"The Height of the season," said Bonamy.
The sun had already blistered1 the paint on the backs of the green chairs in Hyde Park; peeled the bark off the plane trees; and turned the earth to powder and to smooth yellow pebbles3. Hyde Park was circled, incessantly4, by turning wheels.
"The height of the season," said Bonamy sarcastically5.
He was sarcastic6 because of Clara Durrant; because Jacob had come back from Greece very brown and lean, with his pockets full of Greek notes, which he pulled out when the chair man came for pence; because Jacob was silent.
"He has not said a word to show that he is glad to see me," thought Bonamy bitterly.
The motor cars passed incessantly over the bridge of the Serpentine7; the upper classes walked upright, or bent8 themselves gracefully9 over the palings; the lower classes lay with their knees cocked up, flat on their backs; the sheep grazed on pointed10 wooden legs; small children ran down the sloping grass, stretched their arms, and fell.
"Very urbane11," Jacob brought out.
"Urbane" on the lips of Jacob had mysteriously all the shapeliness of a character which Bonamy thought daily more sublime12, devastating13, terrific than ever, though he was still, and perhaps would be for ever, barbaric, obscure.
What superlatives! What adjectives! How acquit14 Bonamy of sentimentality of the grossest sort; of being tossed like a cork15 on the waves; of having no steady insight into character; of being unsupported by reason, and of drawing no comfort whatever from the works of the classics?
"The height of civilization," said Jacob.
He was fond of using Latin words.
Magnanimity, virtue--such words when Jacob used them in talk with Bonamy meant that he took control of the situation; that Bonamy would play round him like an affectionate spaniel; and that (as likely as not) they would end by rolling on the floor.
"And Greece?" said Bonamy. "The Parthenon and all that?"
"There's none of this European mysticism," said Jacob.
"It's the atmosphere. I suppose," said Bonamy. "And you went to Constantinople?"
"Yes," said Jacob.
Bonamy paused, moved a pebble2; then darted16 in with the rapidity and certainty of a lizard's tongue.
"You are in love!" he exclaimed.
Jacob blushed.
The sharpest of knives never cut so deep.
As for responding, or taking the least account of it, Jacob stared straight ahead of him, fixed17, monolithic--oh, very beautiful!--like a British Admiral, exclaimed Bonamy in a rage, rising from his seat and walking off; waiting for some sound; none came; too proud to look back; walking quicker and quicker until he found himself gazing into motor cars and cursing women. Where was the pretty woman's face? Clara's-- Fanny's--Florinda's? Who was the pretty little creature?
Not Clara Durrant.
The Aberdeen terrier must be exercised, and as Mr. Bowley was going that very moment--would like nothing better than a walk--they went together, Clara and kind little Bowley--Bowley who had rooms in the Albany, Bowley who wrote letters to the "Times" in a jocular vein18 about foreign hotels and the Aurora19 Borealis--Bowley who liked young people and walked down Piccadilly with his right arm resting on the boss of his back.
"Little demon20!" cried Clara, and attached Troy to his chain.
Bowley anticipated--hoped for--a confidence. Devoted21 to her mother, Clara sometimes felt her a little, well, her mother was so sure of herself that she could not understand other people being--being--"as ludicrous as I am," Clara jerked out (the dog tugging22 her forwards). And Bowley thought she looked like a huntress and turned over in his mind which it should be--some pale virgin23 with a slip of the moon in her hair, which was a flight for Bowley.
The colour was in her cheeks. To have spoken outright25 about her mother-- still, it was only to Mr. Bowley, who loved her, as everybody must; but to speak was unnatural26 to her, yet it was awful to feel, as she had done all day, that she MUST tell some one.
"Wait till we cross the road," she said to the dog, bending down.
Happily she had recovered by that time.
"She thinks so much about England," she said. "She is so anxious---"
Bowley was defrauded27 as usual. Clara never confided28 in any one.
"Why don't the young people settle it, eh?" he wanted to ask. "What's all this about England?"--a question poor Clara could not have answered, since, as Mrs. Durrant discussed with Sir Edgar the policy of Sir Edward Grey, Clara only wondered why the cabinet looked dusty, and Jacob had never come. Oh, here was Mrs. Cowley Johnson...
And Clara would hand the pretty china teacups, and smile at the compliment--that no one in London made tea so well as she did.
"We get it at Brocklebank's," she said, "in Cursitor Street."
Ought she not to be grateful? Ought she not to be happy?
Especially since her mother looked so well and enjoyed so much talking to Sir Edgar about Morocco, Venezuela, or some such place.
"Jacob! Jacob!" thought Clara; and kind Mr. Bowley, who was ever so good with old ladies, looked; stopped; wondered whether Elizabeth wasn't too harsh with her daughter; wondered about Bonamy, Jacob--which young fellow was it?--and jumped up directly Clara said she must exercise Troy.
They had reached the site of the old Exhibition. They looked at the tulips. Stiff and curled, the little rods of waxy29 smoothness rose from the earth, nourished yet contained, suffused30 with scarlet31 and coral pink. Each had its shadow; each grew trimly in the diamond-shaped wedge as the gardener had planned it.
"Barnes never gets them to grow like that," Clara mused33; she sighed.
"You are neglecting your friends," said Bowley, as some one, going the other way, lifted his hat. She started; acknowledged Mr. Lionel Parry's bow; wasted on him what had sprung for Jacob.
("Jacob! Jacob!" she thought.)
"But you'll get run over if I let you go," she said to the dog.
"England seems all right," said Mr. Bowley.
The loop of the railing beneath the statue of Achilles was full of parasols and waistcoats; chains and bangles; of ladies and gentlemen, lounging elegantly, lightly observant.
"'This statue was erected34 by the women of England...'" Clara read out with a foolish little laugh. "Oh, Mr. Bowley! Oh!" Gallop--gallop-- gallop--a horse galloped35 past without a rider. The stirrups swung; the pebbles spurted36.
"Oh, stop! Stop it, Mr. Bowley!" she cried, white, trembling, gripping his arm, utterly37 unconscious, the tears coming.
"Tut-tut!" said Mr. Bowley in his dressing-room an hour later. "Tut- tut!"--a comment that was profound enough, though inarticulately expressed, since his valet was handing his shirt studs.
Julia Eliot, too, had seen the horse run away, and had risen from her seat to watch the end of the incident, which, since she came of a sporting family, seemed to her slightly ridiculous. Sure enough the little man came pounding behind with his breeches dusty; looked thoroughly38 annoyed; and was being helped to mount by a policeman when Julia Eliot, with a sardonic39 smile, turned towards the Marble Arch on her errand of mercy. It was only to visit a sick old lady who had known her mother and perhaps the Duke of Wellington; for Julia shared the love of her sex for the distressed40; liked to visit death-beds; threw slippers41 at weddings; received confidences by the dozen; knew more pedigrees than a scholar knows dates, and was one of the kindliest, most generous, least continent of women.
Yet five minutes after she had passed the statue of Achilles she had the rapt look of one brushing through crowds on a summer's afternoon, when the trees are rustling42, the wheels churning yellow, and the tumult43 of the present seems like an elegy44 for past youth and past summers, and there rose in her mind a curious sadness, as if time and eternity45 showed through skirts and waistcoasts, and she saw people passing tragically46 to destruction. Yet, Heaven knows, Julia was no fool. A sharper woman at a bargain did not exist. She was always punctual. The watch on her wrist gave her twelve minutes and a half in which to reach Bruton Street. Lady Congreve expected her at five.
The gilt47 clock at Verrey's was striking five.
Florinda looked at it with a dull expression, like an animal. She looked at the clock; looked at the door; looked at the long glass opposite; disposed her cloak; drew closer to the table, for she was pregnant--no doubt about it, Mother Stuart said, recommending remedies, consulting friends; sunk, caught by the heel, as she tripped so lightly over the surface.
Her tumbler of pinkish sweet stuff was set down by the waiter; and she sucked, through a straw, her eyes on the looking-glass, on the door, now soothed48 by the sweet taste. When Nick Bramham came in it was plain, even to the young Swiss waiter, that there was a bargain between them. Nick hitched49 his clothes together clumsily; ran his fingers through his hair; sat down, to an ordeal50, nervously51. She looked at him; and set off laughing; laughed--laughed--laughed. The young Swiss waiter, standing52 with crossed legs by the pillar, laughed too.
The door opened; in came the roar of Regent Street, the roar of traffic, impersonal53, unpitying; and sunshine grained with dirt. The Swiss waiter must see to the newcomers. Bramham lifted his glass.
"He's like Jacob," said Florinda, looking at the newcomer.
"The way he stares." She stopped laughing.
Jacob, leaning forward, drew a plan of the Parthenon in the dust in Hyde Park, a network of strokes at least, which may have been the Parthenon, or again a mathematical diagram. And why was the pebble so emphatically ground in at the corner? It was not to count his notes that he took out a wad of papers and read a long flowing letter which Sandra had written two days ago at Milton Dower House with his book before her and in her mind the memory of something said or attempted, some moment in the dark on the road to the Acropolis which (such was her creed54) mattered for ever.
"He is," she mused, "like that man in Moliere."
She meant Alceste. She meant that he was severe. She meant that she could deceive him.
"Or could I not?" she thought, putting the poems of Donne back in the bookcase. "Jacob," she went on, going to the window and looking over the spotted55 flower-beds across the grass where the piebald cows grazed under beech56 trees, "Jacob would be shocked."
The perambulator was going through the little gate in the railing. She kissed her hand; directed by the nurse, Jimmy waved his.
"HE'S a small boy," she said, thinking of Jacob.
And yet--Alceste?
"What a nuisance you are!" Jacob grumbled57, stretching out first one leg and then the other and feeling in each trouser-pocket for his chair ticket.
"I expect the sheep have eaten it," he said. "Why do you keep sheep?"
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said the ticket-collector, his hand deep in the enormous pouch58 of pence.
"Well, I hope they pay you for it," said Jacob. "There you are. No. You can stick to it. Go and get drunk."
He had parted with half-a-crown, tolerantly, compassionately59, with considerable contempt for his species.
Even now poor Fanny Elmer was dealing60, as she walked along the Strand61, in her incompetent62 way with this very careless, indifferent, sublime manner he had of talking to railway guards or porters; or Mrs. Whitehorn, when she consulted him about her little boy who was beaten by the schoolmaster.
Sustained entirely63 upon picture post cards for the past two months, Fanny's idea of Jacob was more statuesque, noble, and eyeless than ever. To reinforce her vision she had taken to visiting the British Museum, where, keeping her eyes downcast until she was alongside of the battered64 Ulysses, she opened them and got a fresh shock of Jacob's presence, enough to last her half a day. But this was wearing thin. And she wrote now--poems, letters that were never posted, saw his face in advertisements on hoardings, and would cross the road to let the barrel- organ turn her musings to rhapsody. But at breakfast (she shared rooms with a teacher), when the butter was smeared65 about the plate, and the prongs of the forks were clotted66 with old egg yolk67, she revised these visions violently; was, in truth, very cross; was losing her complexion68, as Margery Jackson told her, bringing the whole thing down (as she laced her stout69 boots) to a level of mother-wit, vulgarity, and sentiment, for she had loved too; and been a fool.
"One's godmothers ought to have told one," said Fanny, looking in at the window of Bacon, the mapseller, in the Strand--told one that it is no use making a fuss; this is life, they should have said, as Fanny said it now, looking at the large yellow globe marked with steamship70 lines.
"This is life. This is life," said Fanny.
"A very hard face," thought Miss Barrett, on the other side of the glass, buying maps of the Syrian desert and waiting impatiently to be served. "Girls look old so soon nowadays."
The equator swam behind tears.
"Piccadilly?" Fanny asked the conductor of the omnibus, and climbed to the top. After all, he would, he must, come back to her.
But Jacob might have been thinking of Rome; of architecture; of jurisprudence; as he sat under the plane tree in Hyde Park.
The omnibus stopped outside Charing71 Cross; and behind it were clogged72 omnibuses, vans, motor-cars, for a procession with banners was passing down Whitehall, and elderly people were stiffly descending73 from between the paws of the slippery lions, where they had been testifying to their faith, singing lustily, raising their eyes from their music to look into the sky, and still their eyes were on the sky as they marched behind the gold letters of their creed.
The traffic stopped, and the sun, no longer sprayed out by the breeze, became almost too hot. But the procession passed; the banners glittered --far away down Whitehall; the traffic was released; lurched on; spun74 to a smooth continuous uproar75; swerving76 round the curve of Cockspur Street; and sweeping77 past Government offices and equestrian78 statues down Whitehall to the prickly spires79, the tethered grey fleet of masonry80, and the large white clock of Westminster.
Five strokes Big Ben intoned; Nelson received the salute81. The wires of the Admiralty shivered with some far-away communication. A voice kept remarking that Prime Ministers and Viceroys spoke24 in the Reichstag; entered Lahore; said that the Emperor travelled; in Milan they rioted; said there were rumours82 in Vienna; said that the Ambassador at Constantinople had audience with the Sultan; the fleet was at Gibraltar. The voice continued, imprinting83 on the faces of the clerks in Whitehall (Timothy Durrant was one of them) something of its own inexorable gravity, as they listened, deciphered, wrote down. Papers accumulated, inscribed84 with the utterances85 of Kaisers, the statistics of ricefields, the growling86 of hundreds of work-people, plotting sedition87 in back streets, or gathering88 in the Calcutta bazaars89, or mustering90 their forces in the uplands of Albania, where the hills are sand-coloured, and bones lie unburied.
The voice spoke plainly in the square quiet room with heavy tables, where one elderly man made notes on the margin91 of typewritten sheets, his silver-topped umbrella leaning against the bookcase.
His head--bald, red-veined, hollow-looking--represented all the heads in the building. His head, with the amiable92 pale eyes, carried the burden of knowledge across the street; laid it before his colleagues, who came equally burdened; and then the sixteen gentlemen, lifting their pens or turning perhaps rather wearily in their chairs, decreed that the course of history should shape itself this way or that way, being manfully determined93, as their faces showed, to impose some coherency upon Rajahs and Kaisers and the muttering in bazaars, the secret gatherings94, plainly visible in Whitehall, of kilted peasants in Albanian uplands; to control the course of events.
Pitt and Chatham, Burke and Gladstone looked from side to side with fixed marble eyes and an air of immortal95 quiescence96 which perhaps the living may have envied, the air being full of whistling and concussions97, as the procession with its banners passed down Whitehall. Moreover, some were troubled with dyspepsia; one had at that very moment cracked the glass of his spectacles; another spoke in Glasgow to-morrow; altogether they looked too red, fat, pale or lean, to be dealing, as the marble heads had dealt, with the course of history.
Timmy Durrant in his little room in the Admiralty, going to consult a Blue book, stopped for a moment by the window and observed the placard tied round the lamp-post.
Miss Thomas, one of the typists, said to her friend that if the Cabinet was going to sit much longer she should miss her boy outside the Gaiety.
Timmy Durrant, returning with his Blue book under his arm, noticed a little knot of people at the street corner; conglomerated as though one of them knew something; and the others, pressing round him, looked up, looked down, looked along the street. What was it that he knew?
Timothy, placing the Blue book before him, studied a paper sent round by the Treasury98 for information. Mr. Crawley, his fellow-clerk, impaled99 a letter on a skewer100.
Jacob rose from his chair in Hyde Park, tore his ticket to pieces, and walked away.
"Such a sunset," wrote Mrs. Flanders in her letter to Archer101 at Singapore. "One couldn't make up one's mind to come indoors," she wrote. "It seemed wicked to waste even a moment."
The long windows of Kensington Palace flushed fiery102 rose as Jacob walked away; a flock of wild duck flew over the Serpentine; and the trees were stood against the sky, blackly, magnificently.
"Jacob," wrote Mrs. Flanders, with the red light on her page, "is hard at work after his delightful103 journey..."
"The Kaiser," the far-away voice remarked in Whitehall, "received me in audience."
"Now I know that face--" said the Reverend Andrew Floyd, coming out of Carter's shop in Piccadilly, "but who the dickens--?" and he watched Jacob, turned round to look at him, but could not be sure--
"Oh, Jacob Flanders!" he remembered in a flash.
But he was so tall; so unconscious; such a fine young fellow.
"I gave him Byron's works," Andrew Floyd mused, and started forward, as Jacob crossed the road; but hesitated, and let the moment pass, and lost the opportunity.
Another procession, without banners, was blocking Long Acre. Carriages, with dowagers in amethyst104 and gentlemen spotted with carnations105, intercepted106 cabs and motor-cars turned in the opposite direction, in which jaded107 men in white waistcoats lolled, on their way home to shrubberies and billiard-rooms in Putney and Wimbledon.
Two barrel-organs played by the kerb, and horses coming out of Aldridge's with white labels on their buttocks straddled across the road and were smartly jerked back.
Mrs. Durrant, sitting with Mr. Wortley in a motor-car, was impatient lest they should miss the overture108.
But Mr. Wortley, always urbane, always in time for the overture, buttoned his gloves, and admired Miss Clara.
"A shame to spend such a night in the theatre!" said Mrs. Durrant, seeing all the windows of the coachmakers in Long Acre ablaze109.
"Think of your moors110!" said Mr. Wortley to Clara.
"Ah! but Clara likes this better," Mrs. Durrant laughed.
"I don't know--really," said Clara, looking at the blazing windows. She started.
She saw Jacob.
"Who?" asked Mrs. Durrant sharply, leaning forward.
But she saw no one.
Under the arch of the Opera House large faces and lean ones, the powdered and the hairy, all alike were red in the sunset; and, quickened by the great hanging lamps with their repressed primrose111 lights, by the tramp, and the scarlet, and the pompous112 ceremony, some ladies looked for a moment into steaming bedrooms near by, where women with loose hair leaned out of windows, where girls--where children--(the long mirrors held the ladies suspended) but one must follow; one must not block the way.
Clara's moors were fine enough. The Phoenicians slept under their piled grey rocks; the chimneys of the old mines pointed starkly113; early moths114 blurred115 the heather-bells; cartwheels could be heard grinding on the road far beneath; and the suck and sighing of the waves sounded gently, persistently116, for ever.
Shading her eyes with her hand Mrs. Pascoe stood in her cabbage-garden looking out to sea. Two steamers and a sailing-ship crossed each other; passed each other; and in the bay the gulls117 kept alighting on a log, rising high, returning again to the log, while some rode in upon the waves and stood on the rim32 of the water until the moon blanched118 all to whiteness.
Mrs. Pascoe had gone indoors long ago.
But the red light was on the columns of the Parthenon, and the Greek women who were knitting their stockings and sometimes crying to a child to come and have the insects picked from its head were as jolly as sand- martins in the heat, quarrelling, scolding, suckling their babies, until the ships in the Piraeus fired their guns.
The sound spread itself flat, and then went tunnelling its way with fitful explosions among the channels of the islands.
Darkness drops like a knife over Greece.
"The guns?" said Betty Flanders, half asleep, getting out of bed and going to the window, which was decorated with a fringe of dark leaves.
"Not at this distance," she thought. "It is the sea."
Again, far away, she heard the dull sound, as if nocturnal women were beating great carpets. There was Morty lost, and Seabrook dead; her sons fighting for their country. But were the chickens safe? Was that some one moving downstairs? Rebecca with the toothache? No. The nocturnal women were beating great carpets. Her hens shifted slightly on their perches119.
收听单词发音 |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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aurora
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| n.极光 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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waxy
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| adj.苍白的；光滑的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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43
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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44
elegy
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| n.哀歌，挽歌 | |
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45
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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46
tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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47
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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48
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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49
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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50
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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51
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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52
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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53
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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54
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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55
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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56
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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57
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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58
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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59
compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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60
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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61
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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62
incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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63
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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64
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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65
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
yolk
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| n.蛋黄，卵黄 | |
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68
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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70
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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71
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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72
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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73
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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74
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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75
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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76
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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77
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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78
equestrian
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| adj.骑马的；n.马术 | |
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79
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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80
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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81
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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82
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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83
imprinting
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| n.胚教，铭记（动物生命早期即起作用的一种学习机能）；印记 | |
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84
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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86
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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sedition
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| n.煽动叛乱 | |
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88
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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89
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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90
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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91
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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92
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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93
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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94
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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95
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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96
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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97
concussions
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| n.震荡( concussion的名词复数 )；脑震荡；冲击；震动 | |
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98
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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99
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
skewer
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| n.（烤肉用的）串肉杆；v.用杆串好 | |
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101
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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102
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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103
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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104
amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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105
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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106
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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107
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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108
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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109
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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110
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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111
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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112
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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113
starkly
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| adj. 变硬了的,完全的 adv. 完全,实在,简直 | |
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114
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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115
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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116
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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117
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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118
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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119
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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