With the form conforming duly,
Senseless what it meaneth truly,
Go to church—the world require you,
To balls—the world require you too,
And marry—papa and mama desire you,
And your sisters and schoolfellows do.
—A. H. Clough, “Duty” (1841)
“Oh! no, what he!” she cried in scorn,
“I woulden gi’e a penny vor’n;
The best ov him’s outzide in view;
His cwoat is gay enough, ‘tis true,
But then the wold vo’k didden bring
En up to know a single thing…”
—William Barnes, Poems in the Dorset Dialect (1869)
At approximately the same time as that which saw this meeting Ernestina got restlessly from her bed and fetched her black morocco diary from her dressing1 table. She first turned rather sulkily to her entry of that morning, which was cer-tainly not very inspired from a literary point of view: “Wrote letter to Mama. Did not see dearest Charles. Did not go out, tho’ it is very fine. Did not feel happy.”
It had been a very did-not sort of day for the poor girl, who had had only Aunt Tranter to show her displeasure to. There had been Charles’s daffodils and jonquils, whose per-fume she now inhaled2, but even they had vexed3 her at first. Aunt Tranter’s house was small, and she had heard Sam knock on the front door downstairs; she had heard the wicked and irreverent Mary open it—a murmur4 of voices and then a distinct, suppressed gurgle of laughter from the maid, a slammed door. The odious5 and abominable6 suspicion crossed her mind that Charles had been down there, flirting7; and this touched on one of her deepest fears about him.
She knew he had lived in Paris, in Lisbon, and traveled much; she knew he was eleven years older than herself; she knew he was attractive to women. His answers to her discreetly8 playful interrogations about his past conquests were always discreetly playful in return; and that was the rub. She felt he must be hiding something—a tragic10 French countess, a passionate11 Portuguese12 marquesa. Her mind did not allow itself to run to a Parisian grisette or an almond-eyed inn-girl at Cintra, which would have been rather nearer the truth. But in a way the matter of whether he had slept with other women worried her less than it might a modern girl. Of course Ernestina uttered her autocratic “I must not” just as soon as any such sinful speculation13 crossed her mind; but it was really Charles’s heart of which she was jealous. That, she could not bear to think of having to share, either historically or presently. Occam’s useful razor was unknown to her. Thus the simple fact that he had never really been in love became clear proof to Ernestina, on her darker days, that he had once been passionately14 so. His calm exterior15 she took for the terrible silence of a recent battlefield, Waterloo a month after; instead of for what it really was—a place without history.
When the front door closed, Ernestina allowed dignity to control her for precisely16 one and a half minutes, whereupon her fragile little hand reached out and peremptorily17 pulled the gilt18 handle beside her bed. A pleasantly insistent19 tinkle20 filtered up from the basement kitchen; and soon afterwards, there were footsteps, a knock, and the door opened to reveal Mary bearing a vase with a positive fountain of spring flowers. The girl came and stood by the bed, her face half hidden by the blossoms, smiling, impossible for a man to have been angry with—and therefore quite the reverse to Ernestina, who frowned sourly and reproachfully at this unwelcome vision of Flora21.
Of the three young women who pass through these pages Mary was, in my opinion, by far the prettiest. She had infi-nitely the most life, and infinitely22 the least selfishness; and physical charms to match ... an exquisitely23 pure, if pink complexion24, corn-colored hair and delectably25 wide gray-blue eyes, eyes that invited male provocation26 and returned it as gaily27 as it was given. They bubbled as the best champagne28 bubbles, irrepressibly; and without causing flatulence. Not even the sad Victorian clothes she had so often to wear could hide the trim, plump promise of her figure—indeed, “plump” is unkind. I brought up Ronsard’s name just now; and her figure required a word from his vocabulary, one for which we have no equivalent in English: rondelet—all that is seduc-tive in plumpness without losing all that is nice in slimness.
Mary’s great-great-granddaughter, who is twenty-two years old this month I write in, much resembles her ancestor; and her face is known over the entire world, for she is one of the more celebrated29 younger English film actresses.
But it was not, I am afraid, the face for 1867. It had not, for instance, been at all the face for Mrs. Poulteney, to whom it had become familiar some three years previously30. Mary was the niece of a cousin of Mrs. Fairley, who had wheedled31 Mrs. Poulteney into taking the novice32 into the unkind kitchen. But Marlborough House and Mary had suited each other as well as a tomb would a goldfinch; and when one day Mrs. Poulteney was somberly surveying her domain33 and saw from her upstairs window the disgusting sight of her stableboy soliciting34 a kiss, and not being very successfully resisted, the goldfinch was given an instant liberty; where-upon it flew to Mrs. Tranter’s, in spite of Mrs. Poulteney’s solemn warnings to that lady as to the foolhardiness of harboring such proven dissoluteness.
In Broad Street Mary was happy. Mrs. Tranter liked pretty girls; and pretty, laughing girls even better. Of course, Ernestina was her niece, and she worried for her more; but Ernestina she saw only once or twice a year, and Mary she saw every day. Below her mobile, flirtatious35 surface the girl had a gentle affectionateness; and she did not stint36, she returned the warmth that was given. Ernestina did not know a dreadful secret of that house in Broad Street; there were times, if cook had a day off, when Mrs. Tranter sat and ate with Mary alone in the downstairs kitchen; and they were not the unhappiest hours in either of their lives.
Mary was not faultless; and one of her faults was a certain envy of Ernestina. It was not only that she ceased abruptly37 to be the tacit favorite of the household when the young lady from London arrived; but the young lady from London came also with trunkfuls of the latest London and Paris fashions, not the best recommendation to a servant with only three dresses to her name—and not one of which she really liked, even though the best of them she could really dislike only because it had been handed down by the young princess from the capital. She also thought Charles was a beautiful man for a husband; a great deal too good for a pallid38 creature like Ernestina. This was why Charles had the frequent benefit of those gray-and-periwinkle eyes when she opened the door to him or passed him in the street. In wicked fact the creature picked her exits and entrances to coincide with Charles’s; and each time he raised his hat to her in the street she mentally cocked her nose at Ernestina; for she knew very well why Mrs. Tranter’s niece went upstairs so abruptly after Charles’s departures. Like all soubrettes, she dared to think things her young mistress did not; and knew it.
Having duly and maliciously40 allowed her health and cheer-fulness to register on the invalid41, Mary placed the flowers on the bedside commode.
“From Mr. Charles, Miss Tina. With ‘er complimums.” Mary spoke42 in a dialect notorious for its contempt of pro-nouns and suffixes43.
“Place them on my dressing table. I do not like them so close.”
Mary obediently removed them there and disobediently began to rearrange them a little before turning to smile at the suspicious Ernestina.
“Did he bring them himself?”
“No, miss.”
“Where is Mr. Charles?”
“Doan know, miss. I didn’ ask’un.” But her mouth was pressed too tightly together, as if she wanted to giggle44.
“But I heard you speak with the man.”
“Yes, miss.”
“What about?”
“’Twas just the time o’ day, miss.”
“Is that what made you laugh?”
“Yes, miss. ‘Tis the way ‘e speaks, miss.”
The Sam who had presented himself at the door had in fact borne very little resemblance to the mournful and indig-nant young man who had stropped the razor. He had thrust the handsome bouquet45 into the mischievous46 Mary’s arms. “For the bootiful young lady hupstairs.” Then dexterously47 he had placed his foot where the door had been about to shut and as dexterously produced from behind his back, in his other hand, while his now free one swept off his ^ la mode near-brimless topper, a little posy of crocuses. “And for the heven more lovely one down.” Mary had blushed a deep pink; the pressure of the door on Sam’s foot had mysteriously lightened. He watched her smell the yellow flowers; not po-litely, but genuinely, so that a tiny orange smudge of saffron appeared on the charming, impertinent nose.
“That there bag o’ soot48 will be delivered as bordered.” She bit her lips, and waited. “Hon one condition. No tick. Hit must be a-paid for at once.”
“’Ow much would’er cost then?”
The forward fellow eyed his victim, as if calculating a fair price; then laid a finger on his mouth and gave a profoundly unambiguous wink39. It was this that had provoked that smoth-ered laugh; and the slammed door.
Ernestina gave her a look that would have not disgraced Mrs. Poulteney. “You will kindly49 remember that he comes from London.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Mr. Smithson has already spoken to me of him. The man fancies himself a Don Juan.”
“What’s that then, Miss Tina?”
There was a certain eager anxiety for further information in Mary’s face that displeased50 Ernestina very much.
“Never mind now. But if he makes advances I wish to be told at once. Now bring me some barley51 water. And be more discreet9 in future.”
There passed a tiny light in Mary’s eyes, something singu-larly like a flash of defiance52. But she cast down her eyes and her flat little lace cap, bobbing a token curtsy, and left the room. Three flights down, and three flights up, as Ernestina, who had not the least desire for Aunt Tranter’s wholesome53 but uninteresting barley water, consoled herself by remem-bering.
But Mary had in a sense won the exchange, for it remind-ed Ernestina, not by nature a domestic tyrant54 but simply a horrid55 spoiled child, that soon she would have to stop playing at mistress, and be one in real earnest. The idea brought pleasures, of course; to have one’s own house, to be free of parents . . . but servants were such a problem, as everyone said. Were no longer what they were, as everyone said. Were tiresome56, in a word. Perhaps Ernestina’s puzzlement and distress57 were not far removed from those of Charles, as he had sweated and stumbled his way along the shore. Life was the correct apparatus58; it was heresy59 to think otherwise; but meanwhile the cross had to be borne, here and now.
It was to banish60 such gloomy forebodings, still with her in the afternoon, that Ernestina fetched her diary, propped61 herself up in bed and once more turned to the page with the sprig of jasmine.
In London the beginnings of a plutocratic62 stratification of society had, by the mid-century, begun. Nothing of course took the place of good blood; but it had become generally accepted that good money and good brains could produce artificially a passable enough facsimile of acceptable social standing63. Disraeli was the type, not the exception, of his times. Ernestina’s grandfather may have been no more than a well-to-do draper in Stoke Newington when he was young; but he died a very rich draper—much more than that, since he had moved commercially into central London, founded one of the West End’s great stores and extended his business into many departments besides drapery. Her father, indeed, had given her only what he had himself received: the best education that money could buy. In all except his origins he was impeccably a gentleman; and he had married discreetly above him, a daughter of one of the City’s most successful solicitors64, who could number an Attorney-General, no less, among his not-too-distant ancestors. Ernestina’s qualms65 about her social status were therefore rather farfetched, even by Victorian standards; and they had never in the least troubled Charles.
“Do but think,” he had once said to her, “how disgraceful-ly plebeian66 a name Smithson is.”
“Ah indeed—if you were only called Lord Brabazon Vava-sour Vere de Vere—how much more I should love you!”
But behind her self-mockery lurked67 a fear.
He had first met her the preceding November, at the house of a lady who had her eye on him for one of her own covey of simperers. These young ladies had had the misfortune to be briefed by their parents before the evening began. They made the cardinal68 error of trying to pretend to Charles that paleontology absorbed them—he must give them the titles of the most interesting books on the subject—whereas Ernestina showed a gently acid little determination not to take him very seriously. She would, she murmured, send him any interesting specimens69 of coal she came across in her scuttle70; and later she told him she thought he was very lazy. Why, pray? Because he could hardly enter any London drawing room without finding abundant examples of the objects of his interest.
To both young people it had promised to be just one more dull evening; and both, when they returned to their respective homes, found that it had not been so.
They saw in each other a superiority of intelligence, a lightness of touch, a dryness that pleased. Ernestina let it be known that she had found “that Mr. Smithson” an agreeable change from the dull crop of partners hitherto presented for her examination that season. Her mother made discreet in-quiries; and consulted her husband, who made more; for no young male ever set foot in the drawing room of the house overlooking Hyde Park who had not been as well vetted71 as any modern security department vets72 its atomic scientists. Charles passed his secret ordeal73 with flying colors.
Now Ernestina had seen the mistake of her rivals: that no wife thrown at Charles’s head would ever touch his heart. So when he began to frequent her mother’s at homes and soirees he had the unusual experience of finding that there was no sign of the usual matrimonial trap; no sly hints from the mother of how much the sweet darling loved children or “secretly longed for the end of the season” (it was supposed that Charles would live permanently74 at Winsyatt, as soon as the obstacular uncle did his duty); or less sly ones from the father on the size of the fortune “my dearest girl” would bring to her husband. The latter were, in any case, conspicu-ously unnecessary; the Hyde Park house was fit for a duke to live in, and the absence of brothers and sisters said more than a thousand bank statements.
Nor did Ernestina, although she was very soon wildly determined75, as only a spoiled daughter can be, to have Charles, overplay her hand. She made sure other attractive young men were always present; and did not single the real prey76 out for any special favors or attention. She was, on principle, never serious with him; without exactly saying so she gave him the impression that she liked him because he was fun— but of course she knew he would never marry. Then came an evening in January when she decided77 to plant the fatal seed.
She saw Charles standing alone; and on the opposite side of the room she saw an aged78 dowager, a kind of Mayfair equivalent of Mrs. Poulteney, whom she knew would be as congenial to Charles as castor oil to a healthy child. She went up to him.
“Shall you not go converse79 with Lady Fairwether?”
“I should rather converse with you.”
“I will present you. And then you can have an eyewitness80 account of the goings-on in the Early Cretaceous era.”
He smiled. “The Early Cretaceous is a period. Not an era.”
“Never mind. I am sure it is sufficiently81 old. And I know how bored you are by anything that has happened in the last ninety million years. Come.”
So they began to cross the room together; but halfway82 to the Early Cretaceous lady, she stopped, laid her hand a moment on his arm, and looked him in the eyes.
“If you are determined to be a sour old bachelor, Mr. Smithson, you must practice for your part.”
She had moved on before he could answer; and what she had said might have sounded no more than a continuation of her teasing. But her eyes had for the briefest moment made it clear that she made an offer; as unmistakable, in its way, as those made by the women who in the London of the time haunted the doorways83 round the Haymarket.
What she did not know was that she had touched an increasingly sensitive place in Charles’s innermost soul; his feeling that he was growing like his uncle at Winsyatt, that life was passing him by, that he was being, as in so many other things, overfastidious, lazy, selfish ... and worse. He had not traveled abroad those last two years; and he had realized that previously traveling had been a substitute for not having a wife. It took his mind off domestic affairs; it also allowed him to take an occasional woman into his bed, a pleasure he strictly84 forbade himself, perhaps remembering the black night of the soul his first essay in that field had caused, in England.
Traveling no longer attracted him; but women did, and he was therefore in a state of extreme sexual frustration85, since his moral delicacy86 had not allowed him to try the simple expedient87 of a week in Ostend or Paris. He could never have allowed such a purpose to dictate88 the reason for a journey. He passed a very thoughtful week. Then one morning he woke up.
Everything had become simple. He loved Ernestina. He thought of the pleasure of waking up on just such a morning, cold, gray, with a powder of snow on the ground, and seeing that demure89, sweetly dry little face asleep beside him—and by heavens (this fact struck Charles with a sort of amaze-ment) legitimately90 in the eyes of both God and man beside him. A few minutes later he startled the sleepy Sam, who had crept up from downstairs at his urgent ringing, by saying: “Sam! I am an absolute one hundred per cent heaven forgive me damned fool!”
A day or two afterwards the unadulterated fool had an interview with Ernestina’s father. It was brief, and very satis-factory. He went down to the drawing room, where Ernest-ina’s mother sat in a state of the most poignant91 trepidation92. She could not bring herself to speak to Charles, but pointed93 uncertainly in the direction of the conservatory94. Charles opened the white doors to it and stood in the waft95 of the hot, fragrant96 air. He had to search for Ernestina, but at last he found her in one of the farthest corners, half screened behind ‘a bower97 of stephanotis. He saw her glance at him, and then look hastily down and away. She held a pair of silver scis-sors, and was pretending to snip98 off some of the dead blooms of the heavily scented99 plant. Charles stood close behind her; coughed.
“I have come to bid my adieux.” The agonized100 look she flashed at him he pretended, by the simple trick of staring at the ground, not to notice. “I have decided to leave England. For the rest of my life I shall travel. How else can a sour old bachelor divert his days?”
He was ready to go on in this vein101. But then he saw that Ernestina’s head was bowed and that her knuckles102 were drained white by the force with which she was gripping the table. He knew that normally she would have guessed his tease at once; and he understood that her slowness now sprang from a deep emotion, which communicated itself to him.
“But if I believed that someone cared for me sufficiently to share...”
He could not go on, for she had turned, her eyes full of tears. Their hands met, and he drew her to him. They did not kiss. They could not. How can you mercilessly imprison103 all natural sexual instinct for twenty years and then not expect the prisoner to be racked by sobs104 when the doors are thrown open?
A few minutes later Charles led Tina, a little recovered, down the aisle105 of hothouse plants to the door back to the drawing room. But he stopped a moment at a plant of jasmine and picked a sprig and held it playfully over her head.
“It isn’t mistletoe, but it will do, will it not?”
And so they kissed, with lips as chastely106 asexual as chil-dren’s. Ernestina began to cry again; then dried her eyes, and allowed Charles to lead her back into the drawing room, where her mother and father stood. No words were needed. Ernestina ran into her mother’s opened arms, and twice as many tears as before began to fall. Meanwhile the two men stood smiling at each other; the one as if he had just con-cluded an excellent business deal, the other as if he was not quite sure which planet he had just landed on, but sincerely hoped the natives were friendly.
收听单词发音 |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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passionate
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| 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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Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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delectably
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| 令人愉快的，让人喜爱的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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soliciting
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| v.恳求( solicit的现在分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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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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suffixes
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| n.后缀，词尾( suffix的名词复数 ) | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plutocratic
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| adj.富豪的，有钱的 | |
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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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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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vetted
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| v.审查（某人过去的记录、资格等）( vet的过去式和过去分词 )；调查；检查；诊疗 | |
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vets
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| abbr.veterans （复数）老手，退伍军人；veterinaries （复数）兽医n.兽医( vet的名词复数 )；老兵；退伍军人；兽医诊所v.审查（某人过去的记录、资格等）( vet的第三人称单数 )；调查；检查；诊疗 | |
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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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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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eyewitness
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| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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snip
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| n.便宜货，廉价货，剪，剪断 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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101
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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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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103
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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104
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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105
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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chastely
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| adv.贞洁地，清高地，纯正地 | |
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