I verily believe I had forgotten all about him during the past few days, but that very morning I had remembered that he was most likely at the Priory for that garden-party to which father had so annoyingly forbidden us to go; and I vowed1 in my heart that, by hook or by crook2, my sister should see him before he left the neighborhood. It was a regular piece of good-luck my meeting him thus; but I thought, when he first saw me, that he was going to avoid me. He seemed, however, to think better of it, and came striding towards me, swaying his tall, lithe3 body, and welcoming me even from a distance with the pleasant smile, without which one would scarcely have known his handsome face. I was glad he had thought better of it, for I should certainly not have allowed him to pass me.
"Holloa, Miss Margaret," said he, when we were within ear-shot; "this is delightful4. I was afraid I shouldn't get a chance of seeing any of you, as I am forbidden the house. How are you?"
"I am very well," said I, looking at him.
I fancied he had grown smarter in his appearance than he used to be; there was nothing that I could take hold of, and yet somehow he seemed to me to be changed.
"Why weren't you at the garden-party yesterday?" asked he. "It was quite gay."
"Yesterday! Was it yesterday?" said I, half disappointed. "We weren't allowed to go, you know. We wanted to go very much."
He looked at me in that open-eyed way of his for a moment, and then he shifted his glance away from my face and laughed a little uneasily.
"Was I the cause?" he asked.
"Oh, dear no," cried I, eagerly, although in my heart I knew well enough that, with mother, he had been. "But you know father never did like the Thornes. They belong to that class that he dislikes so. What do you call it—capitalists? Why, he hates them ever so much worse than landed proprietors5, and they are bad enough."
I said this jokingly, feeling that, as of course Frank sympathized with all these views and convictions of father's, he would understand, even though he might not himself feel just as strongly towards those members of the obnoxious7 class who had been his friends from his youth upward. But a shadow of annoyance8 or uneasiness—I did not know which—passed over his face like a little summer cloud, although the full, changeful mouth still kept its smile.
"And Mr. Thorne has done something special to vex9 him," I continued. "He has closed the right-of-way over the common by Dead Man's Lane. So now father has forbidden us to go to the house."
The slightest possible touch of scorn curled Frank's lip under the silky brown mustache.
"That's a pity," said he.
"Well," said I, "you would feel just the same, of course, if these people didn't happen to be old friends of yours, and they never were friends of father's. He disliked them buying the property from the very first."
"It makes things rather uncomfortable to drive a theory as far as that," laughed Frank.
Of course it was what I often felt myself, but somehow it vexed10 me to hear him say so; if he was the friend to father that he seemed to be, he had no business to say it, and specially11 to me.
"Well, anyhow, it's the reason we didn't go to the garden-party," said I, shortly. And then I repeated again, and in a pleasanter tone, "But we wanted to go very much, of course."
"Ah yes," answered he, glancing at me and then away again, and referring, I suppose, to the pronoun I had used, "your sister is home again now. Of course I heard it in the village. What a pity you couldn't come! We had a dance afterwards—altogether a delightful evening, and you would have enjoyed it immensely. Besides," he began, and then stopped, and then ended abruptly12, "every one missed you."
I laughed. "That means to say every one missed Joyce," I said. "I am not so silly as to think people mean me when they mean Joyce—some people, of course, more particularly than others."
It was rather a foolish remark, and he took no notice of it.
"Your sister is well, I hope," was all he said.
"Oh yes, she's well," I answered.
And then there was an awkward pause. I wondered why in the world he did not ask any of the innumerable questions that must be in his mind about her, and yet I felt that it was natural he should be awkward, natural that he should not want to talk to me about her.
I did not know exactly what to say, and yet I would not let this golden opportunity slip.
"You must come and see for yourself," said I, boldly, without in the least considering what this course of action laid me open to from mother. "She's prettier and sweeter than ever, Joyce is, since she's been to London."
He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze.
"Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible!" ejaculated he.
"You came to see us the last time you were in Marshlands," said I. "You don't come to see Joyce, you come to see father. Father would be dreadfully hurt to think you were in Marshlands and didn't see him. He doesn't know you are here." This was true, but whether father would have wished me to run so against mother's wishes, I did not stop to think.
"Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange," said he, softly.
I almost stamped my foot with vexation at the lack of recklessness in this lover of Joyce's, whose ardent13 devotion I had begun by envying her once upon a time. But I reflected that it was both foolish and unfair to be vexed, because Frank Forrester was only keeping to the word of his agreement.
"You come to see father, not to see Joyce," I repeated, dogmatically. "Father doesn't seem to be happy about the way that notion of his is turning out."
"That notion?" repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of voice.
I looked at him.
"Yes," said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something or other that father and you have got up between yourselves."
Still he looked puzzled.
"Some school, or something for poor children," explained I, I think a trifle impatiently.
"Oh, of course, of course," cried Frank. "I didn't quite understand what you were referring to, and one has so many of those things on hand, so many sad cases, there is so much to be done. But I remember all about it. We must push it. It's a fine scheme, but it will need a great deal of pushing, a great deal of interest. It's not the kind of thing that will float in a day. Your father, of course, is apt to be over-sanguine14."
I did not answer. It crossed my mind vaguely15 that three months ago it had been father who had said that Frank was apt to be over-sanguine; or rather, who had given it so to be understood, in words spoken with a kindly16 smile and some sort of an expression of praise for the ardor17 of youth. "It's to the young ones that we must look to fly high," he had said, or words to that effect.
"Well, you must come and talk it over with father," said I, somewhat puzzled. "He thinks a great deal of you."
"Ah! And so do I think a great deal of him, I assure you," cried Frank. "He's a delightful old man! So bright and fresh and full of enthusiasm! One would never believe he had lived all his life in a place like this, looking after cows and sheep. There are very few men of better position who can talk as he talks."
I suppose I ought to have been pleased at this, but instead of that it made me unaccountably angry for a moment. I thought it a great liberty on the part of a young fellow like Captain Forrester to speak like that of an old man like my father. But one could not be exactly angry with Frank. In the first place, he was so pleasant and good-natured and sympathetic that one felt the fault must be on one's own side; and then it would have been waste of time, for he would either never have perceived it, or he would have been so surprised that one would have been ashamed to continue it.
However, I tried to speak in an off-hand way as I said, "Yes, he doesn't often get any one here whom he cares to talk to, so of course he is very glad of whoever it is that will look at things a bit as he does." And then, afraid lest I should have said too much, and prevent him from coming to the Grange after all, I added, "But he's really fond of you, and if he thinks you have been so near the place and haven't been to see him, I'm afraid he'll be hurt."
Frank looked undecided a moment, and I glanced at him anxiously. Truly, I was very eager that day to secure a companion for my father.
"Father is depressed," I added. "I don't think he's quite so cheerful and hopeful as he used to be, and I am sure you would do him good."
Frank laughed. "Very well," said he, turning down the lane with me, "if your mother is displeased19, Miss Margaret, let it be on your head."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of mother," I said, although in truth I was very much afraid of her. "She will be pleased enough if you cheer up father. And if you tell him some good news of his plan about the poor little children, you will cheer him up."
"He mustn't set his heart too much upon that just at present," said Frank, in a cool, business-like kind of way. "There's a deal of hard, patient work to be done at that before it'll take any shape, you know."
"Yes, I understand," said I; "but who is going to do the work?"
He looked a bit put out for the moment, but he said, cheerily: "Ah, that's just it. We must find the proper man—the man for the place—then it'll go like a house on fire." And then he turned and fixed20 his brown eyes on me, as was his wont21, and said, "But how is it that this bailiff hasn't roused your father's heart in his own work more, and made him forget these outside schemes?"
I flushed with anger; I thought the remark unjustifiable.
"I hear he's a clever fellow," continued the captain. "That's it, I suppose. He prefers to go his own gait. Although they tell me"—he said this as if he were paying me a compliment—"they tell me you can twist him round your little finger."
"Who are they?" cried I, my lip trembling. "They had best mind their own business."
He laughed gayly. "The same as ever, I see," he said. "But you might well be proud of such a feat22. He struck me as a tough customer the only time I saw him."
I set my lips tight together and refused to answer another word; but when we had left the pines, and turned out of the lane into the road, I was sorry for him, and forgave him; for glancing at him, I saw that his cheek was quite pale.
"I'm dreadfully afraid of your parents," laughed he. "Your mother won't deign23 to shake hands with me, and your father will be hurt because I haven't brought a train of little London waifs at my heels."
Of course it was neither the prospect24 of mother's cold welcome nor the thought of father's disappointment at the stagnation25 of the scheme which had really made his cheek white. I understood things better than that; it was that he was going to see Joyce, whom he had not seen for three months. I was sorry for the poor fellow, in spite of his having offended me.
On the top of my original plan, which had only been to get him to the Grange, another took sudden shape. It was a Thursday—dairy morning. But as we had come down the street I had seen mother's tall back beside the counter of the village grocer's shop, and I determined26 to risk Deborah's presence, and to bring Frank straight in through the back door to the milk-pans and Joyce's face.
Luck favored me. Deborah had gone outside to rinse27 some vessel28 not quite to her mind, and Joyce stood alone with a fresh pink frock and a fresh fair face against the white tiles, kneading the butter with sleeves upturned. I left Frank there, and ran on to Deborah, who showed signs of returning.
"Whatever does that dandified young beau want round about again?" said she. "I thought he had taken those handsome calves29 of his to London to make love to the ladies."
I must mention that Frank always wore a knickerbocker suit down at Marshlands—a costume less in vogue30 ten years ago than it is now, and an affectation which found no favor in Deborah's sight. To tell the truth, it did not please me that day; nothing about him quite pleased me, yet indeed I think he was the same as he had always been. But I was not going to let myself dwell upon anything that was not in the captain's favor, and certainly I was not going to let Deborah comment upon it. After all, as I had once said to mother, he was my sister's lover, not mine; but he was my sister's lover, and as such I should stick up for him through thick and thin.
"He's come to see father," said I, shortly.
"That's the first time I knew that the way to your father's room was through the dairy," grinned Deborah. "But look here, Margaret"—and here old Deb grew as solemn as a judge—"you'd no business to bring him in there when your mother was away. You know very well you hadn't. You'll get into a scrape." How much Deb really knew about the particulars of Joyce's engagement I have never found out, but that she guessed what she did not know was more than likely.
"Why not?" asked I.
"Why not? Because he's a slippery young eel6, that's why not," said Deborah. "If Joyce cares for him, the sooner she leaves off the better. But it's my belief she's got more sense in her head than some folk give her credit for."
"Of course Joyce cares for him," cried I, angrily, "and he's not slippery at all. He can't come courting her when mother forbids him the house. But it's very unkind of mother, and that's why I brought him. I don't care if I do get into a scrape for it. You're a hard-hearted old woman to talk so. But I suppose you've forgotten what it was to be young—it's so long ago."
"I remember enough about it to know how many men out of a dozen there are that are fit to be trusted, my dear," smiled Deborah, grimly. "And my old ears haven't grown so queer yet but they can tell a jig31 from a psalm32 tune33."
"I don't think you go to church often enough to know them apart," sneered34 I; for Deb was not as conspicuous35 for piety36 as Reuben, and was wont to declare that when she listened to parson her head grew that muddled37 and stagnated38 she couldn't tell her left hand from her right.
"Ah, I'm not like some folk as likes to go and be told o' their sins," said she, alluding39, as usual, to the unlucky Reuben. "I know mine well enough, and on the Sabbath I likes to put up my legs and give my mind to 'em in peace and quiet. But I'm not afraid I shall hear the Old Hundredth if I go into the dairy just now," grinned she, catching40 up the milk-pail, which she had been scrubbing viciously, "so I'll just go back and finish my work."
I laid my hand on her arm to detain her, but at that moment Trayton Harrod appeared round the corner from the garden.
"Where's Reuben?" asked he, with a thunder-cloud upon his brow.
"That's more than I can tell you," answered Deb, shortly. "I'm not the man's keeper."
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Some malicious41 persons have been taking the trouble to break the pipes that have just been laid across to the new reservoir," he answered. "They were not yet covered in. But I'm determined to find out the offenders42."
"Well, you needn't come asking after Reuben, then," said old Deb, with rough stanchness, "The man mayn't be much for brains, but he ain't got time to plan tricks o' that sort."
"I'm not suspecting Reuben," answered Harrod, "but I look to Reuben to help me to find out who's to blame."
"Well, if there's wrong been done against master, so he will," declared Deborah again. "Reuben's a true man to his master, say what you may of him. You'd best not come telling any tales of Reuben to me."
"No, no," replied Harrod, hurriedly, "I want to tell no tales of Reuben nor any one else, but I must get to the bottom of the matter;" and then turning to me, he added, "I must see your father at once."
He moved across the yard to the outer door, but midway he stopped, listening.
The voices in the dairy had attracted his attention. I think he was going to ask me who was there, when suddenly Joyce came out of the door, her cheeks red, her eyes wet with tears.
As soon as she saw him she ran quickly by, and round the corner of the yard to the front of the house; but I knew by the way that he glanced at me that he had seen that her eyes were full of tears. He did not speak, however, neither did he look after her. He first glanced across to the dairy, but Frank Forrester did not show himself, and he strode across to the gate of the yard and let himself out into the road.
"I'll see your father another time," he said to me as he went past.
I went round the corner, meaning to follow Joyce, but remembering that Frank must be in a very uncomfortable position, and that I was rather bound to see him through with it, I went back and found him bidding Deborah tell me he would come again in the evening.
"The master'll be busy all the evening," she said; and her inhospitality decided18 me to make a bold move.
"Father is at liberty now," I said. "Please come this way." And he had no choice but to follow me round to the front.
Luckily for me, father was there alone, reading his newspaper in the few spare minutes before dinner; neither Joyce nor mother was visible. He welcomed Frank even more cordially than I had hoped.
"How are you, lad?" he cried, heartily43. "Why, I didn't know you were near the place at all. When did you come?"
Frank sat down in his usual place, and the two talked together just as if they had never parted. All Frank's cautiousness, not to say half-heartedness, about father's scheme seemed to have evaporated, now that he was in his presence, just as if he were afraid or ashamed not to be as enthusiastic as he was. As I listened to them I couldn't believe that he had told me ten minutes before that father was "apt to be over-sanguine," and that he must not "set his heart too much" upon the matter. On the contrary, it seemed to be Frank who was sanguine, and father who was suggesting the difficulties of working; father, moreover, who used almost the very phrase about its being necessary to get the proper man to work the details, and Frank who declared, as he had declared before, that he would be the man. How was it that, as soon as his back was turned, the fire seemed to die out of him? Was he like some sort of fire-bricks that can absorb heat, and give it out again fiercely while the fire is around them, but that grow dead and cold as soon as the surrounding warmth is withdrawn44?
But it was very pleasant to see them there talking as merrily as ever. Merrily? Well, yes, with Frank it was "merrily," but with father I don't think it had ever been anything but earnestly, and now I fancied that there was even a tinge45 of hopelessness about him which had not been there of old. Yet he smiled often, and treated Frank just in that half-rough, half-affectionate way that he had always had towards him—something protecting, something humorous, almost as though he traced in him a streak46 of weakness, but could not help being fascinated by the bright kindliness47, the sympathetic desire to please in spite of himself.
Perhaps it was so with all of us—with all of us, excepting mother. She had never felt the fascination48, she had always seen straight through the mirror. And as she had always been inexorable, so she was inexorable that day.
Father, in his eagerness about the interest that he had at heart, had forgotten all about Joyce, all about the reason why Frank Forrester should not be at the Grange. But I had not forgotten it; I knew mother would not have forgotten it, and I stood, with a trembling heart, listening for her step upon the stairs within.
She came at last, and one glance at her face told me that Frank's presence was no surprise to her; that she knew of it, and knew of it from Joyce. Her lips were pressed together half nervously49, her blue eyes were smaller than usual; and she rustled50 her dress as she walked, which somehow always seemed to me a sure sign of displeasure in her. She did not hold out her hand to him, although he advanced with every show of cordiality to greet her as usual.
"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant, you are angry with me for coming here," cried he, in a half-humorous, half-appealing voice, that he was wont to use when he wanted to conciliate. "You're quite right. What can I say for myself?"
He did not say that I had persuaded him. I liked him for that, but I said it for him.
"I brought Captain Forrester here, mother," said I, in my boldest manner, trying neither to blush nor to let my voice quaver. "I knew father would want to see him, and he is in Marshlands for only one day."
"Captain Forrester is always welcome in my house," said father, and his voice did shake a little, but whether from annoyance or distress51 it was not possible to tell. But mother said nothing. She kept her hands folded in front of her. It was Joyce who spoke—Joyce, who had followed mother down the stairs and out into the porch.
"Father, I have been telling mother," said she, coming very close to him, "that I knew nothing of Captain Forrester's coming here to-day. I did not wish to see him."
She kept her head bent52 as she said the words, but she said them quite firmly, although in a low voice. Certainly Joyce, for a gentle and diffident girl, had a wonderful trick of courage at times. I admired her for it, although to-day she angered me; she might have allowed her love to shine forth53 a little—for her lover's sake if not for her own.
"All right, my girl," answered father, without looking at her. "I understand."
And then he turned again to Frank. "You'll stay and have a bit of dinner with us?" he said.
I was grateful to him for saying it, for things were altogether rather uncomfortable. The honesty and frankness of our family is a characteristic of which I am proud, but it certainly has its uncomfortable side. Fortunately Captain Forrester's pleasant and easy manners were second nature, and cost him no trouble. They came to the aid of us all that day.
"Oh, Mrs. Maliphant does not echo that kind invitation of yours," said he. "I know I have deserved her wrath54. A bargain is a bargain." He put out his hand again. "But she will shake hands with me before I go?" he added.
Who could have resisted him? Mother put out her hand.
"You're welcome to our board, captain, if you will stay," said she.
"Thank you, that is kind of you," answered he, with real feeling in his voice. "I mustn't stay, I am due elsewhere, but I appreciate your asking me none the less."
He turned to me and shook hands with me warmly. Then he stopped in front of Joyce.
She did not lift her eyes; she put her hand silently into his out-stretched palm without, so far as I could see, the slightest tremor55. He pressed the soft long fingers in his for a moment, and then he turned away without speaking.
Father and he went along the passage together, talking; and it was father who showed him out of the front door.
I was sorry that I had persuaded him to come to the Grange. Harrod had seen Joyce in tears, and would wonder what was the cause; and was it worth while to have gone through the very uncomfortable scene which had just taken place for anything that had been gained? It was Joyce's own fault, but it showed me how idle it was to hope to move her in any line of conduct which she had laid out for herself.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
vowed
|
|
| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
crook
|
|
| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
lithe
|
|
| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
proprietors
|
|
| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
eel
|
|
| n.鳗鲡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
obnoxious
|
|
| adj.极恼人的，讨人厌的，可憎的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
annoyance
|
|
| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
vex
|
|
| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
vexed
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
specially
|
|
| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
sanguine
|
|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
ardor
|
|
| n.热情，狂热 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
displeased
|
|
| a.不快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
wont
|
|
| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
feat
|
|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
deign
|
|
| v. 屈尊, 惠允 ( 做某事) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
prospect
|
|
| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
stagnation
|
|
| n. 停滞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
rinse
|
|
| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
vessel
|
|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
calves
|
|
| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
Vogue
|
|
| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
jig
|
|
| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
psalm
|
|
| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
tune
|
|
| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
sneered
|
|
| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
conspicuous
|
|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
piety
|
|
| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
muddled
|
|
| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
stagnated
|
|
| v.停滞，不流动，不发展( stagnate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
alluding
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
catching
|
|
| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
malicious
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
offenders
|
|
| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
withdrawn
|
|
| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
tinge
|
|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
streak
|
|
| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
fascination
|
|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
nervously
|
|
| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
rustled
|
|
| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
distress
|
|
| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
wrath
|
|
| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
tremor
|
|
| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |