‘Be careful, Sybert! She will hear you,’ the grey-haired consul-general, who stood at his elbow, warned.
Sybert responded with a laugh and a half-shrug6; but his tones, though low, had carried, and the girl flashed upon the group a pair of vivid hazel eyes containing a half-puzzled, half-questioning light, as though she had caught the words but not the meaning. Her vague expression changed to one of recognition; she nodded to the two diplomats7 as she turned away to welcome a delegation9 of young lieutenants10, brilliant in blue and gold and shining boots.
‘Who is she?’ another member of the group inquired as he adjusted a pair of eye-glasses and turned to scrutinize11 the American girl—she was American to the most casual observer, from the piquant12 details of her gown to the masterly fashion in which she handled her four young men.
‘Don’t you know?’ There was just a touch of irony13 in Sybert’s tone. ‘Miss Marcia Copley, the daughter of the American Wheat King—I fancy you’ve seen his name mentioned in the papers.’
‘Well, well! And so that’s Willard Copley’s daughter?’ He readjusted his glasses and examined her again from this new point of view. ‘She isn’t bad-looking,’ was his comment. ‘The Wheat Princess!’ He repeated the phrase with a laugh. ‘I suppose she has come over to marry an Italian prince and make the title good?’
The originator of the phrase shrugged14 anew, with the 10 intimation that it was nothing to him who Miss Marcia Copley married.
‘And who is the lady with her?’
It was Melville, the consul-general, who replied.
‘Her aunt, Mrs. Howard Copley. They live in the Palazzo Rosicorelli.’
‘Ah, to be sure! Yes, yes, I know who they are. Her husband’s a reformer or a philanthropist, or something of the sort, isn’t he? I’ve seen him at the meets. I say, you know,’ he added, with an appreciative15 smile, ‘that’s rather good, the way the two brothers balance each other. Philanthropist and Wheat King!’
An English girl in the group turned and studied the American girl a moment with a critical scrutiny16. Marcia Copley’s appearance was daintily attractive. Her hat and gown and furs were a burnished17 brown exactly the colour of her hair; every little accessory of her dress was unobtrusively fastidious. Her whole bearing, her easy social grace, spoke18 of a past in which the way had been always smoothed by money. She carried with her a touch of imperiousness, a large air of commanding the world. The English girl noted19 these things with jealous feminine eyes.
‘Really,’ she said, ‘I don’t see how she has the audacity20 to face people. I should think that every beggar in the street would be a reproach to her.’
‘There were beggars in Italy long before Willard Copley cornered wheat,’ Melville returned.
‘If what the Tribuna says is true,’ some one ventured, ‘Howard Copley is as much implicated21 as his brother.’
‘I dare say,’ another laughed; ‘millionaire philanthropists have a way of taking back with the left hand what they have given with the right.’
Sybert had been listening in a half-indifferent fashion to the strictures on the niece, but in response to the implied criticism of the uncle he shook his head emphatically.
‘Howard Copley is no more implicated in the deal than I am,’ he declared. ‘He and his brother have had nothing to do with each other for the last ten years. His philanthropy is honest, and his money is as clean as any fortune can be.’
The statement was not challenged. Sybert was known to be Howard Copley’s friend, and he further carried the reputation of being a warm partizan on the one or two 11 subjects which engaged his enthusiasm—on those which did not engage it he was nonchalant to a degree for a rising diplomat8.
The two—Sybert and the consul-general—with a nod to the group presently drifted onward22 toward the door. The secretary was bent23 upon departure at the earliest possible opportunity. Teas were a part of the official routine of his life, but by the simple device of coming late and leaving early he escaped as much of their irksomeness as possible. Aside from being secretary of the Embassy, Sybert was a nephew of the ambassador, and it was the latter calling which he found the more onerous24 burden of the two. His Excellency had formed a troublesome habit of shifting social burdens to the unwilling25 shoulders of the younger man.
They paused at Mrs. Copley’s elbow with outstretched hands, and were received with a flattering show of cordiality from the aunt, though with but a fleeting26 nod from the niece; she was, patently, too interested in her officers to have much attention left.
‘Where is your husband?’ Sybert asked.
‘Beggars,’ she sighed. ‘Something has happened to the beggars again.’ Mr. Copley’s latest philanthropic venture had been the ‘Anti-Begging Society.’ Bread-tickets had been introduced, the beggars were being hunted down and given work, and as a result Copley’s name was cursed from end to end of Rome.
The men smilingly murmured their commiserations.
‘And what are you two diplomats doing here?’ Mrs. Copley asked. ‘I thought that Mr. Dessart invited only artists to his teas.’
Sybert’s gloomy air, as he eyed the door, reflected the question. It was Melville who answered:
‘Oh, we are admirers of art, even if we are not practitioners29. Besides, Mr. Dessart and I are old friends. We used to know each other in Pittsburg when he was a boy and I was a good deal younger than I am now.’
His gaze rested for a moment upon their host, who formed one of the hilarious30 group about Miss Copley. He was an eminently31 picturesque young fellow, fitted with the usual artist attributes—a velveteen jacket, a flowing necktie, and rather long light-brown hair which constantly got into 12 his eyes, causing him to shake his head impatiently as he talked. He had an open, frank face, humorous blue eyes and the inestimable, eager air of being in love with life.
The conversation showing signs of becoming general, the officers, with visible reluctance32, made their bows and gave place to the new-comers. The girl now found time to extend a cordial hand to Melville, while to the secretary she tossed a markedly careless, ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Sybert.’ If Miss Marcia’s offhand33 manner conveyed something a trifle stronger than indifference34, so Sybert’s half-amused smile as he talked to her suggested that her unkindness failed to hurt; that she was too young to count.
‘And what is this I hear about your moving out to a villa35 for the spring?’ he inquired, turning to Mrs. Copley.
‘We still have Uncle Howard to deal with,’ added the girl. ‘He was the first one who suggested a villa, but now that exactly the right one presents itself, we very much suspect him of trying to back out.’
‘That will never do, Miss Marcia,’ said Melville. ‘You must hold him to his word.’
‘We are going out to-morrow to inspect it, and if Aunt Katherine and I are pleased——’ She broke off with a graceful37 gesture which intimated much.
Sybert laughed. ‘Poor Uncle Howard!’ he murmured.
The arrival of fresh guests called their host away, and Mrs. Copley and Melville, turning aside to greet some friends, left Miss Copley for the moment to a tête à tête with Sybert. He maintained his side of the conversation in a half-perfunctory fashion, while the girl allowed a slight touch of hostility38 to creep beneath her animation39.
‘And where is the villa to be, Miss Marcia—at Frascati, I suppose?’
‘Farther away than Frascati; at Castel Vivalanti.’
‘Castel Vivalanti!’
‘Up in the Sabine hills between Palestrina and Tivoli.’
‘Oh, I know where it is; I have a vivid recollection of climbing the hill on a very hot day. I was merely exclaiming at the locality; it’s rather remote, isn’t it?’
‘Its remoteness is the best thing about it. Our object in moving into the hills is to escape from visitors, and if we go no farther than Frascati we shan’t do much escaping.’
13 This to the family’s most frequent visitor was scarcely a hospitable41 speech, and a smile of amusement crept to the corners of Sybert’s mouth.
Apparently42 just becoming aware of the content of her speech, she added with slightly exaggerated sweetness: ‘Of course I don’t mean you, Mr. Sybert. You come so often that I regard you as a member of the household.’
The secretary apparently had it on his tongue to retort, but, thinking better of it, he maintained a discreet43 silence, while their host approached with the new arrivals—a lady whose name Miss Copley did not catch, but who was presented with the explanatory remark, ‘she writes,’ and several young men who, she judged by their neckties, were artists also. The talk turned on the villa again, and Miss Copley was called upon for a description.
‘I haven’t seen it myself,’ she returned; ‘but from the steward44’s account it is the most complete villa in Italy. It has a laurel walk and an ilex grove45, balconies, fountains, a marble terrace, a view, and even a ghost.’
‘A ghost?’ queried46 Dessart. ‘But I thought they were extinct—that the railroads and tourists had driven them all back to the grave.’
‘Not the ghost of the “Bad Prince”; we rent him with the place—and the most picturesque ghost you ever dreamed of! He hoarded47 his wheat while the peasants were starving, and they murdered him two hundred years ago.’ She repeated the story, mimicking48 in inimitable fashion the gestures and broken English of Prince Vivalanti’s steward.
A somewhat startled silence hung over the close of the recital49, while her auditors50 glanced at each other in secret amazement51. The question uppermost in their minds was whether it was ignorance or mere40 bravado52 that had tempted53 her into repeating just that particular tale. It was a subject which Miss Copley might have been expected to avoid. Laurence Sybert alone was aware that she did not know what a dangerous topic she was venturing on, and he received the performance with an appreciative laugh.
‘A very picturesque story, Miss Copley. The old fellow got what he deserved.’
Marcia Copley assented54 with a smiling gesture, and the woman who wrote skilfully55 bridged over a second pause.
‘You were complaining the other day, Mr. Dessart, that 14 the foreigners are making the Italians too modern. Why do you not catch the ghost? He is surely a true antique.’
‘But I am not an impressionist,’ he pleaded.
‘Who is saying anything against impressionists?’ a young man asked in somewhat halting English as he paused beside the group.
‘No one,’ said Dessart; ‘I was merely disclaiming56 all knowledge of them and their ways. Miss Copley, allow me to present Monsieur Benoit, the last Prix de Rome—he is the man to paint your ghost. He’s an impressionist and paints nothing else.’
‘I suppose you have ghosts enough in the Villa Medici, without having to search for them in the Sabine hills.’
‘Ah, oui, mademoiselle; the Villa Medici has ghosts of many kinds—ghosts of dead hopes and dead ambitions among others.’
‘I should think the ghost of a dead ambition might be too illusive57 for even an impressionist to catch,’ she returned.
‘Perhaps an impressionist is better acquainted with them than with anything else,’ suggested Dessart, a trifle unkindly.
‘Not when he’s young and a Prix de Rome,’ smiled the woman who wrote.
Mrs. Copley requiring her niece’s presence on the other side of the room, the girl nodded to the group and withdrew. The writer looked after her with an air of puzzled interest.
‘And doesn’t Miss Copley read the papers?’ she inquired mildly.
‘Evidently she does not,’ Sybert rejoined with a laugh as he made his adieus and withdrew.
Half an hour later, Marcia Copley, having made the rounds of the room, again found herself, as tea was being served, in the neighbourhood of her new acquaintance. She dropped down on the divan58 beside her with a slight feeling of relief at being for the moment out of the current of chatter59. Her companion was a vivacious60 little woman approaching middle age; and though she spoke perfect English, she pronounced her words with a precision which suggested a foreign birth. Her conversation was diverting; it gave evidence of a vast amount of worldly wisdom as well as a wide acquaintance with other people’s affairs. And her range of subjects was wide. She flitted lightly from an 15 artistic61 estimate of some intaglios of the Augustan age, that had just been dug up outside the Porta Pia, to a comparison of French and Italian dressmakers and a prophecy as to which cardinal62 would be the next pope.
A portfolio63 of sketches65 lay on a little stand beside them, and she presently drew them toward her, with the remark, ‘We will see how our young man has been amusing himself lately!’
There were a half-dozen or so of wash-drawings, and one or two outline sketches of figures in red chalk. None of them was at all finished, but the hasty blocking in showed considerable vigour66, and the subjects were at least original. There was no Castle of St. Angelo with a boatman in the foreground, and no Temple of Vesta set off by a line of scarlet67 seminarists. One of the chalk drawings was of an old chestnut68 woman crouched69 over her charcoal70 fire; another was of the octroi officer under the tall arch of the San Giovanni gate, prodding71 the contents of a donkey-cart with his steel rod. There were corners of wall shaded by cypresses72, bits of architectural adornment73, a quick sketch64 of the lichen-covered elephant’s head spouting74 water at Villa Madama. They all, slight as they were, possessed75 a certain distinction, and suggested a very real impression of Roman atmosphere. Marcia examined them with interest.
‘They are extremely good,’ she said as she laid the last one down.
‘Yes,’ her companion agreed; ‘they are so good that they ought to be better—but they never will be.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I know Paul Dessart well enough to know that he will never paint a picture. He has talent, and he’s clever, but he’s at everybody’s service. The workers have no time to be polite. However,’ she finished, ‘it is not for you and me to quarrel with him. If he set to work in earnest he would stop giving teas, and that would be a pity, would it not?’
‘Indeed it would!’ she agreed. ‘How pretty the studio looks this afternoon! I have seen it only by daylight before, and, like all the rest of us, it improves by candle-light.’ Her eyes wandered about the big room, with its furnishings of threadbare tapestry76 and antique carved chairs. The heavy curtains had been partly drawn77 over the windows, making a pleasant twilight78 within. A subtle 16 odour of linseed oil and cigarette smoke, mingled79 with the fresh scent80 of violets, pervaded81 the air.
Paul Dessart, with the Prix de Rome man and a young English sculptor82 of rising fame, presently joined them; and the talk drifted into Roman politics—a subject concerning which, the artists declared with one accord, they knew nothing and cared less.
‘Oh, I used to get excited over their squabbles,’ said the Englishman; ‘but I soon saw that I should have to choose between that and sculpture; I hadn’t time for both.’
‘I don’t even know who’s premier,’ put in Dessart.
‘A disgraceful lack of interest!’ maintained the American girl. ‘I have only been in Rome two months, and I am an authority on the Triple Alliance and the Abyssinian war; I know what Cavour wanted to do, and what Crispi has done.’
‘That’s not fair, Miss Copley,’ Dessart objected. ‘You’ve been going to functions at the Embassy, and one can absorb politics there through one’s skin. But I warn you, it isn’t a safe subject to get interested in; it becomes a disease, like the opium83 habit.’
‘He’s not so far from the truth,’ agreed the sculptor. ‘I was talking to a fellow this afternoon, named Sybert, who—perhaps you know him, Miss Copley?’
‘Yes, I know him. What about him?’
‘Oh—er—nothing, in that case.’
‘Pray slander84 Mr. Sybert if you wish—I’ll promise not to tell. He’s one of my uncle’s friends, not one of mine.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t going to slander him,’ the young man expostulated a trifle sheepishly. ‘The only thing I have against Sybert is the fact that my conversation bores him.’
Marcia laughed with a certain sense of fellow-feeling.
‘Say anything you please,’ she repeated cordially. ‘My conversation bores him too.’
‘Well, what I was going to say is that he has had about all the Roman politics that are good for him. If he doesn’t look out, he’ll be getting in too deep.’
‘Too deep?’ she queried.
It was Dessart who pursued the subject with just a touch of malice85. Laurence Sybert, apparently, was not so popular a person as a diplomat should be.
‘He’s lived in Rome a good many years, and people are 17 beginning to wonder what he’s up to. The Embassy does very well for a blind, for he doesn’t take any more interest in it than he does in whether or not Tammany runs New York. All that Sybert knows anything about or cares anything about is Italian politics, and there are some who think that he knows a good sight more about them than he ought. He’s in with the Church party, in with the Government—first friends with the Right, and then with the Left.’
‘Monsieur Sybert is what you call an eclectic,’ suggested Benoit. ‘He chooses the best of each.’
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ Dessart hinted darkly. ‘He’s interested in other factions86 besides the Vatican and the Quirinal. There are one or two pretty anarchistic88 societies in Rome, and I’ve heard it whispered——’
‘You don’t mean——’ she asked, with wide-open eyes.
The woman who wrote shook her head, with a laugh. ‘I suspect that Mr. Sybert’s long residence in Rome might be reduced to a simpler formula than that. It was a very wise person who first said, “Cherchez la femme.”’
‘Oh, really?’ said Marcia, with a new note of interest. Laurence Sybert was not a man whom she had ever credited with having emotions, and the suggestion came as a surprise.
‘Rumour says that he still takes a very strong interest in the pretty little Contessa Torrenieri. All I know is that nine or ten years ago, when she was Margarita Carretti, he was openly among her admirers; but she naturally preferred a count—or at least her parents did, which in Italy amounts to the same.’
The girl’s eyes opened still wider; the Contessa Torrenieri was also a frequent guest at the palazzo. But Dessart received the suggestion with a very sceptical smile.
‘And you think that he is only waiting until, in the ripeness of time, old Count Torrenieri goes the way of all counts? I know you are the authority on gossip, madame, but, nevertheless, I doubt very much if that is Laurence Sybert’s trouble.’
‘I give him up, Miss Copley.’ The young man shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands in a gesture purely89 Italian.
‘Are you talking politics?’ asked Mrs. Copley as she joined the group in company with Mr. and Mrs. Melville.
‘Always politics,’ laughed her niece—‘or is it Mr. Sybert now?’
‘They’re practically interchangeable,’ said Dessart.
‘And did I hear you calling him an anarchist, Miss Marcia?’ Melville demanded.
She repudiated90 the charge with a laugh. ‘I’m afraid Mr. Dessart’s the guilty one.’
‘Here, here! that will never do! Sybert’s a special friend of mine. I can’t allow you to be accusing him of anything like that.’
‘A little applied91 anarchy92 wouldn’t be out of place,’ the young man returned. ‘I feel tempted to use some dynamite93 myself when I see the way this precious government is scattering94 statues of Victor Emmanuel broadcast through the land.’
‘If you are going to get back into politics,’ said Mrs. Copley, rising, ‘I fear we must leave. I know from experience that it is a long subject.’
The two turned away, escorted to the carriage by Dessart and the Frenchman, while the rest of the group resettled themselves in the empty places. The woman who wrote listened a moment to the badinage95 and laughter which floated back through the open door; then, ‘Mr. Dessart’s heiress is very attractive,’ she suggested.
‘Why Mr. Dessart’s?’ Melville inquired.
‘My dear lady,’ said Mrs. Melville impressively, ‘you do not know Mrs. Copley. Her niece is more likely to marry an Italian prince than a nameless young artist.’
‘She’s no more likely to marry an Italian prince than she is a South African chief,’ her husband affirmed. ‘Miss Marcia is a young woman who will marry whom she pleases—though,’ he added upon reflection, ‘I am not at all sure it will be Paul Dessart.’
‘She might do worse,’ said his wife. ‘Paul is a nice boy.’
‘Ah—and she might do better. I’ll tell you exactly the man,’ he added, in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘and that is Laurence Sybert.’
The suggestion was met by an amused smile from the ladies and a shrug from the sculptor.
‘My dear James,’ said Mrs. Melville, ‘you may be a very good business man, but you are no match-maker. That is a matter you would best leave to the women. As for your Laurence Sybert, he hasn’t the ghost of a chance—and he doesn’t want it.’
‘I’m doubting he has other fish to fry just now,’ threw out the sculptor.
‘Sybert’s all right,’ said Melville emphatically.
The woman who wrote laughed as she rose. ‘It will be an interesting matter to watch,’ she announced; ‘but you may mark my words that our host is the man.’
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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diplomats
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| n.外交官( diplomat的名词复数 )；有手腕的人，善于交际的人 | |
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diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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delegation
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| n.代表团；派遣 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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noted
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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bent
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onerous
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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villa
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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hostility
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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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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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mimicking
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的现在分词 )；酷似 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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50
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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51
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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52
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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disclaiming
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| v.否认( disclaim的现在分词 ) | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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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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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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84
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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85
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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86
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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anarchistic
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| 无政府主义的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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90
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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92
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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93
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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94
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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95
badinage
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| n.开玩笑，打趣 | |
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96
prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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