The truth was that Mrs. Carter had become so fond of Berenice as an object of beauty, a prospective5 grande dame6, that she would have sold her soul to see her well placed; and as the money to provide the dresses, setting, equipage had to come from somewhere, she had placed her spirit in subjection to Cowperwood and pretended not to see the compromising position in which she was placing all that was near and dear to her.
“Oh, you’re so good,” she more than once said to him a mist of gratitude7 commingled8 with joy in her eyes. “I would never have believed it of any one. But Bevy9—”
“An esthete is an esthete,” Cowperwood replied. “They are rare enough. I like to see a spirit as fine as hers move untroubled. She will make her way.”
Seeing Lieutenant10 Braxmar in the foreground of Berenice’s affairs, Mrs. Carter was foolish enough to harp11 on the matter in a friendly, ingratiating way. Braxmar was really interesting after his fashion. He was young, tall, muscular, and handsome, a graceful12 dancer; but, better yet, he represented in his moods lineage, social position, a number of the things which engaged Berenice most. He was intelligent, serious, with a kind of social grace which was gay, courteous13, wistful. Berenice met him first at a local dance, where a new step was being practised—“dancing in the barn,” as it was called—and so airily did he tread it with her in his handsome uniform that she was half smitten14 for the moment.
“You dance delightfully,” she said. “Is this a part of your life on the ocean wave?”
“Deep-sea-going dancing,” he replied, with a heavenly smile. “All battles are accompanied by balls, don’t you know?”
“Oh, what a wretched jest!” she replied. “It’s unbelievably bad.”
“Not for me. I can make much worse ones.”
“Not for me,” she replied, “I can’t stand them.” And they went prancing16 on. Afterward17 he came and sat by her; they walked in the moonlight, he told her of naval18 life, his Southern home and connections.
Mrs. Carter, seeing him with Berenice, and having been introduced, observed the next morning, “I like your Lieutenant, Bevy. I know some of his relatives well. They come from the Carolinas. He’s sure to come into money. The whole family is wealthy. Do you think he might be interested in you?”
“Oh, possibly—yes, I presume so,” replied Berenice, airily, for she did not take too kindly19 to this evidence of parental20 interest. She preferred to see life drift on in some nebulous way at present, and this was bringing matters too close to home. “Still, he has so much machinery21 on his mind I doubt whether he could take any serious interest in a woman. He is almost more of a battle-ship than he is a man.”
She made a mouth, and Mrs. Carter commented gaily22: “You rogue23! All the men take an interest in you. You don’t think you could care for him, then, at all?”
“Why, mother, what a question! Why do you ask? Is it so essential that I should?”
“Oh, not that exactly,” replied Mrs. Carter, sweetly, bracing24 herself for a word which she felt incumbent25 upon her; “but think of his position. He comes of such a good family, and he must be heir to a considerable fortune in his own right. Oh, Bevy, I don’t want to hurry or spoil your life in any way, but do keep in mind the future. With your tastes and instincts money is so essential, and unless you marry it I don’t know where you are to get it. Your father was so thoughtless, and Rolfe’s was even worse.”
She sighed.
Berenice, for almost the first time in her life, took solemn heed27 of this thought. She pondered whether she could endure Braxmar as a life partner, follow him around the world, perhaps retransferring her abode28 to the South; but she could not make up her mind. This suggestion on the part of her mother rather poisoned the cup for her. To tell the truth, in this hour of doubt her thoughts turned vaguely29 to Cowperwood as one who represented in his avid30 way more of the things she truly desired. She remembered his wealth, his plaint that his new house could be only a museum, the manner in which he approached her with looks and voiceless suggestions. But he was old and married—out of the question, therefore—and Braxmar was young and charming. To think her mother should have been so tactless as to suggest the necessity for consideration in his case! It almost spoiled him for her. And was their financial state, then, as uncertain as her mother indicated?
In this crisis some of her previous social experiences became significant. For instance, only a few weeks previous to her meeting with Braxmar she had been visiting at the country estate of the Corscaden Batjers, at Redding Hills, Long Island, and had been sitting with her hostess in the morning room of Hillcrest, which commanded a lovely though distant view of Long Island Sound.
Mrs. Fredericka Batjer was a chestnut32 blonde, fair, cool, quiescent—a type out of Dutch art. Clad in a morning gown of gray and silver, her hair piled in a Psyche33 knot, she had in her lap on this occasion a Java basket filled with some attempt at Norwegian needlework.
“Bevy,” she said, “you remember Kilmer Duelma, don’t you? Wasn’t he at the Haggertys’ last summer when you were there?”
Berenice, who was seated at a small Chippendale writing-desk penning letters, glanced up, her mind visioning for the moment the youth in question. Kilmer Duelma—tall, stocky, swaggering, his clothes the loose, nonchalant perfection of the season, his walk ambling34, studied, lackadaisical35, aimless, his color high, his cheeks full, his eyes a little vacuous36, his mind acquiescing37 in a sort of genial38, inconsequential way to every query39 and thought that was put to him. The younger of the two sons of Auguste Duelma, banker, promoter, multimillionaire, he would come into a fortune estimated roughly at between six and eight millions. At the Haggertys’ the year before he had hung about her in an aimless fashion.
Mrs. Batjer studied Berenice curiously40 for a moment, then returned to her needlework. “I’ve asked him down over this week-end,” she suggested.
Berenice smiled enigmatically.
“You remember Clarissa Faulkner, don’t you, Bevy?” pursued Mrs. Batjer. “She married Romulus Garrison43.”
“Perfectly. Where is she now?”
“They have leased the Chateau44 Brieul at Ars for the winter. Romulus is a fool, but Clarissa is so clever. You know she writes that she is holding a veritable court there this season. Half the smart set of Paris and London are dropping in. It is so charming for her to be able to do those things now. Poor dear! At one time I was quite troubled over her.”
Without giving any outward sign Berenice did not fail to gather the full import of the analogy. It was all true. One must begin early to take thought of one’s life. She suffered a disturbing sense of duty. Kilmer Duelma arrived at noon Friday with six types of bags, a special valet, and a preposterous45 enthusiasm for polo and hunting (diseases lately acquired from a hunting set in the Berkshires). A cleverly contrived46 compliment supposed to have emanated47 from Miss Fleming and conveyed to him with tact31 by Mrs. Batjer brought him ambling into Berenice’s presence suggesting a Sunday drive to Saddle Rock.
“Haw! haw! You know, I’m delighted to see you again. Haw! haw! It’s been an age since I’ve seen the Haggertys. We missed you after you left. Haw! haw! I did, you know. Since I saw you I have taken up polo—three ponies48 with me all the time now—haw! haw!—a regular stable nearly.”
Berenice strove valiantly49 to retain a serene50 interest. Duty was in her mind, the Chateau Brieul, the winter court of Clarissa Garrison, some first premonitions of the flight of time. Yet the drive was a bore, conversation a burden, the struggle to respond titanic51, impossible. When Monday came she fled, leaving three days between that and a week-end at Morristown. Mrs. Batjer—who read straws most capably—sighed. Her own Corscaden was not much beyond his money, but life must be lived and the ambitious must inherit wealth or gather it wisely. Some impossible scheming silly would soon collect Duelma, and then— She considered Berenice a little difficult.
Berenice could not help piecing together the memory of this incident with her mother’s recent appeal in behalf of Lieutenant Braxmar. A great, cloying52, disturbing, disintegrating53 factor in her life was revealed by the dawning discovery that she and her mother were without much money, that aside from her lineage she was in a certain sense an interloper in society. There were never rumors54 of great wealth in connection with her—no flattering whispers or public notices regarding her station as an heiress. All the smug minor55 manikins of the social world were on the qui vive for some cotton-headed doll of a girl with an endless bank-account. By nature sybaritic, an intense lover of art fabrics56, of stately functions, of power and success in every form, she had been dreaming all this while of a great soul-freedom and art-freedom under some such circumstances as the greatest individual wealth of the day, and only that, could provide. Simultaneously57 she had vaguely cherished the idea that if she ever found some one who was truly fond of her, and whom she could love or even admire intensely—some one who needed her in a deep, sincere way—she would give herself freely and gladly. Yet who could it be? She had been charmed by Braxmar, but her keen, analytic58 intelligence required some one harder, more vivid, more ruthless, some one who would appeal to her as an immense force. Yet she must be conservative, she must play what cards she had to win.
During his summer visit at Narragansett Cowperwood had not been long disturbed by the presence of Braxmar, for, having received special orders, the latter was compelled to hurry away to Hampton Roads. But the following November, forsaking59 temporarily his difficult affairs in Chicago for New York and the Carter apartment in Central Park South, Cowperwood again encountered the Lieutenant, who arrived one evening brilliantly arrayed in full official regalia in order to escort Berenice to a ball. A high military cap surmounting61 his handsome face, his epaulets gleaming in gold, the lapels of his cape62 thrown back to reveal a handsome red silken lining63, his sword clanking by his side, he seemed a veritable singing flame of youth. Cowperwood, caught in the drift of circumstance—age, unsuitableness, the flaring64 counter-attractions of romance and vigor—fairly writhed65 in pain.
Berenice was so beautiful in a storm of diaphanous66 clinging garments. He stared at them from an adjacent room, where he pretended to be reading, and sighed. Alas67, how was his cunning and foresight—even his—to overcome the drift of life itself? How was he to make himself appealing to youth? Braxmar had the years, the color, the bearing. Berenice seemed to-night, as she prepared to leave, to be fairly seething68 with youth, hope, gaiety. He arose after a few moments and, giving business as an excuse, hurried away. But it was only to sit in his own rooms in a neighboring hotel and meditate69. The logic70 of the ordinary man under such circumstances, compounded of the age-old notions of chivalry71, self-sacrifice, duty to higher impulses, and the like, would have been to step aside in favor of youth, to give convention its day, and retire in favor of morality and virtue72. Cowperwood saw things in no such moralistic or altruistic73 light. “I satisfy myself,” had ever been his motto, and under that, however much he might sympathize with Berenice in love or with love itself, he was not content to withdraw until he was sure that the end of hope for him had really come. There had been moments between him and Berenice—little approximations toward intimacy—which had led him to believe that by no means was she seriously opposed to him. At the same time this business of the Lieutenant, so Mrs. Carter confided74 to him a little later, was not to be regarded lightly. While Berenice might not care so much, obviously Braxmar did.
“Ever since he has been away he has been storming her with letters,” she remarked to Cowperwood, one afternoon. “I don’t think he is the kind that can be made to take no for an answer.
“A very successful kind,” commented Cowperwood, dryly. Mrs. Carter was eager for advice in the matter. Braxmar was a man of parts. She knew his connections. He would inherit at least six hundred thousand dollars at his father’s death, if not more. What about her Louisville record? Supposing that should come out later? Would it not be wise for Berenice to marry, and have the danger over with?
“It is a problem, isn’t it?” observed Cowperwood, calmly. “Are you sure she’s in love?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but such things so easily turn into love. I have never believed that Berenice could be swept off her feet by any one—she is so thoughtful—but she knows she has her own way to make in the world, and Mr. Braxmar is certainly eligible75. I know his cousins, the Clifford Porters, very well.”
Cowperwood knitted his brows. He was sick to his soul with this worry over Berenice. He felt that he must have her, even at the cost of inflicting76 upon her a serious social injury. Better that she should surmount60 it with him than escape it with another. It so happened, however, that the final grim necessity of acting77 on any such idea was spared him.
Imagine a dining-room in one of the principal hotels of New York, the hour midnight, after an evening at the opera, to which Cowperwood, as host, had invited Berenice, Lieutenant Braxmar, and Mrs. Carter. He was now playing the role of disinterested host and avuncular78 mentor79.
His attitude toward Berenice, meditating80, as he was, a course which should be destructive to Braxmar, was gentle, courteous, serenely81 thoughtful. Like a true Mephistopheles he was waiting, surveying Mrs. Carter and Berenice, who were seated in front chairs clad in such exotic draperies as opera-goers affect—Mrs. Carter in pale-lemon silk and diamonds; Berenice in purple and old-rose, with a jeweled comb in her hair. The Lieutenant in his dazzling uniform smiled and talked blandly82, complimented the singers, whispered pleasant nothings to Berenice, descanted at odd moments to Cowperwood on naval personages who happened to be present. Coming out of the opera and driving through blowy, windy streets to the Waldorf, they took the table reserved for them, and Cowperwood, after consulting with regard to the dishes and ordering the wine, went back reminiscently to the music, which had been “La Boheme.” The death of Mimi and the grief of Rodolph, as voiced by the splendid melodies of Puccini, interested him.
“That makeshift studio world may have no connection with the genuine professional artist, but it’s very representative of life,” he remarked.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Braxmar, seriously.
“All I know of Bohemia is what I have read in books—Trilby, for instance, and—” He could think of no other, and stopped. “I suppose it is that way in Paris.”
He looked at Berenice for confirmation83 and to win a smile. Owing to her mobile and sympathetic disposition84, she had during the opera been swept from period to period by surges of beauty too gay or pathetic for words, but clearly comprehended of the spirit. Once when she had been lost in dreamy contemplation, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes fixed85 on the stage, both Braxmar and Cowperwood had studied her parted lips and fine profile with common impulses of emotion and enthusiasm. Realizing after the mood was gone that they had been watching her, Berenice had continued the pose for a moment, then had waked as from a dream with a sigh. This incident now came back to her as well as her feeling in regard to the opera generally.
“It is very beautiful,” she said; “I do not know what to say. People are like that, of course. It is so much better than just dull comfort. Life is really finest when it’s tragic86, anyhow.”
She looked at Cowperwood, who was studying her; then at Braxmar, who saw himself for the moment on the captain’s bridge of a battle-ship commanding in time of action. To Cowperwood came back many of his principal moments of difficulty. Surely his life had been sufficiently87 dramatic to satisfy her.
“I don’t think I care so much for it,” interposed Mrs. Carter. “One gets tired of sad happenings. We have enough drama in real life.”
Cowperwood and Braxmar smiled faintly. Berenice looked contemplatively away. The crush of diners, the clink of china and glass, the bustling88 to and fro of waiters, and the strumming of the orchestra diverted her somewhat, as did the nods and smiles of some entering guests who recognized Braxmar and herself, but not Cowperwood.
Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men’s cafe and grill89, there appeared the semi-intoxicated figure of an ostensibly swagger society man, his clothing somewhat awry90, an opera-coat hanging loosely from one shoulder, a crush-opera-hat dangling91 in one hand, his eyes a little bloodshot, his under lip protruding92 slightly and defiantly94, and his whole visage proclaiming that devil-may-care, superior, and malicious95 aspect which the drunken rake does not so much assume as achieve. He looked sullenly96, uncertainly about; then, perceiving Cowperwood and his party, made his way thither97 in the half-determined, half-inconsequential fashion of one not quite sound after his cups. When he was directly opposite Cowperwood’s table—the cynosure98 of a number of eyes—he suddenly paused as if in recognition, and, coming over, laid a genial and yet condescending99 hand on Mrs. Carter’s bare shoulder.
“Why, hello, Hattie!” he called, leeringly and jeeringly100. “What are you doing down here in New York? You haven’t given up your business in Louisville, have you, eh, old sport? Say, lemme tell you something. I haven’t had a single decent girl since you left—not one. If you open a house down here, let me know, will you?”
He bent26 over her smirkingly101 and patronizingly the while he made as if to rummage102 in his white waistcoat pocket for a card. At the same moment Cowperwood and Braxmar, realizing quite clearly the import of his words, were on their feet. While Mrs. Carter was pulling and struggling back from the stranger, Braxmar’s hand (he being the nearest) was on him, and the head waiter and two assistants had appeared.
“What is the trouble here? What has he done?” they demanded.
Meanwhile the intruder, leering contentiously104 at them all, was exclaiming in very audible tones: “Take your hands off. Who are you? What the devil have you got to do with this? Don’t you think I know what I’m about? She knows me—don’t you, Hattie? That’s Hattie Starr, of Louisville—ask her! She kept one of the swellest ever run in Louisville. What do you people want to be so upset about? I know what I’m doing. She knows me.”
He not only protested, but contested, and with some vehemence105. Cowperwood, Braxmar, and the waiters forming a cordon106, he was shoved and hustled107 out into the lobby and the outer entranceway, and an officer was called.
“This man should be arrested,” Cowperwood protested, vigorously, when the latter appeared. “He has grossly insulted lady guests of mine. He is drunk and disorderly, and I wish to make that charge. Here is my card. Will you let me know where to come?” He handed it over, while Braxmar, scrutinizing108 the stranger with military care, added: “I should like to thrash you within an inch of your life. If you weren’t drunk I would. If you are a gentleman and have a card I want you to give it to me. I want to talk to you later.” He leaned over and presented a cold, hard face to that of Mr. Beales Chadsey, of Louisville, Kentucky.
“Tha’s all right, Captain,” leered Chadsey, mockingly. “I got a card. No harm done. Here you are. You c’n see me any time you want—Hotel Buckingham, Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. I got a right to speak to anybody I please, where I please, when I please. See?”
He fumbled109 and protested while the officer stood by read to take him in charge. Not finding a card, he added: “Tha’s all right. Write it down. Beales Chadsey, Hotel Buckingham, or Louisville, Kentucky. See me any time you want to. Tha’s Hattie Starr. She knows me. I couldn’t make a mistake about her—not once in a million. Many’s the night I spent in her house.”
Braxmar was quite ready to lunge at him had not the officer intervened.
Back in the dining-room Berenice and her mother were sitting, the latter quite flustered110, pale, distrait111, horribly taken aback—by far too much distressed112 for any convincing measure of deception113.
“Why, the very idea!” she was saying. “That dreadful man! How terrible! I never saw him before in my life.”
Berenice, disturbed and nonplussed114, was thinking of the familiar and lecherous115 leer with which the stranger had addressed her mother—the horror, the shame of it. Could even a drunken man, if utterly116 mistaken, be so defiant93, so persistent117, so willing to explain? What shameful118 things had she been hearing?
“Come, mother,” she said, gently, and with dignity; “never mind, it is all right. We can go home at once. You will feel better when you are out of here.”
She called a waiter and asked him to say to the gentlemen that they had gone to the women’s dressing-room. She pushed an intervening chair out of the way and gave her mother her arm.
“To think I should be so insulted,” Mrs. Carter mumbled119 on, “here in a great hotel, in the presence of Lieutenant Braxmar and Mr. Cowperwood! This is too dreadful. Well, I never.”
She half whimpered as she walked; and Berenice, surveying the room with dignity, a lofty superiority in her face, led solemnly forth120, a strange, lacerating pain about her heart. What was at the bottom of these shameful statements? Why should this drunken roisterer have selected her mother, of all other women in the dining-room, for the object of these outrageous121 remarks? Why should her mother be stricken, so utterly collapsed123, if there were not some truth in what he had said? It was very strange, very sad, very grim, very horrible. What would that gossiping, scandal-loving world of which she knew so much say to a scene like this? For the first time in her life the import and horror of social ostracism124 flashed upon her.
The following morning, owing to a visit paid to the Jefferson Market Police Court by Lieutenant Braxmar, where he proposed, if satisfaction were not immediately guaranteed, to empty cold lead into Mr. Beales Chadsey’s stomach, the following letter on Buckingham stationery125 was written and sent to Mrs. Ira George Carter—36 Central Park South:
DEAR MADAM:
Last evening, owing to a drunken debauch126, for which I have no satisfactory or suitable explanation to make, I was the unfortunate occasion of an outrage122 upon your feelings and those of your daughter and friends, for which I wish most humbly127 to apologize. I cannot tell you how sincerely I regret whatever I said or did, which I cannot now clearly recall. My mental attitude when drinking is both contentious103 and malicious, and while in this mood and state I was the author of statements which I know to be wholly unfounded. In my drunken stupor128 I mistook you for a certain notorious woman of Louisville—why, I have not the slightest idea. For this wholly shameful and outrageous conduct I sincerely ask your pardon—beg your forgiveness. I do not know what amends129 I can make, but anything you may wish to suggest I shall gladly do. In the mean while I hope you will accept this letter in the spirit in which it is written and as a slight attempt at recompense which I know can never fully15 be made.
Very sincerely,
BEALES CHADSEY.
At the same time Lieutenant Braxmar was fully aware before this letter was written or sent that the charges implied against Mrs. Carter were only too well founded. Beales Chadsey had said drunk what twenty men in all sobriety and even the police at Louisville would corroborate130. Chadsey had insisted on making this clear to Braxmar before writing the letter.
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1
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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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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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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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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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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avid
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| adj.热心的；贪婪的；渴望的；劲头十足的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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ambling
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| v.（马）缓行( amble的现在分词 )；从容地走，漫步 | |
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lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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vacuous
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| adj.空的，漫散的，无聊的，愚蠢的 | |
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acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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38
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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39
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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40
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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41
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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42
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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44
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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45
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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46
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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47
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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48
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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49
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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50
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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51
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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52
cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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53
disintegrating
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| v.（使）破裂[分裂，粉碎]，（使）崩溃( disintegrate的现在分词 ) | |
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54
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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55
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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56
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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57
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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58
analytic
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| adj.分析的，用分析方法的 | |
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59
forsaking
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| 放弃( forsake的现在分词 )； 弃绝； 抛弃； 摒弃 | |
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60
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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61
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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62
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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63
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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64
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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65
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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67
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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68
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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69
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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70
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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71
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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72
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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73
altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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74
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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75
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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76
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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77
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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78
avuncular
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| adj.叔伯般的，慈祥的 | |
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79
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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80
meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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81
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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82
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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83
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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84
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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85
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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86
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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87
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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88
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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89
grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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90
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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91
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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92
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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93
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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94
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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95
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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96
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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97
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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98
cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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99
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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100
jeeringly
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| adv.嘲弄地 | |
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101
smirkingly
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| 微笑地； 带笑； 咪； 笑眯眯 | |
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102
rummage
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| v./n.翻寻，仔细检查 | |
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103
contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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104
contentiously
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105
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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106
cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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107
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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108
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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109
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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110
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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111
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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112
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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113
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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114
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
lecherous
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| adj.好色的；淫邪的 | |
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116
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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117
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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118
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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119
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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121
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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122
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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123
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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124
ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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125
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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126
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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127
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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128
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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129
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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130
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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