He was to dine at the palace in an hour or two, and he had lunched there, at an early luncheon17, that morning. He had then been out with the three ladies, the three being Mrs. Lowder, Mrs. Stringham and Kate, and had kept afloat with them, under a sufficient Venetian spell, until Aunt Maud had directed him to leave them and return to Miss Theale. Of two circumstances connected with this disposition18 of his person he was even now not unmindful; the first being that the lady of Lancaster Gate had addressed him with high publicity19 and as if expressing equally the sense of her companions, who had not spoken, but who might have been taken—yes, Susan Shepherd quite equally with Kate—for inscrutable parties to her plan. What he could as little contrive21 to forget was that he had, before the two others, as it struck him—that was to say especially before Kate—done exactly as he was bidden; gathered himself up without a protest and retraced22 his way to the palace. Present with him still was the question of whether he looked a fool for it, of whether the awkwardness he felt as the gondola23 rocked with the business of his leaving it—they could but make, in submission24, for a landing-place that was none of the best—had furnished his friends with such entertainment as was to cause them, behind his back, to exchange intelligent smiles. He had found Milly Theale twenty minutes later alone, and he had sat with her till the others returned to tea. The strange part of this was that it had been very easy, extraordinarily25 easy. He knew it for strange only when he was away from her, because when he was away from her he was in contact with particular things that made it so. At the time, in her presence, it was as simple as sitting with his sister might have been, and not, if the point were urged, very much more thrilling. He continued to see her as he had first seen her—that remained ineffaceably behind. Mrs. Lowder, Susan Shepherd, his own Kate, might, each in proportion, see her as a princess, as an angel, as a star, but for himself, luckily, she hadn't as yet complications to any point of discomfort26: the princess, the angel, the star, were muffled27 over, ever so lightly and brightly, with the little American girl who had been kind to him in New York and to whom certainly—though without making too much of it for either of them—he was perfectly28 willing to be kind in return. She appreciated his coming in on purpose, but there was nothing in that—from the moment she was always at home—that they couldn't easily keep up. The only note the least bit high that had even yet sounded between them was this admission on her part that she found it best to remain within. She wouldn't let him call it keeping quiet, for she insisted that her palace—with all its romance and art and history—had set up round her a whirlwind of suggestion that never dropped for an hour. It wasn't therefore, within such walls, confinement29, it was the freedom of all the centuries: in respect to which Densher granted good-humouredly that they were then blown together, she and he, as much as she liked, through space.
Kate had found on the present occasion a moment to say to him that he suggested a clever cousin calling on a cousin afflicted30, and bored for his pains; and though he denied on the spot the "bored" he could so far see it as an impression he might make that he wondered if the same image wouldn't have occurred to Milly. As soon as Kate appeared again the difference came up—the oddity, as he then instantly felt it, of his having sunk so deep. It was sinking because it was all doing what Kate had conceived for him; it wasn't in the least doing—and that had been his notion of his life—anything he himself had conceived. The difference, accordingly, renewed, sharp, sore, was the irritant under which he had quitted the palace and under which he was to make the best of the business of again dining there. He said to himself that he must make the best of everything; that was in his mind, at the traghetto, even while, with his preoccupation about changing quarters, he studied, across the canal, the look of his former abode31. It had done for the past, would it do for the present? would it play in any manner into the general necessity of which he was conscious? That necessity of making the best was the instinct—as he indeed himself knew—of a man somehow aware that if he let go at one place he should let go everywhere. If he took off his hand, the hand that at least helped to hold it together, the whole queer fabric32 that built him in would fall away in a minute and admit the light. It was really a matter of nerves; it was exactly because he was nervous that he could go straight; yet if that condition should increase he must surely go wild. He was walking in short on a high ridge33, steep down on either side, where the proprieties—once he could face at all remaining there—reduced themselves to his keeping his head. It was Kate who had so perched him, and there came up for him at moments, as he found himself planting one foot exactly before another, a sensible sharpness of irony34 as to her management of him. It wasn't that she had put him in danger—to be in real danger with her would have had another quality. There glowed for him in fact a kind of rage at what he wasn't having; an exasperation35, a resentment36, begotten37 truly by the very impatience38 of desire, in respect to his postponed39 and relegated40, his so extremely manipulated state. It was beautifully done of her, but what was the real meaning of it unless that he was perpetually bent42 to her will? His idea from the first, from the very first of his knowing her, had been to be, as the French called it, bon prince with her, mindful of the good humour and generosity43, the contempt, in the matter of confidence, for small outlays44 and small savings45, that belonged to the man who wasn't generally afraid. There were things enough, goodness knew—for it was the moral of his plight—that he couldn't afford; but what had had a charm for him if not the notion of living handsomely, to make up for it, in another way? of not at all events reading the romance of his existence in a cheap edition. All he had originally felt in her came back to him, was indeed actually as present as ever—how he had admired and envied what he called to himself her pure talent for life, as distinguished46 from his own, a poor weak thing of the occasion, amateurishly47 patched up; only it irritated him the more that this was exactly what was now, ever so characteristically, standing48 out in her.
It was thanks to her pure talent for life, verily, that he was just where he was and that he was above all just how he was. The proof of a decent reaction in him against so much passivity was, with no great richness, that he at least knew—knew, that is, how he was, and how little he liked it as a thing accepted in mere49 helplessness. He was, for the moment, wistful—that above all described it; that was so large a part of the force that, as the autumn afternoon closed in, kept him, on his traghetto, positively50 throbbing51 with his question. His question connected itself, even while he stood, with his special smothered52 soreness, his sense almost of shame; and the soreness and the shame were less as he let himself, with the help of the conditions about him, regard it as serious. It was born, for that matter, partly of the conditions, those conditions that Kate had so almost insolently53 braved, had been willing, without a pang54, to see him ridiculously—ridiculously so far as just complacently55—exposed to. How little it could be complacently he was to feel with the last thoroughness before he had moved from his point of vantage. His question, as we have called it, was the interesting question of whether he had really no will left. How could he know—that was the point—without putting the matter to the test? It had been right to be bon prince, and the joy, something of the pride, of having lived, in spirit, handsomely, was even now compatible with the impulse to look into their account; but he held his breath a little as it came home to him with supreme56 sharpness that, whereas he had done absolutely everything that Kate had wanted, she had done nothing whatever that he had. So it was in fine that his idea of the test by which he must try that possibility kept referring itself, in the warm early dusk, the approach of the Southern night—"conditions" these, such as we just spoke20 of—to the glimmer57, more and more ghostly as the light failed, of the little white papers on his old green shutters. By the time he looked at his watch he had been for a quarter of an hour at this post of observation and reflexion; but by the time he walked away again he had found his answer to the idea that had grown so importunate58. Since a proof of his will was wanted it was indeed very exactly in wait for him—it lurked59 there on the other side of the Canal. A ferryman at the little pier60 had from time to time accosted61 him; but it was a part of the play of his nervousness to turn his back on that facility. He would go over, but he walked, very quickly, round and round, crossing finally by the Rialto. The rooms, in the event, were unoccupied; the ancient padrona was there with her smile all a radiance but her recognition all a fable62; the ancient rickety objects too, refined in their shabbiness, amiable in their decay, as to which, on his side, demonstrations63 were tenderly veracious64; so that before he took his way again he had arranged to come in on the morrow.
He was amusing about it that evening at dinner—in spite of an odd first impulse, which at the palace quite melted away, to treat it merely as matter for his own satisfaction. This need, this propriety65, he had taken for granted even up to the moment of suddenly perceiving, in the course of talk, that the incident would minister to innocent gaiety. Such was quite its effect, with the aid of his picture—an evocation66 of the quaint67, of the humblest rococo68, of a Venetian interior in the true old note. He made the point for his hostess that her own high chambers69, though they were a thousand grand things, weren't really this; made it in fact with such success that she presently declared it his plain duty to invite her on some near day to tea. She had expressed as yet—he could feel it as felt among them all—no such clear wish to go anywhere, not even to make an effort for a parish feast, or an autumn sunset, nor to descend70 her staircase for Titian or Gianbellini. It was constantly Densher's view that, as between himself and Kate, things were understood without saying, so that he could catch in her, as she but too freely could in him, innumerable signs of it, the whole soft breath of consciousness meeting and promoting consciousness. This view was so far justified71 to-night as that Milly's offer to him of her company was to his sense taken up by Kate in spite of her doing nothing to show it. It fell in so perfectly with what she had desired and foretold72 that she was—and this was what most struck him—sufficiently gratified and blinded by it not to know, from the false quality of his response, from his tone and his very look, which for an instant instinctively73 sought her own, that he had answered inevitably74, almost shamelessly, in a mere time-gaining sense. It gave him on the spot, her failure of perception, almost a beginning of the advantage he had been planning for—that is at least if she too were not darkly dishonest. She might, he was not unaware75, have made out, from some deep part of her, the bearing, in respect to herself, of the little fact he had announced; for she was after all capable of that, capable of guessing and yet of simultaneously76 hiding her guess. It wound him up a turn or two further, none the less, to impute77 to her now a weakness of vision by which he could himself feel the stronger. Whatever apprehension78 of his motive79 in shifting his abode might have brushed her with its wings, she at all events certainly didn't guess that he was giving their friend a hollow promise. That was what she had herself imposed on him; there had been in the prospect80 from the first a definite particular point at which hollowness, to call it by its least compromising name, would have to begin. Therefore its hour had now charmingly sounded. Whatever in life he had recovered his old rooms for, he had not recovered them to receive Milly Theale: which made no more difference in his expression of happy readiness than if he had been—just what he was trying not to be—fully41 hardened and fully base. So rapid in fact was the rhythm of his inward drama that the quick vision of impossibility produced in him by his hostess's direct and unexpected appeal had the effect, slightly sinister81, of positively scaring him. It gave him a measure of the intensity82, the reality of his now mature motive. It prompted in him certainly no quarrel with these things, but it made them as vivid as if they already flushed with success. It was before the flush of success that his heart beat almost to dread83. The dread was but the dread of the happiness to be compassed; only that was in itself a symptom. That a visit from Milly should, in this projection84 of necessities, strike him as of the last incongruity85, quite as a hateful idea, and above all as spoiling, should one put it grossly, his game—the adoption86 of such a view might of course have an identity with one of those numerous ways of being a fool that seemed so to abound87 for him. It would remain none the less the way to which he should be in advance most reconciled. His mature motive, as to which he allowed himself no grain of illusion, had thus in an hour taken imaginative possession of the place: that precisely88 was how he saw it seated there, already unpacked89 and settled, for Milly's innocence90, for Milly's beauty, no matter how short a time, to be housed with. There were things she would never recognise, never feel, never catch in the air; but this made no difference in the fact that her brushing against them would do nobody any good. The discrimination and the scruple91 were for him. So he felt all the parts of the case together, while Kate showed admirably as feeling none of them. Of course, however—when hadn't it to be his last word?—Kate was always sublime92.
That came up in all connexions during the rest of these first days; came up in especial under pressure of the fact that each time our plighted93 pair snatched, in its passage, at the good fortune of half an hour together, they were doomed—though Densher felt it as all by his act—to spend a part of the rare occasion in wonder at their luck and in study of its queer character. This was the case after he might be supposed to have got, in a manner, used to it; it was the case after the girl—ready always, as we say, with the last word—had given him the benefit of her righting of every wrong appearance, a support familiar to him now in reference to other phases. It was still the case after he possibly might, with a little imagination, as she freely insisted, have made out, by the visible working of the crisis, what idea on Mrs. Lowder's part had determined94 it. Such as the idea was—and that it suited Kate's own book she openly professed—he had only to see how things were turning out to feel it strikingly justified. Densher's reply to all this vividness was that of course Aunt Maud's intervention95 hadn't been occult, even for his vividness, from the moment she had written him, with characteristic concentration, that if he should see his way to come to Venice for a fortnight she should engage he would find it no blunder. It took Aunt Maud really to do such things in such ways; just as it took him, he was ready to confess, to do such others as he must now strike them all—didn't he?—as committed to. Mrs. Lowder's admonition had been of course a direct reference to what she had said to him at Lancaster Gate before his departure the night Milly had failed them through illness; only it had at least matched that remarkable96 outbreak in respect to the quantity of good nature it attributed to him. The young man's discussions of his situation—which were confined to Kate; he had none with Aunt Maud herself—suffered a little, it may be divined, by the sense that he couldn't put everything off, as he privately97 expressed it, on other people. His ears, in solitude98, were apt to burn with the reflexion that Mrs. Lowder had simply tested him, seen him as he was and made out what could be done with him. She had had but to whistle for him and he had come. If she had taken for granted his good nature she was as justified as Kate declared. This awkwardness of his conscience, both in respect to his general plasticity, the fruit of his feeling plasticity, within limits, to be a mode of life like another—certainly better than some, and particularly in respect to such confusion as might reign99 about what he had really come for—this inward ache was not wholly dispelled100 by the style, charming as that was, of Kate's poetic101 versions. Even the high wonder and delight of Kate couldn't set him right with himself when there was something quite distinct from these things that kept him wrong.
In default of being right with himself he had meanwhile, for one thing, the interest of seeing—and quite for the first time in his life—whether, on a given occasion, that might be quite so necessary to happiness as was commonly assumed and as he had up to this moment never doubted. He was engaged distinctly in an adventure—he who had never thought himself cut out for them, and it fairly helped him that he was able at moments to say to himself that he mustn't fall below it. At his hotel, alone, by night, or in the course of the few late strolls he was finding time to take through dusky labyrinthine102 alleys103 and empty campi, overhung with mouldering104 palaces, where he paused in disgust at his want of ease and where the sound of a rare footstep on the enclosed pavement was like that of a retarded105 dancer in a banquet-hall deserted—during these interludes he entertained cold views, even to the point, at moments, on the principle that the shortest follies106 are the best, of thinking of immediate107 departure as not only possible but as indicated. He had however only to cross again the threshold of Palazzo Leporelli to see all the elements of the business compose, as painters called it, differently. It began to strike him then that departure wouldn't curtail108, but would signally coarsen his folly109, and that above all, as he hadn't really "begun" anything, had only submitted, consented, but too generously indulged and condoned110 the beginnings of others, he had no call to treat himself with superstitious111 rigour. The single thing that was clear in complications was that, whatever happened, one was to behave as a gentleman—to which was added indeed the perhaps slightly less shining truth that complications might sometimes have their tedium112 beguiled113 by a study of the question of how a gentleman would behave. This question, I hasten to add, was not in the last resort Densher's greatest worry. Three women were looking to him at once, and, though such a predicament could never be, from the point of view of facility, quite the ideal, it yet had, thank goodness, its immediate workable law. The law was not to be a brute114—in return for amiabilities. He hadn't come all the way out from England to be a brute. He hadn't thought of what it might give him to have a fortnight, however handicapped, with Kate in Venice, to be a brute. He hadn't treated Mrs. Lowder as if in responding to her suggestion he had understood her—he hadn't done that either to be a brute. And what he had prepared least of all for such an anti-climax was the prompt and inevitable115, the achieved surrender—as a gentleman, oh that indubitably!—to the unexpected impression made by poor pale exquisite116 Milly as the mistress of a grand old palace and the dispenser of an hospitality more irresistible117, thanks to all the conditions, than any ever known to him.
This spectacle had for him an eloquence118, an authority, a felicity—he scarce knew by what strange name to call it—for which he said to himself that he had not consciously bargained. Her welcome, her frankness, sweetness, sadness, brightness, her disconcerting poetry, as he made shift at moments to call it, helped as it was by the beauty of her whole setting and by the perception at the same time, on the observer's part, that this element gained from her, in a manner, for effect and harmony, as much as it gave—her whole attitude had, to his imagination, meanings that hung about it, waiting upon her, hovering119, dropping and quavering forth120 again, like vague faint snatches, mere ghosts of sound, of old-fashioned melancholy121 music. It was positively well for him, he had his times of reflecting, that he couldn't put it off on Kate and Mrs. Lowder, as a gentleman so conspicuously122 wouldn't, that—well, that he had been rather taken in by not having known in advance! There had been now five days of it all without his risking even to Kate alone any hint of what he ought to have known and of what in particular therefore had taken him in. The truth was doubtless that really, when it came to any free handling and naming of things, they were living together, the five of them, in an air in which an ugly effect of "blurting123 out" might easily be produced. He came back with his friend on each occasion to the blest miracle of renewed propinquity, which had a double virtue124 in that favouring air. He breathed on it as if he could scarcely believe it, yet the time had passed, in spite of this privilege, without his quite committing himself, for her ear, to any such comment on Milly's high style and state as would have corresponded with the amount of recognition it had produced in him. Behind everything for him was his renewed remembrance, which had fairly become a habit, that he had been the first to know her. This was what they had all insisted on, in her absence, that day at Mrs. Lowder's; and this was in especial what had made him feel its influence on his immediately paying her a second visit. Its influence had been all there, been in the high-hung, rumbling125 carriage with them, from the moment she took him to drive, covering them in together as if it had been a rug of softest silk. It had worked as a clear connexion with something lodged126 in the past, something already their own. He had more than once recalled how he had said to himself even at that moment, at some point in the drive, that he was not there, not just as he was in so doing it, through Kate and Kate's idea, but through Milly and Milly's own, and through himself and his own, unmistakeably—as well as through the little facts, whatever they had amounted to, of his time in New York.
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1
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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8
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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10
asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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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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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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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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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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40
relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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41
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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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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43
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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44
outlays
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| v.支出，费用( outlay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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46
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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47
amateurishly
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| adv.外行地，生手地 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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50
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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51
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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52
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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53
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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54
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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55
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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56
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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57
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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58
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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59
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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60
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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61
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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62
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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63
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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64
veracious
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| adj.诚实可靠的 | |
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65
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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66
evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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67
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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68
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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69
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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70
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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71
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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72
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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74
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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75
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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76
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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77
impute
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| v.归咎于 | |
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78
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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80
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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81
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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82
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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83
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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84
projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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85
incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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86
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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87
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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88
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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89
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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90
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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91
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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92
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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95
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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96
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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97
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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98
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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99
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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100
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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102
labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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103
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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104
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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105
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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106
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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107
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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108
curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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109
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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110
condoned
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| v.容忍，宽恕，原谅( condone的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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112
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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113
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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114
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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115
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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116
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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117
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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118
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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119
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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120
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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121
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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122
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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123
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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124
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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125
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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126
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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