As for the family itself, the exact kinship of all its various branches and ramifications3 was a hard thing to define. Old Uncle Julius Penhallow was looked upon as a veritable wonder because he carried it all in his head and could tell on sight just what relation any one Penhallow was to any other Penhallow. The rest made a blind guess at it, for the most part, and the younger Penhallows let it go at loose cousinship.
In this instance it was Alice Penhallow, daughter of “young” John Penhallow, who was to be married. Alice was a nice girl, but she and her wedding only pertain4 to this story in so far as they furnish a background for Lucinda; hence nothing more need be said of her.
On the afternoon of her wedding day—the Penhallows held to the good, old-fashioned custom of evening weddings with a rousing dance afterwards—Penhallow Grange was filled to overflowing5 with guests who had come there to have tea and rest themselves before going down to “young” John’s. Many of them had driven fifty miles. In the big autumnal orchard6 the younger fry foregathered and chatted and coquetted. Up-stairs, in “old” Mrs. John’s bedroom, she and her married daughters held high conclave7. “Old” John had established himself with his sons and sons-in-law in the parlour, and the three daughters-in-law were making themselves at home in the blue sitting-room8, ear-deep in harmless family gossip. Lucinda and Romney Penhallow were also there.
Thin Mrs. Nathaniel Penhallow sat in a rocking chair and toasted her toes at the grate, for the brilliant autumn afternoon was slightly chilly9 and Lucinda, as usual, had the window open. She and plump Mrs. Frederick Penhallow did most of the talking. Mrs. George Penhallow being rather out of it by reason of her newness. She was George Penhallow’s second wife, married only a year. Hence, her contributions to the conversation were rather spasmodic, hurled10 in, as it were, by dead reckoning, being sometimes appropriate and sometimes savouring of a point of view not strictly11 Penhallowesque.
Romney Penhallow was sitting in a corner, listening to the chatter12 of the women, with the inscrutable smile that always vexed13 Mrs. Frederick. Mrs. George wondered within herself what he did there among the women. She also wondered just where he belonged on the family tree. He was not one of the uncles, yet he could not be much younger than George.
“Forty, if he is a day,” was Mrs. George’s mental dictum, “but a very handsome and fascinating man. I never saw such a splendid chin and dimple.”
Lucinda, with bronze-colored hair and the whitest of skins, defiant14 of merciless sunlight and revelling15 in the crisp air, sat on the sill of the open window behind the crimson16 vine leaves, looking out into the garden, where dahlias flamed and asters broke into waves of purple and snow. The ruddy light of the autumn afternoon gave a sheen to the waves of her hair and brought out the exceeding purity of her Greek outlines.
Mrs. George knew who Lucinda was—a cousin of the second generation, and, in spite of her thirty-five years, the acknowledged beauty of the whole Penhallow connection.
She was one of those rare women who keep their loveliness unmarred by the passage of years. She had ripened17 and matured, but she had not grown old. The older Penhallows were still inclined, from sheer force of habit, to look upon her as a girl, and the younger Penhallows hailed her as one of themselves. Yet Lucinda never aped girlishness; good taste and a strong sense of humour preserved her amid many temptations thereto. She was simply a beautiful, fully18 developed woman, with whom Time had declared a truce19, young with a mellow20 youth which had nothing to do with years.
Mrs. George liked and admired Lucinda. Now, when Mrs. George liked and admired any person, it was a matter of necessity with her to impart her opinions to the most convenient confidant. In this case it was Romney Penhallow to whom Mrs. George remarked sweetly:
“Really, don’t you think our Lucinda is looking remarkably22 well this fall?”
It seemed a very harmless, inane23, well-meant question. Poor Mrs. George might well be excused for feeling bewildered over the effect. Romney gathered his long legs together, stood up, and swept the unfortunate speaker a crushing Penhallow bow of state.
“Far be it from me to disagree with the opinion of a lady—especially when it concerns another lady,” he said, as he left the blue room.
Overcome by the mordant24 satire25 in his tone, Mrs. George glanced speechlessly at Lucinda. Behold26, Lucinda had squarely turned her back on the party and was gazing out into the garden, with a very decided27 flush on the snowy curves of her neck and cheek. Then Mrs. George looked at her sisters-in-law. They were regarding her with the tolerant amusement they might bestow28 on a blundering child. Mrs. George experienced that subtle prescience whereby it is given us to know that we have put our foot in it. She felt herself turning an uncomfortable brick-red. What Penhallow skeleton had she unwittingly jangled? Why, oh, why, was it such an evident breach29 of the proprieties30 to praise Lucinda?
Mrs. George was devoutly31 thankful that a summons to the tea-table rescued her from her mire21 of embarrassment32. The meal was spoiled for her, however; the mortifying33 recollection of her mysterious blunder conspired35 with her curiosity to banish36 appetite. As soon as possible after tea she decoyed Mrs. Frederick out into the garden and in the dahlia walk solemnly demanded the reason of it all.
Mrs. Frederick indulged in a laugh which put the mettle37 of her festal brown silk seams to the test.
“My dear Cecilia, it was SO amusing,” she said, a little patronizingly.
“But WHY!” cried Mrs. George, resenting the patronage38 and the mystery. “What was so dreadful in what I said? Or so funny? And WHO is this Romney Penhallow who mustn’t be spoken to?”
“Oh, Romney is one of the Charlottetown Penhallows,” explained Mrs. Frederick. “He is a lawyer there. He is a first cousin of Lucinda’s and a second of George’s—or is he? Oh, bother! You must go to Uncle John if you want the genealogy40. I’m in a chronic41 muddle42 concerning Penhallow relationship. And, as for Romney, of course you can speak to him about anything you like except Lucinda. Oh, you innocent! To ask him if he didn’t think Lucinda was looking well! And right before her, too! Of course he thought you did it on purpose to tease him. That was what made him so savage43 and sarcastic44.”
“But WHY?” persisted Mrs. George, sticking tenaciously45 to her point.
“Hasn’t George told you?”
“No,” said George’s wife in mild exasperation46. “George has spent most of his time since we were married telling me odd things about the Penhallows, but he hasn’t got to that yet, evidently.”
“Why, my dear, it is our family romance. Lucinda and Romney are in love with each other. They have been in love with each other for fifteen years and in all that time they have never spoken to each other once!”
“Dear me!” murmured Mrs. George, feeling the inadequacy48 of mere49 language. Was this a Penhallow method of courtship? “But WHY?”
“They had a quarrel fifteen years ago,” said Mrs. Frederick patiently. “Nobody knows how it originated or anything about it except that Lucinda herself admitted it to us afterwards. But, in the first flush of her rage, she told Romney that she would never speak to him again as long as she lived. And HE said he would never speak to her until she spoke39 first—because, you see, as she was in the wrong she ought to make the first advance. And they never have spoken. Everybody in the connection, I suppose, has taken turns trying to reconcile them, but nobody has succeeded. I don’t believe that Romney has ever so much as THOUGHT of any other woman in his whole life, and certainly Lucinda has never thought of any other man. You will notice she still wears Romney’s ring. They’re practically engaged still, of course. And Romney said once that if Lucinda would just say one word, no matter what it was, even if it were something insulting, he would speak, too, and beg her pardon for his share in the quarrel—because then, you see, he would not be breaking his word. He hasn’t referred to the matter for years, but I presume that he is of the same mind still. And they are just as much in love with each other as they ever were. He’s always hanging about where she is—when other people are there, too, that is. He avoids her like a plague when she is alone. That was why he was stuck out in the blue room with us to-day. There doesn’t seem to be a particle of resentment50 between them. If Lucinda would only speak! But that Lucinda will not do.”
“Don’t you think she will yet?” said Mrs. George.
“Not now. The whole thing has hardened too long. Her pride will never let her speak. We used to hope she would be tricked into it by forgetfulness or accident—we used to lay traps for her—but all to no effect. It is such a shame, too. They were made for each other. Do you know, I get cross when I begin to thrash the whole silly affair over like this. Doesn’t it sound as if we were talking of the quarrel of two school-children? Of late years we have learned that it does not do to speak of Lucinda to Romney, even in the most commonplace way. He seems to resent it.”
“HE ought to speak,” cried Mrs. George warmly. “Even if she were in the wrong ten times over, he ought to overlook it and speak first.”
“But he won’t. And she won’t. You never saw two such determined52 mortals. They get it from their grandfather on the mother’s side—old Absalom Gordon. There is no such stubbornness on the Penhallow side. His obstinacy53 was a proverb, my dear—actually a proverb. What ever he said, he would stick to if the skies fell. He was a terrible old man to swear, too,” added Mrs. Frederick, dropping into irrelevant54 reminiscence. “He spent a long while in a mining camp in his younger days and he never got over it—the habit of swearing, I mean. It would have made your blood run cold, my dear, to have heard him go on at times. And yet he was a real good old man every other way. He couldn’t help it someway. He tried to, but he used to say that profanity came as natural to him as breathing. It used to mortify34 his family terribly. Fortunately, none of them took after him in that respect. But he’s dead—and one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I must go and get Mattie Penhallow to do my hair. I would burst these sleeves clean out if I tried to do it myself and I don’t want to dress over again. You won’t be likely to talk to Romney about Lucinda again, my dear Cecilia?”
“Fifteen years!” murmured Mrs. George helplessly to the dahlias. “Engaged for fifteen years and never speaking to each other! Dear heart and soul, think of it! Oh, these Penhallows!”
Meanwhile, Lucinda, serenely55 unconscious that her love story was being mouthed over by Mrs. Frederick in the dahlia garden, was dressing56 for the wedding. Lucinda still enjoyed dressing for a festivity, since the mirror still dealt gently with her. Moreover, she had a new dress. Now, a new dress—and especially one as nice as this—was a rarity with Lucinda, who belonged to a branch of the Penhallows noted57 for being chronically58 hard up. Indeed, Lucinda and her widowed mother were positively59 poor, and hence a new dress was an event in Lucinda’s existence. An uncle had given her this one—a beautiful, perishable60 thing, such as Lucinda would never have dared to choose for herself, but in which she revelled61 with feminine delight.
It was of pale green voile—a colour which brought out admirably the ruddy gloss62 of her hair and the clear brilliance63 of her skin. When she had finished dressing she looked at herself in the mirror with frank delight. Lucinda was not vain, but she was quite well aware of the fact of her beauty and took an impersonal64 pleasure in it, as if she were looking at some finely painted picture by a master hand.
The form and face reflected in the glass satisfied her. The puffs65 and draperies of the green voile displayed to perfection the full, but not over-full, curves of her fine figure. Lucinda lifted her arm and touched a red rose to her lips with the hand upon which shone the frosty glitter of Romney’s diamond, looking at the graceful66 slope of her shoulder and the splendid line of chin and throat with critical approval.
She noted, too, how well the gown became her eyes, bringing out all the deeper colour in them. Lucinda had magnificent eyes. Once Romney had written a sonnet67 to them in which he compared their colour to ripe blueberries. This may not sound poetical68 to you unless you know or remember just what the tints69 of ripe blueberries are—dusky purple in some lights, clear slate70 in others, and yet again in others the misty71 hue72 of early meadow violets.
“You really look very well,” remarked the real Lucinda to the mirrored Lucinda. “Nobody would think you were an old maid. But you are. Alice Penhallow, who is to be married to-night, was a child of five when you thought of being married fifteen years ago. That makes you an old maid, my dear. Well, it is your own fault, and it will continue to be your own fault, you stubborn offshoot of a stubborn breed!”
She flung her train out straight and pulled on her gloves.
“I do hope I won’t get any spots on this dress to-night,” she reflected. “It will have to do me for a gala dress for a year at least—and I have a creepy conviction that it is fearfully spottable. Bless Uncle Mark’s good, uncalculating heart! How I would have detested73 it if he had given me something sensible and useful and ugly—as Aunt Emilia would have done.”
They all went to “young” John Penhallow’s at early moonrise. Lucinda drove over the two miles of hill and dale with a youthful second cousin, by name, Carey Penhallow. The wedding was quite a brilliant affair. Lucinda seemed to pervade74 the social atmosphere, and everywhere she went a little ripple75 of admiration76 trailed after her like a wave. She was undeniably a belle77, yet she found herself feeling faintly bored and was rather glad than otherwise when the guests began to fray78 off.
“I’m afraid I’m losing my capacity for enjoyment,” she thought, a little drearily79. “Yes, I must be growing old. That is what it means when social functions begin to bore you.”
It was that unlucky Mrs. George who blundered again. She was standing80 on the veranda81 when Carey Penhallow dashed up.
“Tell Lucinda that I can’t take her back to the Grange. I have to drive Mark and Cissy Penhallow to Bright River to catch the two o’clock express. There will be plenty of chances for her with the others.”
At this moment George Penhallow, holding his rearing horse with difficulty, shouted for his wife. Mrs. George, all in a flurry, dashed back into the still crowded hall. Exactly to whom she gave her message was never known to any of the Penhallows. But a tall, ruddy-haired girl, dressed in pale green organdy—Anne Shirley from Avonlea—told Marilla Cuthbert and Rachel Lynde as a joke the next morning how a chubby82 little woman in a bright pink fascinator had clutched her by the arm, and gasped83 out: “Carey Penhallow can’t take you—he says you’re to look out for someone else,” and was gone before she could answer or turn around.
Thus it was that Lucinda, when she came out to the veranda step, found herself unaccountably deserted84. All the Grange Penhallows were gone; Lucinda realized this after a few moments of bewildered seeking, and she understood that if she were to get to the Grange that night she must walk. Plainly there was nobody to take her.
Lucinda was angry. It is not pleasant to find yourself forgotten and neglected. It is still less pleasant to walk home alone along a country road, at one o’clock in the morning, wearing a pale green voile. Lucinda was not prepared for such a walk. She had nothing on her feet save thin-soled shoes, and her only wraps were a flimsy fascinator and a short coat.
“What a guy I shall look, stalking home alone in this rig,” she thought crossly.
There was no help for it, unless she confessed her plight85 to some of the stranger guests and begged a drive home. Lucinda’s pride scorned such a request and the admission of neglect it involved. No, she would walk, since that was all there was to it; but she would not go by the main road to be stared at by all and sundry86 who might pass her. There was a short cut by way of a lane across the fields; she knew every inch of it, although she had not traversed it for years.
She gathered up the green voile as trimly as possible, slipped around the house in the kindly87 shadows, picked her way across the side lawn, and found a gate which opened into a birch-bordered lane where the frosted trees shone with silvery-golden radiance in the moonlight. Lucinda flitted down the lane, growing angrier at every step as the realization88 of how shamefully89 she seemed to have been treated came home to her. She believed that nobody had thought about her at all, which was tenfold worse than premeditated neglect.
As she came to the gate at the lower end of the lane a man who was leaning over it started, with a quick intake90 of his breath, which, in any other man than Romney Penhallow, or for any other woman than Lucinda Penhallow, would have been an exclamation91 of surprise.
Lucinda recognized him with a great deal of annoyance92 and a little relief. She would not have to walk home alone. But with Romney Penhallow! Would he think she had contrived93 it so purposely?
Romney silently opened the gate for her, silently latched94 it behind her, and silently fell into step beside her. Down across a velvety95 sweep of field they went; the air was frosty, calm and still; over the world lay a haze96 of moonshine and mist that converted East Grafton’s prosaic97 hills and fields into a shimmering98 fairyland. At first Lucinda felt angrier than ever. What a ridiculous situation! How the Penhallows would laugh over it!
As for Romney, he, too, was angry with the trick impish chance had played him. He liked being the butt99 of an awkward situation as little as most men; and certainly to be obliged to walk home over moonlit fields at one o’clock in the morning with the woman he had loved and never spoken to for fifteen years was the irony100 of fate with a vengeance101. Would she think he had schemed for it? And how the deuce did she come to be walking home from the wedding at all?
By the time they had crossed the field and reached the wild cherry lane beyond it, Lucinda’s anger was mastered by her saving sense of humour. She was even smiling a little maliciously102 under her fascinator.
The lane was a place of enchantment—a long, moonlit colonnade103 adown which beguiling104 wood nymphs might have footed it featly. The moonshine fell through the arching boughs105 and made a mosaic106 of silver light and clear-cut shadow for the unfriendly lovers to walk in. On either side was the hovering107 gloom of the woods, and around them was a great silence unstirred by wind or murmur47.
Midway in the lane Lucinda was attacked by a sentimental108 recollection. She thought of the last time Romney and she had walked home together through this very lane, from a party at “young” John’s. It had been moonlight then too, and—Lucinda checked a sigh—they had walked hand in hand. Just here, by the big gray beech109, he had stopped her and kissed her. Lucinda wondered if he were thinking of it, too, and stole a look at him from under the lace border of her fascinator.
But he was striding moodily110 along with his hands in his pockets, and his hat pulled down over his eyes, passing the old beech without a glance at it. Lucinda checked another sigh, gathered up an escaped flutter of voile, and marched on.
Past the lane a range of three silvery harvest fields sloped down to Peter Penhallow’s brook111—a wide, shallow stream bridged over in the olden days by the mossy trunk of an ancient fallen tree. When Lucinda and Romney arrived at the brook they gazed at the brawling112 water blankly. Lucinda remembered that she must not speak to Romney just in time to prevent an exclamation of dismay. There was no tree! There was no bridge of any kind over the brook!
Here was a predicament! But before Lucinda could do more than despairingly ask herself what was to be done now, Romney answered—not in words, but in deeds. He coolly picked Lucinda up in his arms, as if she had been a child instead of a full grown woman of no mean avoirdupois, and began to wade113 with her through the water.
Lucinda gasped helplessly. She could not forbid him and she was so choked with rage over his presumption114 that she could not have spoken in any case. Then came the catastrophe115. Romney’s foot slipped on a treacherous116 round stone—there was a tremendous splash—and Romney and Lucinda Penhallow were sitting down in the middle of Peter Penhallow’s brook.
Lucinda was the first to regain117 her feet. About her clung in heart-breaking limpness the ruined voile. The remembrance of all her wrongs that night rushed over her soul, and her eyes blazed in the moonlight. Lucinda Penhallow had never been so angry in her life.
“I’m awfully121 sorry, Lucinda,” he said, striving with uncertain success to keep a suspicious quiver of laughter out of his tone. “It was wretchedly clumsy of me, but that pebble122 turned right under my foot. Please forgive me—for that—and for other things.”
Lucinda deigned123 no answer. She stood on a flat stone and wrung124 the water from the poor green voile. Romney surveyed her apprehensively125.
“I never take cold,” answered Lucinda, with chattering127 teeth. “And it is my dress I am thinking of—was thinking of. You have more need to hurry. You are sopping128 wet yourself and you know you are subject to colds. There—come.”
Lucinda picked up the stringy train, which had been so brave and buoyant five minutes before, and started up the field at a brisk rate. Romney came up to her and slipped his arm through hers in the old way. For a time they walked along in silence. Then Lucinda began to shake with inward laughter. She laughed silently for the whole length of the field; and at the line fence between Peter Penhallow’s land and the Grange acres she paused, threw back the fascinator from her face, and looked at Romney defiantly129.
“You are thinking of—THAT,” she cried, “and I am thinking of it. And we will go on, thinking of it at intervals130 for the rest of our lives. But if you ever mention it to me I’ll never forgive you, Romney Penhallow!”
“I never will,” Romney promised. There was more than a suspicion of laughter in his voice this time, but Lucinda did not choose to resent it. She did not speak again until they reached the Grange gate. Then she faced him solemnly.
“It was a case of atavism,” she said. “Old Grandfather Gordon was to blame for it.”
At the Grange almost everybody was in bed. What with the guests straggling home at intervals and hurrying sleepily off to their rooms, nobody had missed Lucinda, each set supposing she was with some other set. Mrs. Frederick, Mrs. Nathaniel and Mrs. George alone were up. The perennially131 chilly Mrs. Nathaniel had kindled132 a fire of chips in the blue room grate to warm her feet before retiring, and the three women were discussing the wedding in subdued133 tones when the door opened and the stately form of Lucinda, stately even in the dragged voile, appeared, with the damp Romney behind her.
“Lucinda Penhallow!” gasped they, one and all.
“I was left to walk home,” said Lucinda coolly. “So Romney and I came across the fields. There was no bridge over the brook, and when he was carrying me over he slipped and we fell in. That is all. No, Cecilia, I never take cold, so don’t worry. Yes, my dress is ruined, but that is of no consequence. No, thank you, Cecilia, I do not care for a hot drink. Romney, do go and take off those wet clothes of yours immediately. No, Cecilia, I will NOT take a hot footbath. I am going straight to bed. Good night.”
When the door closed on the pair the three sisters-in-law stared at each other. Mrs. Frederick, feeling herself incapable134 of expressing her sensations originally, took refuge in a quotation135:
“‘Do I sleep, do I dream, do I wonder and doubt? Is things what they seem, or is visions about?’”
“There will be another Penhallow wedding soon,” said Mrs. Nathaniel, with a long breath. “Lucinda has spoken to Romney AT LAST.”
“Oh, WHAT do you suppose she said to him?” cried Mrs. George.
“My dear Cecilia,” said Mrs. Frederick, “we shall never know.”
They never did know.
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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pertain
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| v.(to)附属，从属；关于；有关；适合，相称 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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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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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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truce
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| n.休战，(争执，烦恼等的)缓和；v.以停战结束 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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mordant
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| adj.讽刺的；尖酸的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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33
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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34
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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35
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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36
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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37
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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38
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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39
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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40
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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41
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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42
muddle
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| 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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43
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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44
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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45
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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46
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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47
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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48
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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51
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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53
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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54
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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55
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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56
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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57
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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58
chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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59
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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60
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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61
revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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62
gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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63
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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64
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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65
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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66
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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67
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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68
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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69
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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70
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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71
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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72
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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73
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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75
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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76
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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77
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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78
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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79
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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80
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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81
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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82
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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83
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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84
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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85
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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86
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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87
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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88
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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89
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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90
intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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91
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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92
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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93
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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94
latched
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| v.理解( latch的过去式和过去分词 )；纠缠；用碰锁锁上（门等）；附着（在某物上） | |
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95
velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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96
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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97
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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98
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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99
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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100
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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101
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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102
maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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103
colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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104
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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105
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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106
mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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107
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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108
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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109
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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110
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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111
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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112
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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113
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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114
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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115
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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116
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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117
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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118
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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119
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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120
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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121
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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122
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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123
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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125
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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126
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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128
sopping
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| adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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129
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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130
intervals
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| 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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131
perennially
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| adv.经常出现地；长期地；持久地；永久地 | |
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132
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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133
subdued
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| 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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134
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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135
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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