“D’you like it, Mary?” she asked. “Paul says it makes me look ten years younger. And I’ve stopped slapping up.”
“Of course, I powder a little, but that doesn’t count; and you know, I never use a puff8 now—only a leather. You can’t think how we enjoyed ourselves in India, and Paul’s a perfect duck. He’s been quite awfully9 good to me, I’m simply devoted10 to him, and I think we shall get a baronetcy at the next birthday honours.”
Mrs. Castillyon coloured and laughed.
“You know, I’m afraid I shall become a most awful prig, but the fact is it’s so comfortable to be good and to have nothing to reproach one’s self with.... Now tell me about every one. Where did you pass the winter?”
“I went to Italy as usual; and my cousin Algernon, with his daughter, spent a month with me, at Christmas.”
“Was she awfully cut up at the death of her husband?”
There was really a note of genuine sympathy in Mrs. Castillyon’s voice, so that Miss Ley realised how sincere was the change in her.
“She bore it very wonderfully, and I think she’s curiously12 happy; she tells me that she feels constantly the presence of Herbert.” Miss Ley paused. “Bella has collected her husband’s verses, and wishes to publish them, and she’s written a very touching13 account of his life and death by way of preface.”
“Are they any good?”
“No; that’s just the tragedy of the whole thing. I never knew a man whose nature was so entirely poetical14, and yet he never wrote a line which is other than mediocre15. If he’d only written his own feelings, his little hopes and disappointments, he might have done something good; but he’s only produced pale imitations of Swinburne and Tennyson and Shelley. I can’t understand how Herbert Field, who was so simple and upright, should never have turned out a single stanza16 which wasn’t stilted17 and forced. I think in his heart he felt that he hadn’t the gift of literary expression, which has nothing to do with high ideals, personal sincerity18, or the seven deadly virtues19, for he was not sorry to die. He only lived to be a great poet, and before the end realised that he would never have become one.”
Miss Ley saw already the pretty little book which Bella would publish at her own expense, the neat type and wide margin20, the dainty binding21; she saw the scornful neglect of reviewers, and the pile of copies which eventually Bella would take back and give one by one as presents to her friends, who would thank her warmly, but never trouble to read ten lines.
“And what has happened to Reggie Bassett?” asked Grace, suddenly.
Miss Ley gave her a quick glance, but the steadiness of Mrs. Castillyon’s eyes told her that she asked the question indifferently, perhaps to show how entirely her infatuation was overcome.
“You heard that he married?”
“I saw it in the Morning Post.”
“His mother was very indignant, and for three months refused to speak to him. But at last I was able to tell her that an heir was expected; so she made up her mind to swallow her pride, and became reconciled with her daughter-in-law, who is a very nice, sensible woman.”
“Pretty?” asked Grace.
“Not at all, but eminently23 capable. Already she has made Reggie into quite a decent member of society. Mrs. Bassett has now gone down to Bournemouth, where the young folks have taken a house, to be at hand when the baby appears.”
“It’s reassuring24 to think that the ancient race of the Barlow-Bassetts will not be extinguished,” murmured Grace, ironically. “I gathered that your young friend was settling down because one day he returned every penny I had—lent him.”
“And what did you do with it?” asked Miss Ley.
Grace flushed and smiled whimsically.
“Well, it happened to reach me just before our wedding-day so I spent it all in a gorgeous pearl pin for Paul. He was simply delighted.”
Mrs. Castillyon got up, and, when she was gone, Miss Ley took a letter that had come before luncheon, but which her guest’s arrival had prevented her from opening. It was from Basil, who had spent the whole winter on Miss Ley’s recommendation in Seville; she opened it curiously, for it was the first time he had written to her since, after the inquest, he left England.
“My Dear Miss Ley: Don’t think me ungrateful if I have left you without news of me, but at first I felt I could not write to people in England; whenever I thought of them everything came back, and it was only by a desperate effort that I could forget. For some time it seemed to me that I could never face the world again, and I was tormented25 by self-reproach; I vowed26 to give up my whole life to the expression of my deep regret, and fancied I could never again have a peaceful moment or anything approaching happiness. But presently I was ashamed to find that I began to regain my old temper; I caught myself at times laughing contentedly29, amused and full of spirits; and I upbraided30 myself bitterly because, only a few weeks after the poor girl’s death, I could actually be entertained by trivial things. And then I don’t know what came over me, for I could not help the thought that my prison door was opened; though I called myself brutal31 and callous32, deep down in my soul arose the idea that the fates had given me another chance. The slate33 was wiped clean, and I could start fresh. I pretended even to myself that I wanted to die, but it was sheer hypocrisy—I wanted to live and to take life by both hands and enjoy it. I have such a desire for happiness, such an eager yearning34 for life in its fulness and glory. I made a ghastly mistake, and I suffered for it; heaven knows how terribly I suffered and how hard I tried to make the best of it. And perhaps it wasn’t all my fault—even to you I feel ashamed of saying this; I ought to go on posing decently to the end—in this world, we’re made to act and think things because others have thought them good; we never have a chance of going our own way; we’re bound down by the prejudices and the morals of all and sundry35. For God’s sake, let us be free. Let us do this and that because we want to and because we must, not because other people think we ought. And d’you know the worst of the whole thing? If I’d acted like a blackguard and let Jenny go to the dogs, I should have remained happy and contented28 and prosperous; and she, I daresay, wouldn’t have died. It’s because I tried to do my duty that all this misery36 came about. The world held up an ideal, and I thought they meant one to act up to it: it never occurred to me that they would only sneer37.
“Don’t think too badly of me because I say these things; they have come to me here, and it was you who sent me to Seville; you must have known what effect it would have on my mind, tortured and sick. It is a land of freedom, and at last I have become conscious of my youth. How can I forget the delight of wandering in the Sierpes, released from all imprisoning38 ties, watching the various movements as though it were a stage-play, yet half afraid that a falling curtain would bring back the unendurable reality. The songs, the dances, the happy idleness of orange-gardens by the Guadalquivir, the gay turbulence39 of Seville by night: I could not long resist it, and at last forgot everything but that time was short and the world was to the living.
“By the time you get this letter I shall be on my way home.
“Yours ever,
“Basil Kent.”
Miss Ley read this letter with a smile and gave a little sigh.
“I suppose at that age one can afford to have no very conspicuous40 sense of humour,” she murmured.
But she sent Basil a telegram asking him to stay, with the result that three days later the young man arrived, very brown after his winter in the sunshine, healthy, and better-looking than ever. Miss Ley had invited Frank to meet him at dinner, and the pair of them, with the cold unconcern of anatomists, observed what changes the intervening time had wrought41 on the impressionable nature. Basil was in high spirits, delighted to come back to his friends; but a discreet42 soberness, underlying43 his vivacity, suggested a more composed temperament44: what he had gone through had given him perhaps a solid store of experience on which he could rest himself; he was less emotional and more mature. Miss Ley summed up her impressions next time she was alone with Frank.
“Every Englishman has a churchwarden shut away in his bosom—an old man of the sea whom it is next to impossible to shake off: sometimes you think he’s asleep or dead, but he’s wonderfully tenacious45 of life, and, sooner or later, you find him enthroned in full possession of the soul.”
“I don’t know what you mean by the word soul,” interrupted Frank, “but if you do, pray go on.”
“The churchwarden is waking up in Basil, and I feel sure he will have a very successful career. But I shall warn him not to let that ecclesiastical functionary46 get the upper hand.”
Miss Ley waited for Basil to speak of Mrs. Murray, but after two days her patience was exhausted47 and she attacked him point blank. At the mention of the name his cheeks flamed.
“I daren’t go and see her. After what happened, I can never see her again. I am steeling myself to forget.”
“And are you succeeding?” she asked, drily.
“No, no; I shall never succeed. I’m more desperately48 in love with her than ever I was. But I couldn’t marry her now—the recollection of poor Jenny would be continually between us, for it was we, Hilda and I, who drove her to her death.”
“Don’t be a melodramatic idiot,” answered Miss Ley, sharply. “You talk like the persecuted49 hero of a penny novelette. Hilda’s very fond of you, and she has the feminine common sense which alone counterbalances in the world the romantic folly50 of men. What on earth do you imagine is the use of making yourselves wretched so that you may cut a picturesque51 figure? I should have thought you were cured of heroics. You wrote and told me that the world was for the living—an idea which has truth rather than novelty to recommend it—and do you think there is any sense in posturing52 absurdly to impress an inattentive gallery?”
“How do I know that Hilda cares for me still? She may hate me because I brought on her shame and humiliation53.”
“If I were you, I’d go and ask her,” laughed Miss Ley. “And go with good heart, for she cared for you for your physical attractiveness rather than for your character. And that, I may tell you, whatever moralists say, is infinitely54 more reliable; since you may easily be mistaken in a person’s character, but his good looks are obvious and visible. You’re handsomer than ever you were.”
When Basil set out to call on Mrs. Murray, Miss Ley amused herself with conjecturing55 ironically the scene of their meeting: with curling lips she noted56 in her mind’s eye the embarrassed handshake, the trivial conversation, the disconcerting silence, and without sympathy imagined the gradual warmth and the passionate57 declaration that followed. She moralised.
“A common mistake of writers is to make their characters, in moments of great emotion, express themselves with good taste: nothing could be more false, for, at such times, people, however refined, use precisely58 the terms of the Family Herald59. The utterance60 of violent passion is never artistic61, but trite62, ridiculous, and grotesque63, vulgar often, and silly.” Miss Ley smiled. “Probably novelists alone make love in a truly romantic manner; but then it’s ten to one they’re quoting from some unpublished work, or are listening intently to themselves in admiration64 of their glowing and polished phraseology.”
At all events, the interview between Hilda and Basil was eminently satisfactory, as may be seen by the following letter which some days later the young man received.
“Mon cher enfant: It is with the greatest surprise and delight that I read in this morning’s Post of your engagement to Mrs. Murray. You have fallen on your feet, mon ami, and I congratulate you. Don’t you remember that Becky Sharp said she could be very good on five thousand a year, and the longer I live the more convinced I am that this is a vraie vérité: with a house in Charles Street and le reste, you will find the world a very different place to live in; you will grow more human, dress better, and be less censorious. Do come to luncheon to-morrow, and bring Mrs. Murray; there will be a few people, and I hope it will be amusing—one o’clock. I’m afraid it’s an extraordinary hour to lunch, but I’m going to be received into the Catholic Church in the morning, and we’er all coming on here afterward65. I mean to assume the names of the two saints whose example has most assisted me in my conversion66, and henceforth shall sign myself,
“Your affectionate mother,
“Marguérite Elizabeth Claire Vizard.
“P. S.—The Duke of St. Olpherts is going to be my sponsor.”
A month later, Hilda Murray and Basil were married in All Souls by the Rev22. Collinson Farley; Miss Ley gave away the bride, and in the church, besides, were only the verger and Frank Hurrell. Afterward, in the vestry, Miss Ley shook the Vicar’s hand.
“I think it went off very nicely. It was charming of you to offer to marry them.”
“The bride is a very dear friend of mine; I was anxious to give her this proof of my goodwill67 at the beginning of her new life.” He paused and smiled benignly68, so that Miss Ley, who knew something of his old attachment69 to Hilda, wondered at his good spirits; she had never seen him more trim and imposing—he looked already every inch a bishop70. “Shall I tell you a great secret?” he added blandly71. “I am about to contract an alliance with Florence, Lady Newhaven. We shall be married at the end of the season.”
“My dear Mr. Farley, I congratulate you with all my heart. I see already these shapely calves72 encased in the gaiters episcopal.”
Mr. Farley smiled pleasantly, for he made a practice of appreciating the jests of elderly maiden73 ladies with ample means, and he could boast that to his sense of humour was due the luxurious74 appointing of his church; for no place of worship in the West End had more beautiful altar-cloths, handsomer ornaments75; nowhere could be seen smarter hassocks for the knees of the devout77, or hymn-books in a more excellent state of preservation78.
The newly married couple meant to spend their honeymoon on the river, and, having lunched in Charles Street, started immediately.
“I’m thankful they don’t want us to see them off at Paddington,” said Frank, when he walked with Miss Ley toward the park.
“Why are you in such an abominable79 temper?” she asked, smiling. “During luncheon, I was twice on the point of reminding you that marriage is an event at which a certain degree of hilarity80 is not indecorous.”
Frank did not answer, and now they turned into one of the park gates: in that gay June weather, the place was crowded; though the hour was early still, motors tore along with hurried panting, carriages passed tranquil81 and dignified82; the well-dressed London throng83 sat about idly on chairs or lounged up and down looking at their neighbours, talking light-heartedly of the topics of the hour. Frank’s eyes travelled over them slowly, and shuddering84 a little, his brow grew strangely dark.
“During that ceremony and afterward I could think of nothing but Jenny. It’s only eighteen months since I signed my name for Basil’s first marriage in a dingy85 registry office. You don’t know how beautiful the girl was on that day—full of love and gratitude86 and happiness; she looked forward to the future with such eager longing87! And now she’s rotting underground, and the woman she hated and the man she adored are married, and they haven’t a thought for all her misery. I hated Basil in his new frock coat, and Hilda Murray, and you: I can’t imagine why a sensible woman like you should overdress ridiculously for such a function.”
Miss Ley, conscious of the entire success of her costume, could afford to smile at this.
“I have observed that, whenever you’re out of humour with yourself, you insult me,” she murmured.
“It all seemed so useless. It seemed that the wretched girl had to undergo such frightful89 torture merely to bring these two commonplace creatures together. They must have no imagination, or no shame—how could they marry with that unhappy death between them? For, after all, it was they who killed her. And d’you think Basil is grateful because Jenny gave him her youth and her love, her wonderful beauty and at last her life? He doesn’t think of her. And you, too, because she was a barmaid, are convined that it’s a very good thing she’s out of the way. The only excuse I can see for them is that they’re blind instruments of fate: nature was working through them, obscurely—working to join them together for her own purposes, and, because Jenny came between, she crushed her ruthlessly.”
“I can find a better excuse for them than that,” answered Miss Ley, looking gravely at Frank; “I forgive them because they’re human and weak. The longer I live, the more I am overwhelmed by the utter, utter weakness of men; they do try to do their duty, they do their best honestly, they seek straight ways—but they’re dreadfully weak. And so I think one ought to be sorry for them and make all possible allowances—I’m afraid it sounds rather idiotic90, but I find the words now most frequently on my lips are: forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
They walked silently, and after a while Frank stopped on a sudden and faced Miss Ley. He pulled out his watch.
“It’s quite early yet, and we have the afternoon before us. Will you come with me to the cemetery91 where Jenny is buried?”
“Why not let the dead lie? Let us think of life, rather than of death.”
Frank shook his head.
“I must go. I couldn’t rest otherwise. I can’t bear that, on this day, she should be entirely forgotten.”
“Very well. I will come with you.”
They turned round and came out of the park; Frank hailed a cab, and they started. They passed the pompous92 mansions93 of the great, sedate94, and magnificent, and, driving north, traversed long streets of smaller dwellings95, dingy and gray notwithstanding the brightness of the sky; they went on, it seemed, interminably, and each street strangely, awfully, resembled its predecessor96; they came to roads where each house was separate and had its garden, and there were trees and flowers—they were the habitations of merchants and stock-brokers, and had a trim, respectable look, self-satisfied and smug; but these they left behind for more crowded parts; and now it seemed a different London, more vivacious97, more noisy; the way was thronged98 with trams and ’buses, and there were coster-barrows along the pavements; the shops were gaudy99 and cheap, and the houses mean; they drove through slums, with children playing merrily on the curb100 and women in dirty aprons101, blousy and dishevelled, lounging about their doorsteps. At length they reached a broad, straight road, white and dusty and unshaded, and knew their destination was at hand, for occasionally they passed a shop where grave-stones were made; and an empty hearse trundled by, the mutes huddled102 on the box, laughing loudly, smoking after the fatigue103 of their accustomed work. The cemetery came in sight, and they stopped at iron gates and walked in: it was a vast place, crowded with every imaginable kind of funeral ornament76 which glistened104 white and cold in the sun; it was hideous105, vulgar, and sordid106, and one shuddered107 to think of the rude material minds of those who could bury folk they loved in that restless ground wherein was neither peace nor silence; they might prate108 of the soul’s immortality109, but surely in their hearts they looked upon the dead as common clay, or they would never have borne that they should lie till the Day of Judgment110 in that unhallowed spot. There was about it a gross, businesslike air that was infinitely depressing. Frank and Miss Ley walked through, passing a knot of persons, black-robed, about an open grave, where a curate uttered hastily, with the boredom111 of long habit, the most solemn words that man has ever penned:
“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”
Miss Ley, pale of face, took Frank’s arm and hurried on. Here and there dead flowers were piled upon new graves; here and there the earth was but freshly turned. They came at last to where Jenny lay—an oblong stone of granite112 whereon was cut a simple cross; and Frank gave a sudden cry, for it was covered at that moment, so that only the cross was outlined, with red roses. For a while they stared in silence, amazed.
“They’re quite fresh,” said Miss Ley; “they were put here this morning.” She turned to Frank and looked at him slowly. “You said they’d forgotten—and they came on their wedding day and laid roses on her grave.”
“D’you think she came, too?”
“I’m sure of it. Ah, Frank, I think one should forgive them a good deal for that! I told you that they did strive to do right, and if they fell it was only because they were human and very weak. Don’t you think it’s better for us to be charitable? I wonder if we should have surmounted113 any better than they did their great difficulties and their great temptations.”
Frank made no reply, and for a long time they contemplated114 those rich red roses and thought of Hilda’s tender hands laying them gently on the poor woman’s cold grave-stone.
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I can forgive them a good deal because they had this thought. I hope they will be very happy.”
“I think it’s a good omen27.” She laid her hand on Frank’s arm. “And now let us go away—for we are living, and the dead have nothing to say to us. You brought me here, and now I want to take you on farther—to show you something more.”
He did not understand, but followed obediently till they came to the cab; Miss Ley told the driver to go straight on, away from London, till she bade him stop. And then, leaving behind them that sad place of death, they came suddenly into the open; the highway had the pleasant brown hardness of a country road, and it was bordered by a hawthorn115 hedge; green fields stretched widely on either side, and they might have been a hundred miles from London town. Miss Ley stopped the cab, and told the man to wait whilst she and her friend walked on.
“Don’t look back,” she said to Frank, “only look forward. Look at the trees and the meadows.”
The sky was singularly blue, and the dulcet116 breeze bore gracious savours of the country; there was a suave117 limpidity118 of the air which chased away all ugly thoughts. Both of them, walking quickly, breathed with wide lungs, inspiring eagerly the radiance of that summer afternoon. On a turn of the road Miss Ley gave a quick cry of delight, for she saw the hedge suddenly ablaze119 with wild roses.
“Have you a knife?” she said. “Do cut some.”
And she stood while he gathered a great bunch of the simple fresh flowers; he gave them to her, and she held them with both hands.
“I love them because they’re the same roses as grow in Rome from the sarcophagi in the gardens; they grow out of those old coffins120 to show us that life always triumphs over death. What do I care for illness and old age and disease! The world may be full of misery and disillusion121, it may not give a tithe122 of what we ask; it may offer hatred123 instead of love—disappointment, wretchedness, triviality, and heaven knows what. But there is one thing that compensates124 for all the rest, that takes away the merry-go-round from a sordid show, and gives it a meaning, a solemnity, and a magnificence which make it worth while to live. And for that one thing, all we suffer is richly overpaid.”
“And what the Dickens is that?” asked Frank, smiling.
Miss Ley looked at him with laughing eyes, holding out the roses, her cheeks flushed.
“Why, beauty, you dolt,” she cried gaily125. “Beauty.”
该作者其它作品
《英雄》
《魔术师 The Magician》
《月亮和六便士 Moon and Sixpence》
该作者其它作品
《英雄》
《魔术师 The Magician》
《月亮和六便士 Moon and Sixpence》
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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stilted
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| adj.虚饰的；夸张的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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rev
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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reassuring
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tormented
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vowed
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omen
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contented
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contentedly
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brutal
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callous
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slate
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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sundry
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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37
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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38
imprisoning
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的现在分词 ) | |
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39
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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40
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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41
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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42
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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43
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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44
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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45
tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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46
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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47
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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48
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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49
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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50
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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51
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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52
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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53
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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54
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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55
conjecturing
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| v. & n. 推测，臆测 | |
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56
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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57
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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58
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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59
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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60
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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61
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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62
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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63
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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64
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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65
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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66
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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67
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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68
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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69
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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70
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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71
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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72
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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73
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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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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75
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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76
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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77
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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78
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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79
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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80
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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81
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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82
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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83
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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84
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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85
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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86
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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87
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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88
glowering
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| v.怒视( glower的现在分词 ) | |
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89
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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90
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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91
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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92
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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93
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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94
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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95
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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96
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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97
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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98
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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100
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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101
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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102
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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103
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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104
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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106
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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107
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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108
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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109
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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110
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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111
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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112
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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113
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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114
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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115
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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116
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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117
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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118
limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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119
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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120
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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121
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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122
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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123
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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124
compensates
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的第三人称单数 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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125
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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