“Well, what have you fresh to tell me?” asked Frank, having met Miss Ley at Victoria, when he sat down to dinner in Old Queen Street.
“Nothing much. But I’ve noticed that when pleasure has exhausted16 a man he’s convinced that he has exhausted pleasure; then he tells you gravely that nothing can satisfy the human heart.”
But Frank had more important news than this, for Jenny, a week before, was delivered of a still-born child, and had been so ill that it was thought she could not recover; now, however, the worst was over, and if nothing untoward17 befell, she might be expected slowly to regain18 health.
“How does Basil take it?” asked Miss Ley.
“He says very little; he’s grown silent of late, but I’m afraid he’s quite heart-broken. You know how enormously he looked forward to the baby.”
“D’you think he’s fond of his wife?”
“He’s very kind to her. No one could have been gentler than he after the catastrophe19. I think she was the more cut up of the two. You see, she looked upon it as the reason of their marriage—and he’s been doing his best to comfort her.”
“I must go down and see them. And now tell me about Mrs. Castillyon.”
“I haven’t set eyes on her for ages.”
Miss Ley observed Frank with deliberation. She wondered if he knew of the affair with Reggie Bassett, but, though eager to discuss it, would not risk to divulge20 a secret. In point of fact, he was familiar with all the circumstances, but it amused him to counterfeit21 ignorance that he might see how Miss Ley guided the conversation to the point she wanted. She spoke of the Dean of Tercanbury, of Bella and her husband, then, as though by chance, mentioned Reggie; but the twinkling of Frank’s eyes told her that he was laughing at her stratagem22.
“You brute23!” she cried, “why didn’t you tell me all about it, instead of letting me discover the thing by accident?”
“My sex suggests to me certain elementary notions of honour, Miss Ley.”
“You needn’t add priggishness to your other detestable vices24. How did you know they were carrying on in this way?”
“The amiable25 youth told me. There are very few men who can refrain from boasting of their conquests, and certainly Reggie isn’t one of them.”
“You don’t know Hugh Kearon, do you? He’s had affairs all over Europe, and the most notorious was with a royal princess who shall be nameless; I think she would have bored him to death if he hadn’t been able to flourish ostentatiously a handkerchief with a royal crown in the corner and a large initial.”
Miss Ley then gave her account of the visit to Rochester, and certainly made of it a very neat and entertaining story.
“And did you think for a moment that this would be the end of the business?” asked Frank, ironically.
“Don’t be spiteful because I hoped for the best.”
“Dear Miss Ley, the bigger blackguard a man is, the more devoted26 are his lady-loves. It’s only when a man is decent and treats women as if they were human beings that he has a rough time of it.”
“You know nothing about these things, Frank,” retorted Miss Ley. “Pray give me the facts, and the philosophical27 conclusions I can draw for myself.”
“Well, Reggie has a natural aptitude28 for dealing29 with the sex. I heard all about your excursion to Rochester, and went so far as to assure him that you wouldn’t tell his mamma. He perceived that he hadn’t cut a very heroic figure, so he mounted the high horse, and, full of virtuous30 indignation, for a month took no notice whatever of Mrs. Castillyon. Then she wrote most humbly31, begging him to forgive her; and this, I understand, he graciously did. He came to see me, flung the letter on the table, and said: ‘There, my boy, if any one asks you, say that what I don’t know about women ain’t worth knowing.’ Two days later he appeared with a gold cigarette-case!”
“What did you say to him?”
“One of these days you’ll come the very devil of a cropper.”
“You showed wisdom and emphasis. I hope with all my heart, he will.”
“I don’t imagine things are going very smoothly,” proceeded Frank. “Reggie tells me she leads him a deuce of a life, and he’s growing restive32; it appears to be no joke to have a woman desperately33 in love with you. And then he’s never been on such familiar terms with a person of quality, and he’s shocked by her vulgarity; her behaviour seems often to outrage34 his sense of decorum.”
Then Miss Ley asked Frank about himself, but they had corresponded with diligence, and he had little to tell; the work at Saint Luke’s went on monotonously37, lectures to students three times a week and out-patients on Wednesday and Saturday; people were beginning to come to his consulting-room in Harley Street, and he looked forward, without great enthusiasm, to the future of a fashionable physician.
“And are you in love?”
“You know I shall never permit my affections to wander so long as you remain single,” he answered, laughing.
“Beware I don’t take you at your word and drag you by the hair of your head to the altar. Have I no rival?”
“Well, if you press me, I will confess.”
“Monster! what is her name?”
“Bilharzia Holmatobi.”
“Good heavens!”
“It’s a parasite38 I’m studying. I think authorities are all wrong about it; they’ve not got its life-history right, and the stuff they believe about the way people catch it is sheer footle.”
“It doesn’t sound frightfully thrilling to me, and I’m under the impression you’re only trumping39 it up to conceal40 some scandalous amour with a ballet-girl.”
Miss Ley’s visit to Barnes seemed welcome neither to Jenny nor to Basil, who looked harassed41 and unhappy, and only with a visible effort assumed a cheerful manner when he addressed his wife. Jenny was still in bed, very weak and ill, but Miss Ley, who had never before seen her, was surprised at her great beauty; her face, whiter than the pillows against which it rested, had a very touching42 pathos43, and, notwithstanding all that had gone before, that winsome44, innocent sweetness which has occasioned the comparison of English maidens45 to the English rose. The observant woman noticed also the painful, questioning anxiety with which Jenny continually glanced at her husband, as though pitifully dreading46 some unmerited reproach.
“I hope you like my wife,” said Basil, when he accompanied Miss Ley downstairs.
“Poor thing! She seems to me like a lovely bird imprisoned47 by fate within the four walls of practical life, who should by rights sing careless songs under the open skies. I’m afraid you’ll be very unkind to her.”
“Why?” he asked, not without resentment48.
“My dear, you’ll make her live up to your blue china teapot. The world might be so much happier if people wouldn’t insist on acting10 up to their principles.”
Mrs. Bush had been hurriedly sent for when Jenny’s condition seemed dangerous, but, in her distress49 and excitement, she had sought solace50 in Basil’s whiskey-bottle to such an extent that he was obliged to beg her to return to her own home. The scene was not edifying. Surmising51 an alcoholic52 tendency, Kent, two or three days after her arrival, locked the side-board and removed the key. But in a little while the servant came to him.
“If you please, sir, Mrs. Bush says, can she ’ave the whiskey; she’s not feelin’ very well.”
“I’ll go to her.”
Mrs. Bush sat in the dining-room with folded hands, doing her utmost to express on a healthy countenance53 maternal54 anxiety, indisposition, and ruffled55 dignity; she was not vastly pleased to see her son-in-law instead of the expected maid.
“Oh, is that you, Basil?” she said; “I can’t find the sideboard key anywhere, and I’m that upset I must ’ave a little drop of something.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs. Bush. You’re much better without it.”
“Oh, indeed!” she answered, bristling56. “P’raps you know more about me inside feelings than I do myself. I’ll just trouble you to give me the key, young man, and look sharp about it. I’m not a woman to be put upon by any one, and I tell you straight.”
“I’m very sorry, but I think you’ve had quite enough to drink. Jenny may want you, and you would be wise to keep sober.”
“I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,” he answered, smiling.
“Thank you for nothing,” cried Mrs. Bush indignantly. “And I should be obliged if you wouldn’t laugh at me, and I must say it’s very ’eartless with me daughter lying ill in her bedroom. I’m very much upset and I did think you’d treat me like a lady, but you never ’ave, Mr. Kent—no, not even the first time I come here. Oh, I ’aven’t forgot, so don’t you think I ’ave—a sixpenny ’alfpenny teapot was good enough for me, but when your lady-friend come in out pops the silver, and I don’t believe for a moment it’s real silver. Blood’s all very well, Mr. Kent, but what I say is, give me manners. You’re a nice young feller, you are, to grudge58 me a little drop of spirits when me poor daughter’s on her death-bed. I wouldn’t stay another minute in this ’ouse if it wasn’t for ‘er.”
“I was going to suggest it would be better if you returned to your happy home in Crouch59 End,” answered Basil, when the good woman stopped to take breath.
“Were you, indeed! Well, we’ll just see what Jenny ’as to say to that. I suppose my daughter is mistress in ’er own ’ouse.”
Mrs. Bush started to her feet and made for the door, but Basil stood with his back against it.
“I can’t allow you to go to her now. I don’t think you’re in a fit state.”
“D’you think I’m going to let you prevent me? Get out of my way, young man.”
Basil, more disgusted than out of temper, looked at the angry creature with a cold scorn which was not easy to stomach.
“I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Bush, but I think you’d better leave this house at once. Fanny will put your things together. I’m going to Jenny’s room, and I forbid you to come to it. I expect you to be gone in half an hour.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Mrs. Bush furious but intimidated60. She was so used to have her own way that opposition61 took her aback, and Basil’s manner did not suggest that he would easily suffer contradiction. But she made up her mind, whatever the consequences, to force her way into Jenny’s room, and there set out her grievance62. She had not done repeating to herself what she would say when the servant entered to state that, according to her master’s order, she had packed Mrs. Bush’s things. Jenny’s mother started up indignantly, but pride forbade her to let the maid see she was turned out.
“Quite right, Fanny! This isn’t the ’ouse that a lady would stay in, and I pity you, my dear, for ’aving a master like my son-in-law. You can tell ’im with my compliments that ’e’s no gentleman.”
Jenny, who was asleep, woke at the slamming of the front-door.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Your mother has gone away, dearest. D’you mind?”
She looked at him quickly, divining from knowledge of her parent’s character that some quarrel had occurred and anxious to see that Basil was not annoyed. She gave him her hand.
“No, I’m glad. I want to be alone with you. I don’t want any one to come between us.”
“You’re not angry with me because the baby died?”
“My darling, how could I be?”
“Say that you don’t regret having married me.”
Jenny, realising by now that Basil had married her only on account of the child, was filled with abject64 terror; his interests were so different from hers (and she had but gradually come to understand how great was the separation between them) that the longed-for son alone seemed able to preserve to her Basil’s affection. It was the mother he loved, and now he might bitterly repent65 his haste, for it seemed she had forced marriage upon him by false pretenses66. The chief tie that bound them was severed67, and though with meek68 gratitude69 accepting the attentions suggested by his kindness, she asked herself with aching heart what would happen on her recovery.
Time passed, and Jenny, though ever pale and listless, grew strong enough to leave her room. It was proposed that in a little while she should go with her sister for a month to Brighton; Basil’s work prevented him from leaving London for long, but he promised to run down for the week-end. One afternoon he came home in high spirits, having just received from his publishers a letter to say that his book had found favour and would be issued in the coming spring. It seemed the first step to the renown70 he sought. He found James Bush, his brother-in-law, seated with Jenny, and, in his elation71, greeted him with unusual cordiality; but James lacked his usual facetious72 flow of conversation, and wore indeed a hang-dog air, which at another time would have excited Basil’s attention. He took his leave at once, and then Basil noticed that Jenny was much disturbed. Though he knew nothing for certain, he had an idea that the family of Bush came to his wife when they were in financial straits, but from the beginning had decided73 that such inevitable74 claims must be satisfied; he preferred, however, to ignore the help which Jenny gave, and, when she asked for some small sum beyond her allowance, handed it without question.
“Why was Jimmie here at this hour?” he asked, carelessly, thinking him bound on some such errand. “I thought he didn’t leave his office till six.”
“Oh, Basil, something awful has happened! I don’t know how to tell you; he’s sacked.”
“I hope he doesn’t want us to keep him,” answered Basil, coldly. “I’m very hard up this year, and all the money I have I want for you.”
“I don’t know what’s to be done. He’s got into trouble. Unless he can find a hundred and fifteen pounds in a week, his firm are going to prosecute76.”
“What on earth d’you mean, Jenny?”
“Oh, Basil, don’t be angry! I was so ashamed to tell you, I’ve been hiding it for a month; but now I can’t any more. Something went wrong with his accounts.”
“D’you mean to say he’s been stealing?” asked Basil, sternly; and a feeling of utter horror and disgust came over him.
“For God’s sake, don’t look at me like that!” she cried, for his eyes, his firm-set mouth, made her feel a culprit confessing on her own account some despicable crime. “He didn’t mean to be dishonest. I don’t exactly understand, but he can tell you how it all was. Oh, Basil, you won’t let him be sent to prison! Couldn’t he have the money instead of my going away?”
Basil sat down at his desk to think out the matter, and, resting his face thoughtfully on his hands, sought to avoid Jenny’s fixed77, appealing gaze; he did not want her to see the consternation78, the abject shame, with which her news oppressed him. But all the same she saw.
“What are you thinking about, Basil?”
“Nothing particular. I was wondering how to raise the money.”
“You don’t think because he’s my brother I must be tarred with the same brush?”
He looked at her without answering; it was certainly unfortunate that his wife’s mother should drink more than was seemly and her brother have but primitive79 ideas about property.
“It’s not my fault,” she cried, with bitter pain, interrupting his silence. “Don’t think too hardly of me.”
“No, it’s not your fault,” he answered, with involuntary coldness. “You must go away to Brighton all the same, but I’m afraid it means no holiday in the summer.”
He wrote a cheque and then a letter to his bank begging them to advance a hundred pounds on securities they held.
“There he is,” cried Jenny, hearing a ring. “I told him to come back in half an hour.”
Basil got up.
“You’d better give the cheque to your brother at once. Say that I don’t wish to see him.”
“Isn’t he to come here any more, Basil?”
“That is as you like, Jenny. If you wish, we’ll pretend he was unfortunate rather than—dishonest; but I’d rather he didn’t refer to the matter. I want neither his thanks nor his excuses.”
Without answering, Jenny took the cheque. She would have given a great deal to fling her arms gratefully round Basil’s neck, begging him to forgive, but there was a hardness in his manner which frightened her. All the evening he sat in moody80 silence, and Jenny dare not speak; his kiss when he bade her good-night had never been so frigid81, and, unable to sleep, she cried bitterly. She could not understand the profound abhorrence82 with which he looked upon the incident; to her mind, it was little more than a mischance occasioned by Jimmie’s excessive sharpness, and she was disposed to agree with her brother that only luck had been against him. She somewhat resented Basil’s refusal to hear any defence and his complete certainty that the very worst must be true.
A few days later, coming unexpectedly, Kent found Jenny in earnest conversation with her brother, who had quite regained83 his jaunty84 air and betrayed no false shame at Basil’s knowledge of his escapade.
“Well met, ‘Oratio!” he cried, holding out his hand. “I just come in on the chance of seeing you. I wanted to thank you for that loan.”
“I’d rather you didn’t speak of it.”
“Why, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I ’ad a bit of bad luck, that’s all. I’ll pay you back, you know; you needn’t fear about that.”
He gave a voluble account of the affair, proving how misfortune may befall the deserving, and what a criminal complexion85 the most innocent acts may wear. Basil, against his will admiring the fellow’s jocose86 effrontery, listened with chilling silence.
“You need not excuse yourself,” he said, at length. “My reasons for helping87 you were purely88 selfish. Except for Jenny, it would have been a matter of complete indifference89 to me if you had been sent to prison or not.”
“Oh, that was all kid! They wouldn’t have prosecuted90. Don’t I tell you they had no case. You believe me, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What d’you mean by that?” asked James, angrily.
“We won’t discuss it.”
The other did not answer, but shot at Basil a glance of singular malevolence91.
“You can whistle for your money, young feller,” he muttered, under his breath. “You won’t get much out of me.”
He had but small intention of paying back the rather large sum, but now abandoned even that. During the six months since Jenny’s marriage he had never been able to surmount92 the freezing politeness with which Basil used him; he hated him for his supercilious93 air, but, needing his help, took care, though sometimes he could scarcely keep his temper, to preserve a familiar cordiality. He knew his brother-in-law would welcome an opportunity to forbid him the house, and this, especially now that he was out of work, he determined94 to avoid; he stomached the affront95 as best he could, but solaced96 his pride with the determination sooner or later to revenge himself.
Jenny watched this scene with some alarm, but with more irritation99, since Basil’s frigid contempt for her brother seemed a reflection on himself.
“You might at least be polite to him,” she said, when Jimmie was gone.
“I’m afraid I’ve pretty well used up all my politeness.”
“After all, he is my brother.”
“You needn’t be so hard on him now he’s down. He’s no worse than plenty more.”
Basil turned to her with flaming eyes.
“Good God, don’t you realise the man’s a thief! Doesn’t it mean anything to you that he’s dishonest? Don’t you see how awful it is that a man—”
He broke off with a gesture of disgust. It was the first quarrel they ever had, and a shrewish look came to Jenny’s face, her pallor gave way to an angry flush. But quickly Basil recovered himself; recollecting101 his wife’s illness and her bitter disappointment at the poor babe’s death, he keenly regretted the outburst.
“I beg your pardon, Jenny. I didn’t mean to say that. I should have remembered you were fond of him.”
But, since she did not answer, looking away somewhat sulkily, he sat down on the arm of her chair and stroked her wonderful, rich tresses.
“Don’t be cross, darling. We won’t quarrel, will we?”
Unable to resist his tenderness, tears came to her eyes, and passionately102 she kissed his caressing103 hands.
The momentary105 cloud passed, and they spoke of the approaching visit to Brighton. Jenny was to take lodgings106, and she made him promise faithfully that he would come every Saturday. Frank had offered a room in Harley Street, and while she was away Basil meant to stay with him.
“You won’t forget me, Basil?”
“Of course not! But you must hurry up and get well and come back.”
When at length she set off, and Basil found himself Frank’s guest, he could not suppress a slight sigh of relief; it was very delightful107 to live again in a bachelor’s rooms, and he loved the smell of smoke, the untidy litter of books, the lack of responsibility: there was no need to do anything he did not like, and, for the first time since his marriage, he felt entirely108 comfortable. Recalling his pleasant rooms in the Temple—and there was about them an old-world air which amiably109 fitted his humour—he thought of the long conversations of those days, the hours of reverie, the undisturbed ease with which he could read books; and he shuddered110 at the pokey villa111 which was now his home, the worries of housekeeping, and the want of privacy. He had meant his life to be so beautiful, and it was merely sordid112.
“There are advantages in single blessedness,” laughed the Doctor, when he saw Basil after breakfast light his pipe and, putting his feet on the chimney-piece, lean back with a sigh of content.
But he regretted his words when he saw on the other’s mobile face a look of singular wistfulness: it was his first indication that things were not going very well with the young couple.
“By the way,” Frank suggested, presently, “would you care to come to a party to-night? Lady Edward Stringer is giving some sort of function, and there’ll be a lot of people you know.”
“I’ve been nowhere since my marriage,” Basil answered, irresolutely113.
“I shall be seeing the old thing to-day. Shall I ask if I can bring you?”
“It would be awfully good of you. By Jove, I should enjoy it.” He gave a laugh. “I’ve not had evening clothes on for six months.”
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systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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effrontery
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middle-aged
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vehement
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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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knack
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acting
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confessions
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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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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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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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exhausted
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untoward
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regain
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catastrophe
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divulge
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counterfeit
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stratagem
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brute
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vices
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amiable
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devoted
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philosophical
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aptitude
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dealing
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virtuous
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humbly
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restive
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desperately
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outrage
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propriety
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immoral
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monotonously
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parasite
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trumping
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| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的现在分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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42
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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43
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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44
winsome
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| n.迷人的，漂亮的 | |
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45
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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46
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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47
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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49
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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51
surmising
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的现在分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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52
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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53
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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54
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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55
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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57
insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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58
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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59
crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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61
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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62
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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pretenses
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| n.借口（pretense的复数形式） | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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71
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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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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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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80
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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81
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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82
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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83
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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84
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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85
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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86
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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87
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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89
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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90
prosecuted
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| a.被起诉的 | |
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91
malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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92
surmount
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| vt.克服；置于…顶上 | |
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93
supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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94
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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95
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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96
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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97
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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98
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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99
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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100
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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101
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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102
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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103
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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104
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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105
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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106
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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107
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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108
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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109
amiably
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| adv.和蔼可亲地，亲切地 | |
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110
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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111
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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112
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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113
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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