it rich. But for you, fiction's the only thing. You say you need money right away?"
"I certainly do."
"Well, it'd be a year and a half before you'd make any money out of a novel. Try some popular short stories. And, by the way, unless they're exceptionally brilliant they have to be cheerful and on the side of the heaviest artillery354 to make you any money."
Anthony thought of Dick's recent output, which had been appearing in a well-known monthly. It was concerned chiefly with the preposterous actions of a class of sawdust effigies355 who, one was assured, were New York society people, and it turned, as a rule, upon questions of the heroine's technical purity, with mock-sociological overtones about the "mad antics of the four hundred."
"But your stories--" exclaimed Anthony aloud, almost involuntarily.
"Oh, that's different," Dick asserted astoundingly. "I have a reputation, you see, so I'm expected to deal with strong themes."
Anthony gave an interior start, realizing with this remark how much Richard Caramel had fallen off. Did he actually think that these amazing latter productions were as good as his first novel?
Anthony went back to the apartment and set to work. He found that the business of optimism was no mean task. After half a dozen futile starts he went to the public library and for a week investigated the files of a popular magazine. Then, better equipped, he accomplished356 his first story, "The Dictaphone of Fate." It was founded upon one of his few remaining impressions of that six weeks in Wall Street the year before. It purported357 to be the sunny tale of an office boy who, quite by accident, hummed a wonderful melody into the dictaphone. The cylinder358 was discovered by the boss's brother, a well-known producer of musical comedy--and then immediately lost. The body of the story was concerned with the pursuit of the missing cylinder and the eventual152 marriage of the noble office boy (now a successful composer) to Miss Rooney, the virtuous359 stenographer360, who was half Joan of Arc and half Florence Nightingale.
He had gathered that this was what the magazines wanted. He offered, in his protagonists361, the customary denizens362 of the pink-and-blue literary world, immersing them in a saccharine363 plot that would offend not a single stomach in Marietta. He had it typed in double space--this last as advised by a booklet, "Success as a Writer Made Easy," by R. Meggs Widdlestien, which assured the ambitious plumber364 of the futility of perspiration365, since after a six-lesson course he could make at least a thousand dollars a month.
After reading it to a bored Gloria and coaxing366 from her the immemorial remark that it was "better than a lot of stuff that gets published," he satirically affixed367 the nom de plume368 of "Gilles de Sade," enclosed the proper return envelope, and sent it off.
Following the gigantic labor369 of conception he decided to wait until he heard from the first story before beginning another. Dick had told him that he might get as much as two hundred dollars. If by any chance it did happen to be unsuited, the editor's letter would, no doubt, give him an idea of what changes should be made.
"It is, without question, the most abominable370 piece of writing in existence," said Anthony.
The editor quite conceivably agreed with him. He returned the manuscript with a rejection371 slip. Anthony sent it off elsewhere and began another story. The second one was called "The Little Open Doors"; it was written in three days. It concerned the occult: an estranged372 couple were brought together by a medium in a vaudeville373 show.
There were six altogether, six wretched and pitiable efforts to "write down" by a man who had never before made a consistent effort to write at all. Not one of them contained a spark of vitality, and their total yield of grace and felicity was less than that of an average newspaper column. During their circulation they collected, all told, thirty-one rejection slips, headstones for the packages that he would find lying like dead bodies at his door.
In mid-January Gloria's father died, and they went again to Kansas City--a miserable trip, for Gloria brooded interminably, not upon her father's death, but on her mother's. Russel Gilbert's affairs having been cleared up they came into possession of about three thousand dollars, and a great amount of furniture. This was in storage, for he had spent his last days in a small hotel. It was due to his death that Anthony made a new discovery concerning Gloria. On the journey East she disclosed herself, astonishingly, as a Bilphist.
"Why, Gloria," he cried, "you don't mean to tell me you believe that stuff."
"Well," she said defiantly, "why not?"
"Because it's--it's fantastic. You know that in every sense of the word you're an agnostic. You'd laugh at any orthodox form of Christianity--and then you come out with the statement that you believe in some silly rule of reincarnation."
"What if I do? I've heard you and Maury, and every one else for whose intellect I have the slightest respect, agree that life as it appears is utterly meaningless. But it's always seemed to me that if I were unconsciously learning something here it might not be so meaningless."
"You're not learning anything--you're just getting tired. And if you must have a faith to soften221 things, take up one that appeals to the reason of some one beside a lot of hysterical374 women. A person like you oughtn't to accept anything unless it's decently demonstrable."
"I don't care about truth. I want some happiness."
"Well, if you've got a decent mind the second has got to be qualified375 by the first. Any simple soul can delude376 himself with mental garbage."
"I don't care," she held out stoutly377, "and, what's more, I'm not propounding378 any doctrine240."
The argument faded off, but reoccurred to Anthony several times thereafter. It was disturbing to find this old belief, evidently assimilated from her mother, inserting itself again under its immemorial disguise as an innate379 idea.
They reached New York in March after an expensive and ill-advised week spent in Hot Springs, and Anthony resumed his abortive380 attempts at fiction. As it became plainer to both of them that escape did not lie in the way of popular literature, there was a further slipping of their mutual381 confidence and courage. A complicated struggle went on incessantly between them. All efforts to keep down expenses died away from sheer inertia382, and by March they were again using any pretext383 as an excuse for a "party." With an assumption of recklessness Gloria tossed out the suggestion that they should take all their money and go on a real spree while it lasted--anything seemed better than to see it go in unsatisfactory driblets.
"Gloria, you want parties as much as I do."
"It doesn't matter about me. Everything I do is in accordance with my ideas: to use every minute of these years, when I'm young, in having the best time I possibly can."
"How about after that?"
"After that I won't care."
"Yes, you will."
"Well, I may--but I won't be able to do anything about it. And I'll have had my good time."
"You'll be the same then. After a fashion, we _have_ had our good time, raised the devil, and we're in the state of paying for it."
Nevertheless, the money kept going. There would be two days of gaiety, two days of moroseness--an endless, almost invariable round. The sharp pull-ups, when they occurred, resulted usually in a spurt384 of work for Anthony, while Gloria, nervous and bored, remained in bed or else chewed abstractedly at her fingers. After a day or so of this, they would make an engagement, and then--Oh, what did it matter? This night, this glow, the cessation of anxiety and the sense that if living was not purposeful it was, at any rate, essentially385 romantic! Wine gave a sort of gallantry to their own failure.
Meanwhile the suit progressed slowly, with interminable examinations of witnesses and marshallings of evidence. The preliminary proceedings386 of settling the estate were finished. Mr. Haight saw no reason why the case should not come up for trial before summer.
Bloeckman appeared in New York late in March; he had been in England for nearly a year on matters concerned with "Films Par34 Excellence387." The process of general refinement388 was still in progress--always he dressed a little better, his intonation389 was mellower390, and in his manner there was perceptibly more assurance that the fine things of the world were his by a natural and inalienable right. He called at the apartment, remained only an hour, during which he talked chiefly of the war, and left telling them he was coming again. On his second visit Anthony was not at home, but an absorbed and excited Gloria greeted her husband later in the afternoon.
"Anthony," she began, "would you still object if I went in the movies?"
His whole heart hardened against the idea. As she seemed to recede391 from him, if only in threat, her presence became again not so much precious as desperately necessary.
"Oh, Gloria--!"
"Blockhead said he'd put me in--only if I'm ever going to do anything I'll have to start now. They only want young women. Think of the money, Anthony!"
"For you--yes. But how about me?"
"Don't you know that anything I have is yours too?"
"It's such a hell of a career!" he burst out, the moral, the infinitely392 circumspect Anthony, "and such a hell of a bunch. And I'm so utterly tired of that fellow Bloeckman coming here and interfering393. I hate theatrical394 things."
"It isn't theatrical! It's utterly different."
"What am I supposed to do? Chase you all over the country? Live on your money?"
"Then make some yourself."
The conversation developed into one of the most violent quarrels they had ever had. After the ensuing reconciliation395 and the inevitable period of moral inertia, she realized that he had taken the life out of the project. Neither of them ever mentioned the probability that Bloeckman was by no means disinterested396, but they both knew that it lay back of Anthony's objection.
In April war was declared with Germany. Wilson and his cabinet--a cabinet that in its lack of distinction was strangely reminiscent of the twelve apostles--let loose the carefully starved dogs of war, and the press began to whoop397 hysterically398 against the sinister morals, sinister philosophy, and sinister music produced by the Teutonic temperament. Those who fancied themselves particularly broad-minded made the exquisite distinction that it was only the German Government which aroused them to hysteria; the rest were worked up to a condition of retching indecency. Any song which contained the word "mother" and the word "kaiser" was assured of a tremendous success. At last every one had something to talk about--and almost every one fully49 enjoyed it, as though they had been cast for parts in a sombre and romantic play.
Anthony, Maury, and Dick sent in their applications for officers' training-camps and the two latter went about feeling strangely exalted399 and reproachless; they chattered400 to each other, like college boys, of war's being the one excuse for, and justification401 of, the aristocrat402, and conjured403 up an impossible caste of officers, to be composed, it appeared, chiefly of the more attractive alumni of three or four Eastern colleges. It seemed to Gloria that in this huge red light streaming across the nation even Anthony took on a new glamour404.
The Tenth Infantry405, arriving in New York from Panama, were escorted from saloon to saloon by patriotic406 citizens, to their great bewilderment. West Pointers began to be noticed for the first time in years, and the general impression was that everything was glorious, but not half so glorious as it was going to be pretty soon, and that everybody was a fine fellow, and every race a great race--always excepting the Germans--and in every strata407 of society outcasts and scapegoats408 had but to appear in uniform to be forgiven, cheered, and wept over by relatives, ex-friends, and utter strangers.
Unfortunately, a small and precise doctor decided that there was something the matter with Anthony's blood-pressure. He could not conscientiously409 pass him for an officers' training-camp.
THE BROKEN LUTE23
Their third anniversary passed, uncelebrated, unnoticed. The season warmed in thaw410, melted into hotter summer, simmered and boiled away. In July the will was offered for probate, and upon the contestation was assigned by the surrogate to trial term for trial. The matter was prolonged into September--there was difficulty in empanelling an unbiassed jury because of the moral sentiments involved. To Anthony's disappointment a verdict was finally returned in favor of the testator, whereupon Mr. Haight caused a notice of appeal to be served upon Edward Shuttleworth.
As the summer waned Anthony and Gloria talked of the things they were to do when the money was theirs, and of the places they were to go to after the war, when they would "agree on things again," for both of them looked forward to a time when love, springing like the phoenix411 from its own ashes, should be born again in its mysterious and unfathomable haunts.
He was drafted early in the fall, and the examining doctor made no mention of low blood-pressure. It was all very purposeless and sad when Anthony told Gloria one night that he wanted, above all things, to be killed. But, as always, they were sorry for each other for the wrong things at the wrong times....
They decided that for the present she was not to go with him to the Southern camp where his contingent412 was ordered. She would remain in New York to "use the apartment," to save money, and to watch the progress of the case--which was pending260 now in the Appellate Division, of which the calendar, Mr. Haight told them, was far behind.
Almost their last conversation was a senseless quarrel about the proper division of the income--at a word either would have given it all to the other. It was typical of the muddle413 and confusion of their lives that on the October night when Anthony reported at the Grand Central Station for the journey to camp, she arrived only in time to catch his eye over the anxious heads of a gathered crowd. Through the dark light of the enclosed train-sheds their glances stretched across a hysterical area, foul with yellow sobbing and the smells of poor women. They must have pondered upon what they had done to one another, and each must have accused himself of drawing this sombre pattern through which they were tracing tragically414 and obscurely. At the last they were too far away for either to see the other's tears.
点击收听单词发音
1 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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2 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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3 drowsiness | |
n.睡意;嗜睡 | |
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4 scents | |
n.香水( scent的名词复数 );气味;(动物的)臭迹;(尤指狗的)嗅觉 | |
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5 relentlessly | |
adv.不屈不挠地;残酷地;不间断 | |
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6 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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7 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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8 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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9 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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10 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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11 assortment | |
n.分类,各色俱备之物,聚集 | |
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12 wavy | |
adj.有波浪的,多浪的,波浪状的,波动的,不稳定的 | |
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13 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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14 fixture | |
n.固定设备;预定日期;比赛时间;定期存款 | |
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15 appendages | |
n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 );依附的人;附属器官;附属肢体(如臂、腿、尾等) | |
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16 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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17 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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18 sprightly | |
adj.愉快的,活泼的 | |
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19 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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20 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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21 erratically | |
adv.不规律地,不定地 | |
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22 flute | |
n.长笛;v.吹笛 | |
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23 lute | |
n.琵琶,鲁特琴 | |
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24 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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25 subdued | |
adj. 屈服的,柔和的,减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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26 discord | |
n.不和,意见不合,争论,(音乐)不和谐 | |
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27 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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28 obliterating | |
v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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29 cinder | |
n.余烬,矿渣 | |
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30 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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32 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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33 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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34 par | |
n.标准,票面价值,平均数量;adj.票面的,平常的,标准的 | |
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35 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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36 giggle | |
n.痴笑,咯咯地笑;v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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37 subscriber | |
n.用户,订户;(慈善机关等的)定期捐款者;预约者;签署者 | |
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38 geographic | |
adj.地理学的,地理的 | |
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39 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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40 crevice | |
n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝;缺口 | |
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41 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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42 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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43 motif | |
n.(图案的)基本花纹,(衣服的)花边;主题 | |
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44 wafting | |
v.吹送,飘送,(使)浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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45 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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46 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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47 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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48 commendable | |
adj.值得称赞的 | |
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49 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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50 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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51 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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52 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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53 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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54 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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55 lieutenant | |
n.陆军中尉,海军上尉;代理官员,副职官员 | |
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56 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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57 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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58 pickpocket | |
n.扒手;v.扒窃 | |
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59 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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60 parturition | |
n.生产,分娩 | |
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61 hush | |
int.嘘,别出声;n.沉默,静寂;v.使安静 | |
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62 malicious | |
adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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63 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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64 recollecting | |
v.记起,想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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65 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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66 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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67 clergy | |
n.[总称]牧师,神职人员 | |
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68 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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69 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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70 lustful | |
a.贪婪的;渴望的 | |
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71 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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72 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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73 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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74 generosities | |
n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 );大方;宽容;慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
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75 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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76 hull | |
n.船身;(果、实等的)外壳;vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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77 wheedle | |
v.劝诱,哄骗 | |
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78 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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79 philistines | |
n.市侩,庸人( philistine的名词复数 );庸夫俗子 | |
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80 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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81 pastry | |
n.油酥面团,酥皮糕点 | |
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82 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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83 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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84 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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86 decadence | |
n.衰落,颓废 | |
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87 stimulated | |
a.刺激的 | |
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88 cocktail | |
n.鸡尾酒;餐前开胃小吃;混合物 | |
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89 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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90 defiantly | |
adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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91 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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92 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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93 inflicts | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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95 perpendicular | |
adj.垂直的,直立的;n.垂直线,垂直的位置 | |
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96 fins | |
[医]散热片;鱼鳍;飞边;鸭掌 | |
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97 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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98 acquiescence | |
n.默许;顺从 | |
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99 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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100 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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101 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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102 enraptured | |
v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103 bedlam | |
n.混乱,骚乱;疯人院 | |
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104 recondite | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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105 mazes | |
迷宫( maze的名词复数 ); 纷繁复杂的规则; 复杂难懂的细节; 迷宫图 | |
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106 plaintive | |
adj.可怜的,伤心的 | |
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107 cadences | |
n.(声音的)抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 );节奏;韵律;调子 | |
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108 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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109 rigidity | |
adj.钢性,坚硬 | |
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110 commotion | |
n.骚动,动乱 | |
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111 pandemonium | |
n.喧嚣,大混乱 | |
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112 deflects | |
(使)偏斜, (使)偏离, (使)转向( deflect的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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114 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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115 pall | |
v.覆盖,使平淡无味;n.柩衣,棺罩;棺材;帷幕 | |
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116 dribble | |
v.点滴留下,流口水;n.口水 | |
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117 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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118 prohibition | |
n.禁止;禁令,禁律 | |
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119 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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120 apprehension | |
n.理解,领悟;逮捕,拘捕;忧虑 | |
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121 grotesquely | |
adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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122 bleak | |
adj.(天气)阴冷的;凄凉的;暗淡的 | |
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123 scentless | |
adj.无气味的,遗臭已消失的 | |
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124 gasp | |
n.喘息,气喘;v.喘息;气吁吁他说 | |
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125 gasps | |
v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
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126 emanating | |
v.从…处传出,传出( emanate的现在分词 );产生,表现,显示 | |
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127 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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128 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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129 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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130 portentousness | |
Portentousness | |
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131 crunch | |
n.关键时刻;艰难局面;v.发出碎裂声 | |
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132 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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133 retrospect | |
n.回顾,追溯;v.回顾,回想,追溯 | |
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134 extremity | |
n.末端,尽头;尽力;终极;极度 | |
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135 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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136 ecstasies | |
狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 ); 出神; 入迷; 迷幻药 | |
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137 proprietorship | |
n.所有(权);所有权 | |
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138 sporadic | |
adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular;分散的 | |
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139 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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140 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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141 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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142 incensed | |
盛怒的 | |
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143 waned | |
v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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144 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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145 lethargic | |
adj.昏睡的,懒洋洋的 | |
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146 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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147 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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148 suffocation | |
n.窒息 | |
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149 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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150 sentimentally | |
adv.富情感地 | |
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151 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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152 eventual | |
adj.最后的,结局的,最终的 | |
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153 idyllic | |
adj.质朴宜人的,田园风光的 | |
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154 diplomacy | |
n.外交;外交手腕,交际手腕 | |
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155 batch | |
n.一批(组,群);一批生产量 | |
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156 clinching | |
v.(尤指两人)互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 );解决(争端、交易),达成(协议) | |
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157 terse | |
adj.(说话,文笔)精炼的,简明的 | |
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158 realization | |
n.实现;认识到,深刻了解 | |
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159 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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160 temperate | |
adj.温和的,温带的,自我克制的,不过分的 | |
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161 circumspect | |
adj.慎重的,谨慎的 | |
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162 abhorrence | |
n.憎恶;可憎恶的事 | |
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163 nauseated | |
adj.作呕的,厌恶的v.使恶心,作呕( nauseate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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164 pervasive | |
adj.普遍的;遍布的,(到处)弥漫的;渗透性的 | |
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165 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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166 nibbling | |
v.啃,一点一点地咬(吃)( nibble的现在分词 );啃出(洞),一点一点咬出(洞);慢慢减少;小口咬 | |
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167 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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168 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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169 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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170 miserably | |
adv.痛苦地;悲惨地;糟糕地;极度地 | |
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171 petulantly | |
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172 quailed | |
害怕,发抖,畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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174 quotations | |
n.引用( quotation的名词复数 );[商业]行情(报告);(货物或股票的)市价;时价 | |
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175 acumen | |
n.敏锐,聪明 | |
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176 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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177 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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178 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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179 deteriorated | |
恶化,变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180 trepidation | |
n.惊恐,惶恐 | |
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181 vindictive | |
adj.有报仇心的,怀恨的,惩罚的 | |
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182 wilted | |
(使)凋谢,枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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184 slashed | |
v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 );鞭打;割破;削减 | |
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185 crates | |
n. 板条箱, 篓子, 旧汽车 vt. 装进纸条箱 | |
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186 dismantled | |
拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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187 sprawled | |
v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词);蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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188 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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189 nervously | |
adv.神情激动地,不安地 | |
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190 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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191 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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192 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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193 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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194 inevitability | |
n.必然性 | |
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195 manor | |
n.庄园,领地 | |
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196 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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197 props | |
小道具; 支柱( prop的名词复数 ); 支持者; 道具; (橄榄球中的)支柱前锋 | |
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198 futile | |
adj.无效的,无用的,无希望的 | |
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199 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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200 refulgent | |
adj.辉煌的,灿烂的 | |
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201 caravans | |
(可供居住的)拖车(通常由机动车拖行)( caravan的名词复数 ); 篷车; (穿过沙漠地带的)旅行队(如商队) | |
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202 outskirts | |
n.郊外,郊区 | |
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203 poised | |
a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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204 glided | |
v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 );掠过;(鸟或飞机 ) 滑翔 | |
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205 mazed | |
迷惘的,困惑的 | |
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206 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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207 spokes | |
n.(车轮的)辐条( spoke的名词复数 );轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 | |
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208 revel | |
vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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209 swarming | |
密集( swarm的现在分词 ); 云集; 成群地移动; 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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210 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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211 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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212 tenement | |
n.公寓;房屋 | |
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213 constellations | |
n.星座( constellation的名词复数 );一群杰出人物;一系列(相关的想法、事物);一群(相关的人) | |
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214 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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215 abominably | |
adv. 可恶地,可恨地,恶劣地 | |
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216 cupidity | |
n.贪心,贪财 | |
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217 consolidating | |
v.(使)巩固, (使)加强( consolidate的现在分词 );(使)合并 | |
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218 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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219 impractical | |
adj.不现实的,不实用的,不切实际的 | |
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220 softening | |
变软,软化 | |
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221 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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222 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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223 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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224 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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225 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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226 ethically | |
adv.在伦理上,道德上 | |
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227 margins | |
边( margin的名词复数 ); 利润; 页边空白; 差数 | |
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228 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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229 bias | |
n.偏见,偏心,偏袒;vt.使有偏见 | |
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230 preying | |
v.掠食( prey的现在分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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231 dormant | |
adj.暂停活动的;休眠的;潜伏的 | |
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232 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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233 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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234 constructively | |
ad.有益的,积极的 | |
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235 sinecures | |
n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位,挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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236 mitigating | |
v.减轻,缓和( mitigate的现在分词 ) | |
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237 transcending | |
超出或超越(经验、信念、描写能力等)的范围( transcend的现在分词 ); 优于或胜过… | |
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238 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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239 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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240 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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241 authentic | |
a.真的,真正的;可靠的,可信的,有根据的 | |
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242 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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243 severance | |
n.离职金;切断 | |
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244 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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245 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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246 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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247 scruples | |
n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 );顾虑,顾忌v.感到于心不安,有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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248 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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249 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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250 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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251 chasm | |
n.深坑,断层,裂口,大分岐,利害冲突 | |
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252 renewal | |
adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
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253 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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254 waived | |
v.宣布放弃( waive的过去式和过去分词 );搁置;推迟;放弃(权利、要求等) | |
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255 obdurate | |
adj.固执的,顽固的 | |
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256 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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257 discomfiture | |
n.崩溃;大败;挫败;困惑 | |
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258 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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259 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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260 pending | |
prep.直到,等待…期间;adj.待定的;迫近的 | |
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261 inordinately | |
adv.无度地,非常地 | |
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262 sanitary | |
adj.卫生方面的,卫生的,清洁的,卫生的 | |
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263 enlist | |
vt.谋取(支持等),赢得;征募;vi.入伍 | |
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264 loathed | |
v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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265 vowed | |
起誓,发誓(vow的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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266 innuendo | |
n.暗指,讽刺 | |
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267 prodigal | |
adj.浪费的,挥霍的,放荡的 | |
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268 brawny | |
adj.强壮的 | |
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269 intimidated | |
v.恐吓;威胁adj.害怕的;受到威胁的 | |
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270 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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271 plaintively | |
adv.悲哀地,哀怨地 | |
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272 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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273 perversely | |
adv. 倔强地 | |
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274 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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275 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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276 omnipotent | |
adj.全能的,万能的 | |
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277 lascivious | |
adj.淫荡的,好色的 | |
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278 armistice | |
n.休战,停战协定 | |
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279 deity | |
n.神,神性;被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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280 sterling | |
adj.英币的(纯粹的,货真价实的);n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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281 censor | |
n./vt.审查,审查员;删改 | |
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282 resuscitated | |
v.使(某人或某物)恢复知觉,苏醒( resuscitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283 glean | |
v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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284 presage | |
n.预感,不祥感;v.预示 | |
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285 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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286 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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287 lustreless | |
adj.无光泽的,无光彩的,平淡乏味的 | |
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288 bleakly | |
无望地,阴郁地,苍凉地 | |
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289 pervaded | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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290 jingled | |
喝醉的 | |
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291 tourniquets | |
n.止血带( tourniquet的名词复数 ) | |
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292 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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293 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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294 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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295 astute | |
adj.机敏的,精明的 | |
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296 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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297 administrator | |
n.经营管理者,行政官员 | |
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298 bequests | |
n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 );遗产,遗赠物 | |
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299 bequest | |
n.遗赠;遗产,遗物 | |
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300 Prohibitionist | |
禁酒主义者 | |
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301 maniac | |
n.精神癫狂的人;疯子 | |
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302 undue | |
adj.过分的;不适当的;未到期的 | |
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303 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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304 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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305 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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306 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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307 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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308 jointly | |
ad.联合地,共同地 | |
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309 hardy | |
adj.勇敢的,果断的,吃苦的;耐寒的 | |
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310 transpired | |
(事实,秘密等)被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 ); 泄露; 显露; 发生 | |
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311 doled | |
救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 ); 失业救济金 | |
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312 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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313 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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314 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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315 goblets | |
n.高脚酒杯( goblet的名词复数 ) | |
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316 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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317 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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318 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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319 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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320 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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321 hilarity | |
n.欢乐;热闹 | |
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322 squandered | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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323 penury | |
n.贫穷,拮据 | |
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324 remonstrate | |
v.抗议,规劝 | |
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325 disparagement | |
n.轻视,轻蔑 | |
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326 rumors | |
n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 );[古]名誉;咕哝;[古]喧嚷 | |
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327 deterioration | |
n.退化;恶化;变坏 | |
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328 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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329 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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330 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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331 aisle | |
n.(教堂、教室、戏院等里的)过道,通道 | |
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332 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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333 fervor | |
n.热诚;热心;炽热 | |
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334 flirtation | |
n.调情,调戏,挑逗 | |
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335 scoffed | |
嘲笑,嘲弄( scoff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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336 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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337 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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338 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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339 impetus | |
n.推动,促进,刺激;推动力 | |
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340 memorable | |
adj.值得回忆的,难忘的,特别的,显著的 | |
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341 recollected | |
adj.冷静的;镇定的;被回忆起的;沉思默想的v.记起,想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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342 hoary | |
adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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343 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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344 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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345 janitor | |
n.看门人,管门人 | |
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346 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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347 pneumonia | |
n.肺炎 | |
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348 glib | |
adj.圆滑的,油嘴滑舌的 | |
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349 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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350 elucidation | |
n.说明,阐明 | |
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351 minutiae | |
n.微小的细节,细枝末节;(常复数)细节,小事( minutia的名词复数 ) | |
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352 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
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353 specialized | |
adj.专门的,专业化的 | |
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354 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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355 effigies | |
n.(人的)雕像,模拟像,肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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356 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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357 purported | |
adj.传说的,谣传的v.声称是…,(装得)像是…的样子( purport的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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358 cylinder | |
n.圆筒,柱(面),汽缸 | |
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359 virtuous | |
adj.有品德的,善良的,贞洁的,有效力的 | |
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360 stenographer | |
n.速记员 | |
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361 protagonists | |
n.(戏剧的)主角( protagonist的名词复数 );(故事的)主人公;现实事件(尤指冲突和争端的)主要参与者;领导者 | |
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362 denizens | |
n.居民,住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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363 saccharine | |
adj.奉承的,讨好的 | |
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364 plumber | |
n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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365 perspiration | |
n.汗水;出汗 | |
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366 coaxing | |
v.哄,用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 );巧言骗取;哄劝,劝诱;“锻炼”效应 | |
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367 affixed | |
adj.[医]附着的,附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
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368 plume | |
n.羽毛;v.整理羽毛,骚首弄姿,用羽毛装饰 | |
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369 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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370 abominable | |
adj.可厌的,令人憎恶的 | |
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371 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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372 estranged | |
adj.疏远的,分离的 | |
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373 vaudeville | |
n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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374 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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375 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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376 delude | |
vt.欺骗;哄骗 | |
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377 stoutly | |
adv.牢固地,粗壮的 | |
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378 propounding | |
v.提出(问题、计划等)供考虑[讨论],提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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379 innate | |
adj.天生的,固有的,天赋的 | |
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380 abortive | |
adj.不成功的,发育不全的 | |
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381 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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382 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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383 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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384 spurt | |
v.喷出;突然进发;突然兴隆 | |
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385 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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386 proceedings | |
n.进程,过程,议程;诉讼(程序);公报 | |
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387 excellence | |
n.优秀,杰出,(pl.)优点,美德 | |
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388 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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389 intonation | |
n.语调,声调;发声 | |
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390 mellower | |
成熟的( mellow的比较级 ); (水果)熟透的; (颜色或声音)柔和的; 高兴的 | |
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391 recede | |
vi.退(去),渐渐远去;向后倾斜,缩进 | |
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392 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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393 interfering | |
adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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394 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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395 reconciliation | |
n.和解,和谐,一致 | |
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396 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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397 whoop | |
n.大叫,呐喊,喘息声;v.叫喊,喘息 | |
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398 hysterically | |
ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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399 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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400 chattered | |
(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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401 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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402 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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403 conjured | |
用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 ); 祈求,恳求; 变戏法; (变魔术般地) 使…出现 | |
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404 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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405 infantry | |
n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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406 patriotic | |
adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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407 strata | |
n.地层(复数);社会阶层 | |
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408 scapegoats | |
n.代人受过的人,替罪羊( scapegoat的名词复数 )v.使成为替罪羊( scapegoat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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409 conscientiously | |
adv.凭良心地;认真地,负责尽职地;老老实实 | |
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410 thaw | |
v.(使)融化,(使)变得友善;n.融化,缓和 | |
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411 phoenix | |
n.凤凰,长生(不死)鸟;引申为重生 | |
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412 contingent | |
adj.视条件而定的;n.一组,代表团,分遣队 | |
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413 muddle | |
n.困惑,混浊状态;vt.使混乱,使糊涂,使惊呆;vi.胡乱应付,混乱 | |
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414 tragically | |
adv. 悲剧地,悲惨地 | |
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