Susan Shepherd's word for her, again and again, was that she was "large"; yet it was not exactly a case, as to the soul, of echoing chambers12: she might have been likened rather to a capacious receptacle, originally perhaps loose, but now drawn13 as tightly as possible over its accumulated contents—a packed mass, for her American admirer, of curious detail. When the latter good lady, at home, had handsomely figured her friends as not small—which was the way she mostly figured them—there was a certain implication that they were spacious14 because they were empty. Mrs. Lowder, by a different law, was spacious because she was full, because she had something in common, even in repose15, with a projectile16, of great size, loaded and ready for use. That indeed, to Susie's romantic mind, announced itself as half the charm of their renewal—a charm as of sitting in springtime, during a long peace, on the daisied, grassy17 bank of some great slumbering18 fortress19. True to her psychological instincts, certainly, Mrs. Stringham had noted20 that the "sentiment" she rejoiced in on her old schoolmate's part was all a matter of action and movement, was not, save for the interweaving of a more frequent plump "dearest" than she would herself perhaps have used, a matter of much other embroidery21. She brooded, with interest, on this further remark of race, feeling in her own spirit a different economy. The joy, for her, was to know why she acted—the reason was half the business; whereas with Mrs. Lowder there might have been no reason: "why" was the trivial seasoning-substance, the vanilla22 or the nutmeg, omittable from the nutritive pudding without spoiling it. Mrs. Lowder's desire was clearly sharp that their young companions should also prosper23 together; and Mrs. Stringham's account of it all to Milly, during the first days, was that when, at Lancaster Gate, she was not occupied in telling, as it were, about her, she was occupied in hearing much of the history of her hostess's brilliant niece.
They had plenty, on these lines, the two elder women, to give and to take, and it was even not quite clear to the pilgrim from Boston that what she should mainly have arranged for in London was not a series of thrills for herself. She had a bad conscience, indeed almost a sense of immorality24, in having to recognise that she was, as she said, carried away. She laughed to Milly when she also said that she didn't know where it would end; and the principal of her uneasiness was that Mrs. Lowder's life bristled25 for her with elements that she was really having to look at for the first time. They represented, she believed, the world, the world that, as a consequence of the cold shoulder turned to it by the Pilgrim Fathers, had never yet boldly crossed to Boston—it would surely have sunk the stoutest26 Cunarder—and she couldn't pretend that she faced the prospect simply because Milly had had a caprice. She was in the act herself of having one, directed precisely27 to their present spectacle. She could but seek strength in the thought that she had never had one—or had never yielded to one, which came to the same thing—before. The sustaining sense of it all, moreover, as literary material—that quite dropped from her. She must wait, at any rate, she should see: it struck her, so far as she had got, as vast, obscure, lurid28. She reflected in the watches of the night that she was probably just going to love it for itself—that is for itself and Milly. The odd thing was that she could think of Milly's loving it without dread29—or with dread, at least not on the score of conscience, only on the score of peace. It was a mercy, at all events, for the hour, that their fancies jumped together.
While, for this first week that followed their dinner, she drank deep at Lancaster Gate, her companion was no less happily, appeared to be indeed on the whole quite as romantically, provided for. The handsome English girl from the heavy English house had been as a figure in a picture stepping by magic out of its frame: it was a case, in truth, for which Mrs. Stringham presently found the perfect image. She had lost none of her grasp, but quite the contrary, of that other conceit30 in virtue31 of which Milly was the wandering princess: so what could be more in harmony now than to see the princess waited upon at the city gate by the worthiest32 maiden33, the chosen daughter of the burgesses? It was the real again, evidently, the amusement of the meeting for the princess too; princesses living for the most part, in such an appeased34 way, on the plane of mere35 elegant representation. That was why they pounced36, at city gates, on deputed flower-strewing damsels; that was why, after effigies37, processions, and other stately games, frank human company was pleasant to them. Kate Croy really presented herself to Milly—the latter abounded38 for Mrs. Stringham in accounts of it—as the wondrous39 London girl in person, by what she had conceived, from far back, of the London girl; conceived from the tales of travellers and the anecdotes40 of New York, from old porings over Punch and a liberal acquaintance with the fiction of the day. The only thing was that she was nicer, for the creature in question had rather been, to our young woman, an image of dread. She had thought of her, at her best, as handsome just as Kate was, with turns of head and tones of voice, felicities of stature41 and attitude, things "put on" and, for that matter, put off, all the marks of the product of a packed society who should be at the same time the heroine of a strong story. She placed this striking young person from the first in a story, saw her, by a necessity of the imagination, for a heroine, felt it the only character in which she wouldn't be wasted; and this in spite of the heroine's pleasant abruptness42, her forbearance from gush43, her umbrellas and jackets and shoes—as these things sketched44 themselves to Milly—and something rather of a breezy boy in the carriage of her arms and the occasional freedom of her slang.
When Milly had settled that the extent of her goodwill45 itself made her shy, she had found for the moment quite a sufficient key, and they were by that time thoroughly46 afloat together. This might well have been the happiest hour they were to know, attacking in friendly independence their great London—the London of shops and streets and suburbs oddly interesting to Milly, as well as of museums, monuments, "sights" oddly unfamiliar48 to Kate, while their elders pursued a separate course, both rejoicing in their intimacy49 and each thinking the other's young woman a great acquisition for her own. Milly expressed to Susan Shepherd more than once that Kate had some secret, some smothered50 trouble, besides all the rest of her history; and that if she had so good-naturedly helped Mrs. Lowder to meet them this was exactly to create a diversion, to give herself something else to think about. But on the case thus postulated51 our young American had as yet had no light: she only felt that when the light should come it would greatly deepen the colour; and she liked to think she was prepared for anything. What she already knew, moreover, was full to her vision, of English, of eccentric, of Thackerayan character, Kate Croy having gradually become not a little explicit52 on the subject of her situation, her past, her present, her general predicament, her small success, up to the present hour, in contenting at the same time her father, her sister, her aunt and herself. It was Milly's subtle guess, imparted to her Susie, that the girl had somebody else as well, as yet unnamed, to content, it being manifest that such a creature couldn't help having; a creature not perhaps, if one would, exactly formed to inspire passions, since that always implied a certain silliness, but essentially53 seen, by the admiring eye of friendship, under the clear shadow of some probably eminent54 male interest. The clear shadow, from whatever source projected, hung, at any rate, over Milly's companion the whole week, and Kate Croy's handsome face smiled out of it, under bland55 skylights, in the presence alike of old masters passive in their glory and of thoroughly new ones, the newest, who bristled restlessly with pins and brandished56 snipping57 shears58.
It was meanwhile a pretty part of the intercourse59 of these young ladies that each thought the other more remarkable60 than herself—that each thought herself, or assured the other she did, a comparatively dusty object and the other a favourite of nature and of fortune. Kate was amused, amazed at the way her friend insisted on "taking" her, and Milly wondered if Kate were sincere in finding her the most extraordinary—quite apart from her being the most charming—person she had come across. They had talked, in long drives, and quantities of history had not been wanting—in the light of which Mrs. Lowder's niece might superficially seem to have had the best of the argument. Her visitor's American references, with their bewildering immensities, their confounding moneyed New York, their excitements of high pressure, their opportunities of wild freedom, their record of used-up relatives, parents, clever, eager, fair, slim brothers—these the most loved—all engaged, as well as successive superseded61 guardians62, in a high extravagance of speculation63 and dissipation that had left this exquisite64 being her black dress, her white face and her vivid hair as the mere last broken link: such a picture quite threw into the shade the brief biography, however sketchily65 amplified66, of a mere middle-class nobody in Bayswater. And though that indeed might be but a Bayswater way of putting it, in addition to which Milly was in the stage of interest in Bayswater ways, this critic so far prevailed that, like Mrs. Stringham herself, she fairly got her companion to accept from her that she was quite the nearest approach to a practical princess Bayswater could hope ever to know. It was a fact—it became one at the end of three days—that Milly actually began to borrow from the handsome girl a sort of view of her state; the handsome girl's impression of it was clearly so sincere. This impression was a tribute, a tribute positively67 to power, power the source of which was the last thing Kate treated as a mystery. There were passages, under all their skylights, the succession of their shops being large, in which the latter's easy, yet the least bit dry manner sufficiently68 gave out that if she had had so deep a pocket——!
It was not moreover by any means with not having the imagination of expenditure69 that she appeared to charge her friend, but with not having the imagination of terror, of thrift70, the imagination or in any degree the habit of a conscious dependence47 on others. Such moments, when all Wigmore Street, for instance, seemed to rustle72 about and the pale girl herself to be facing the different rustlers, usually so undiscriminated, as individual Britons too, Britons personal, parties to a relation and perhaps even intrinsically remarkable—such moments in especial determined73 in Kate a perception of the high happiness of her companion's liberty. Milly's range was thus immense; she had to ask nobody for anything, to refer nothing to any one; her freedom, her fortune and her fancy were her law; an obsequious74 world surrounded her, she could sniff75 up at every step its fumes76. And Kate, in these days, was altogether in the phase of forgiving her so much bliss77; in the phase moreover of believing that, should they continue to go on together, she would abide78 in that generosity79. She had, at such a point as this, no suspicion of a rift71 within the lute—by which we mean not only none of anything's coming between them, but none of any definite flaw in so much clearness of quality. Yet, all the same, if Milly, at Mrs. Lowder's banquet, had described herself to Lord Mark as kindly80 used by the young woman on the other side because of some faintly-felt special propriety81 in it, so there really did match with this, privately82, on the young woman's part, a feeling not analysed but divided, a latent impression that Mildred Theale was not, after all, a person to change places, to change even chances with. Kate, verily, would perhaps not quite have known what she meant by this reservation, and she came near naming it only when she said to herself that, rich as Milly was, one probably wouldn't—which was singular—ever hate her for it. The handsome girl had, with herself, these felicities and crudities: it wasn't obscure to her that, without some very particular reason to help, it might have proved a test of one's philosophy not to be irritated by a mistress of millions, or whatever they were, who, as a girl, so easily might have been, like herself, only vague and fatally female. She was by no means sure of liking83 Aunt Maud as much as she deserved, and Aunt Maud's command of funds was obviously inferior to Milly's. There was thus clearly, as pleading for the latter, some influence that would later on become distinct; and meanwhile, decidedly, it was enough that she was as charming as she was queer and as queer as she was charming—all of which was a rare amusement; as well, for that matter, as further sufficient that there were objects of value she had already pressed on Kate's acceptance. A week of her society in these conditions—conditions that Milly chose to sum up as ministering immensely, for a blind, vague pilgrim, to aid and comfort—announced itself from an early hour as likely to become a week of presents, acknowledgments, mementos84, pledges of gratitude85 and admiration86 that were all on one side. Kate as promptly87 embraced the propriety of making it clear that she must forswear shops till she should receive some guarantee that the contents of each one she entered as a humble88 companion should not be placed at her feet; yet that was in truth not before she had found herself in possession, under whatever protests, of several precious ornaments89 and other minor90 conveniences.
Great was the absurdity91, too, that there should have come a day, by the end of the week, when it appeared that all Milly would have asked in definite "return," as might be said, was to be told a little about Lord Mark and to be promised the privilege of a visit to Mrs. Condrip. Far other amusements had been offered her, but her eagerness was shamelessly human, and she seemed really to count more on the revelation of the anxious lady of Chelsea than on the best nights of the opera. Kate admired, and showed it, such an absence of fear: to the fear of being bored, in such a connection, she would have been so obviously entitled. Milly's answer to this was the plea of her curiosities—which left her friend wondering as to their odd direction. Some among them, no doubt, were rather more intelligible92, and Kate had heard without wonder that she was blank about Lord Mark. This young lady's account of him, at the same time, professed93 itself as frankly94 imperfect; for what they best knew him by at Lancaster Gate was a thing difficult to explain. One knew people in general by something they had to show, something that, either for them or against, could be touched or named or proved; and she could think of no other case of a value taken as so great and yet flourishing untested. His value was his future, which had somehow got itself as accepted by Aunt Maud as if it had been his good cook or his steam-launch. She, Kate, didn't mean she thought him a humbug95; he might do great things—but they were all, as yet, so to speak, he had done. On the other hand it was of course something of an achievement, and not open to every one, to have got one's self taken so seriously by Aunt Maud. The best thing about him, doubtless, on the whole, was that Aunt Maud believed in him. She was often fantastic, but she knew a humbug, and—no, Lord Mark wasn't that. He had been a short time in the House, on the Tory side, but had lost his seat on the first opportunity, and this was all he had to point to. However, he pointed96 to nothing; which was very possibly just a sign of his real cleverness, one of those that the really clever had in common with the really void. Even Aunt Maud frequently admitted that there was a good deal, for her view of him, to come up in the rear. And he wasn't meanwhile himself indifferent—indifferent to himself—for he was working Lancaster Gate for all it was worth: just as it was, no doubt, working him, and just as the working and the worked were in London, as one might explain, the parties to every relation.
Kate did explain, for her listening friend: every one who had anything to give—it was true they were the fewest—made the sharpest possible bargain for it, got at least its value in return. The strangest thing, furthermore, was that this might be, in cases, a happy understanding. The worker in one connection was the worked in another; it was as broad as it was long—with the wheels of the system, as might be seen, wonderfully oiled. People could quite like each other in the midst of it, as Aunt Maud, by every appearance, quite liked Lord Mark, and as Lord Mark, it was to be hoped, liked Mrs. Lowder, since if he didn't he was a greater brute97 than one could believe. She, Kate, had not yet, it was true, made out what he was doing for her—besides which the dear woman needed him, even at the most he could do, much less than she imagined; so far as all of which went, moreover, there were plenty of things on every side she had not yet made out. She believed, on the whole, in any one Aunt Maud took up; and she gave it to Milly as worth thinking of that, whatever wonderful people this young lady might meet in the land, she would meet no more extraordinary woman. There were greater celebrities98 by the million, and of course greater swells99, but a bigger person, by Kate's view, and a larger natural handful every way, would really be far to seek. When Milly inquired with interest if Kate's belief in her was primarily on the lines of what Mrs. Lowder "took up," her interlocutress could handsomely say yes, since by the same principle she believed in herself. Whom but Aunt Maud's niece, pre-eminently, had Aunt Maud taken up, and who was thus more in the current, with her, of working and of being worked? "You may ask," Kate said, "what in the world I have to give; and that indeed is just what I'm trying to learn. There must be something, for her to think she can get it out of me. She will get it—trust her; and then I shall see what it is; which I beg you to believe I should never have found out for myself." She declined to treat any question of Milly's own "paying" power as discussable; that Milly would pay a hundred per cent.—and even to the end, doubtless, through the nose—was just the beautiful basis on which they found themselves.
These were fine facilities, pleasantries, ironies100, all these luxuries of gossip and philosophies of London and of life, and they became quickly, between the pair, the common form of talk, Milly professing101 herself delighted to know that something was to be done with her. If the most remarkable woman in England was to do it, so much the better, and if the most remarkable woman in England had them both in hand together, why, what could be jollier for each? When she reflected indeed a little on the oddity of her wanting two at once, Kate had the natural reply that it was exactly what showed her sincerity102. She invariably gave way to feeling, and feeling had distinctly popped up in her on the advent103 of her girlhood's friend. The way the cat would jump was always, in presence of anything that moved her, interesting to see; visibly enough, moreover, for a long time, it hadn't jumped anything like so far. This, in fact, as we already know, remained the marvel104 for Milly Theale, who, on sight of Mrs. Lowder, found fifty links in respect to Susie absent from the chain of association. She knew so herself what she thought of Susie that she would have expected the lady of Lancaster Gate to think something quite different; the failure of which endlessly mystified her. But her mystification was the cause for her of another fine impression, inasmuch as when she went so far as to observe to Kate that Susan Shepherd—and especially Susan Shepherd emerging so uninvited from an irrelevant105 past—ought, by all the proprieties106, simply to have bored Aunt Maud, her confidant agreed with her without a protest and abounded in the sense of her wonder. Susan Shepherd at least bored the niece—that was plain; this young woman saw nothing in her—nothing to account for anything, not even for Milly's own indulgence: which little fact became in turn to the latter's mind a fact of significance. It was a light on the handsome girl—representing more than merely showed—that poor Susie was simply as nought107 to her. This was, in a manner too, a general admonition to poor Susie's companion, who seemed to see marked by it the direction in which she had best most look out.
It just faintly rankled108 in her that a person who was good enough and to spare for Milly Theale shouldn't be good enough for another girl; though, oddly enough, she could easily have forgiven Mrs. Lowder herself the impatience109. Mrs. Lowder didn't feel it, and Kate Croy felt it with ease; yet in the end, be it added, she grasped the reason, and the reason enriched her mind. Wasn't it sufficiently the reason that the handsome girl was, with twenty other splendid qualities, the least bit brutal110 too, and didn't she suggest, as no one yet had ever done for her new friend, that there might be a wild beauty in that, and even a strange grace? Kate wasn't brutally111 brutal—which Milly had hitherto benightedly supposed the only way; she wasn't even aggressively so, but rather indifferently, defensively and, as might be said, by the habit of anticipation112. She simplified in advance, was beforehand with her doubts, and knew with singular quickness what she wasn't, as they said in New York, going to like. In that way at least people were clearly quicker in England than at home; and Milly could quite see, after a little, how such instincts might become usual in a world in which dangers abounded. There were more dangers, clearly, round about Lancaster Gate than one suspected in New York or could dream of in Boston. At all events, with more sense of them, there were more precautions, and it was a remarkable world altogether in which there could be precautions, on whatever ground, against Susie.
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1
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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3
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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4
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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7
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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9
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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resonance
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| n.洪亮；共鸣；共振 | |
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12
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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vanilla
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| n.香子兰，香草 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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worthiest
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| 应得某事物( worthy的最高级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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effigies
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| n.（人的）雕像，模拟像，肖像( effigy的名词复数 ) | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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41
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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42
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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43
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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44
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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46
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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47
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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48
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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49
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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51
postulated
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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53
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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54
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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57
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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58
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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59
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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60
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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61
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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62
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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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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sketchily
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| adv.写生风格地，大略地 | |
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66
amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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67
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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77
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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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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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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84
mementos
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| 纪念品，令人回忆的东西( memento的名词复数 ) | |
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85
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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86
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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88
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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89
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
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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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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92
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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93
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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95
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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97
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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98
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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99
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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100
ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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101
professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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102
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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103
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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104
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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105
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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106
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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107
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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108
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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110
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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111
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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112
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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