Summer had fairly begun and the drive beside the lake was empty, but there were various loungers on the benches and chairs, and the great cafe had an air of animation15. Longmore’s walk had given him an appetite, and he went into the establishment and demanded a dinner, remarking for the hundredth time, as he admired the smart little tables disposed in the open air, how much better (than anywhere else) they ordered this matter in France. “Will monsieur dine in the garden or in the salon16?” the waiter blandly17 asked. Longmore chose the garden and, observing that a great cluster of June roses was trained over the wall of the house, placed himself at a table near by, where the best of dinners was served him on the whitest of linen18 and in the most shining of porcelain19. It so happened that his table was near a window and that as he sat he could look into a corner of the salon. So it was that his attention rested on a lady seated just within the window, which was open, face to face apparently20 with a companion who was concealed21 by the curtain. She was a very pretty woman, and Longmore looked at her as often as was consistent with good manners. After a while he even began to wonder who she was and finally to suspect that she was one of those ladies whom it is no breach22 of good manners to look at as often as you like. Our young man too, if he had been so disposed, would have been the more free to give her all his attention that her own was fixed23 upon the person facing her. She was what the French call a belle24 brune, and though Longmore, who had rather a conservative taste in such matters, was but half-charmed by her bold outlines and even braver complexion25, he couldn’t help admiring her expression of basking26 contentment.
She was evidently very happy, and her happiness gave her an air of innocence27. The talk of her friend, whoever he was, abundantly suited her humour, for she sat listening to him with a broad idle smile and interrupting him fitfully, while she crunched28 her bonbons29, with a murmured response, presumably as broad, which appeared to have the effect of launching him again. She drank a great deal of champagne30 and ate an immense number of strawberries, and was plainly altogether a person with an impartial31 relish32 for strawberries, champagne and what she doubtless would have called betises.
They had half-finished dinner when Longmore sat down, and he was still in his place when they rose. She had hung her bonnet33 on a nail above her chair, and her companion passed round the table to take it down for her. As he did so she bent34 her head to look at a wine-stain on her dress, and in the movement exposed the greater part of the back of a very handsome neck. The gentleman observed it, and observed also, apparently, that the room beyond them was empty; that he stood within eyeshot of Longmore he failed to observe. He stooped suddenly and imprinted35 a gallant36 kiss on the fair expanse. In the author of this tribute Longmore then recognised Richard de Mauves. The lady to whom it had been rendered put on her bonnet, using his flushed smile as a mirror, and in a moment they passed through the garden on their way to their carriage. Then for the first time M. de Mauves became aware of his wife’s young friend. He measured with a rapid glance this spectator’s relation to the open window and checked himself in the impulse to stop and speak to him. He contented37 himself with bowing all imperturbably38 as he opened the gate for his companion.
That evening Longmore made a railway journey, but not to Brussels. He had effectually ceased to care for Brussels; all he cared for in the world now was Madame de Mauves. The air of his mind had had a sudden clearing-up; pity and anger were still throbbing39 there, but they had space to range at their pleasure, for doubts and scruples had abruptly departed. It was little, he felt, that he could interpose between her resignation and the indignity40 of her position; but that little, if it involved the sacrifice of everything that bound him to the tranquil41 past, he could offer her with a rapture42 which at last made stiff resistance a terribly inferior substitute for faith. Nothing in his tranquil past had given such a zest43 to consciousness as this happy sense of choosing to go straight back to Saint-Germain. How to justify44 his return, how to explain his ardour, troubled him little. He wasn’t even sure he wished to be understood; he wished only to show how little by any fault of his Madame de Mauves was alone so with the harshness of fate. He was conscious of no distinct desire to “make love” to her; if he could have uttered the essence of his longing45 he would have said that he wished her to remember that in a world coloured grey to her vision by the sense of her mistake there was one vividly46 honest man. She might certainly have remembered it, however, without his coming back to remind her; and it is not to be denied that as he waited for the morrow he longed immensely for the sound of her voice.
He waited the next day till his usual hour of calling—the late afternoon; but he learned at the door that the mistress of the house was not at home. The servant offered the information that she was walking a little way in the forest. Longmore went through the garden and out of the small door into the lane, and, after half an hour’s vain exploration, saw her coming toward him at the end of a green by-path. As he appeared she stopped a moment, as if to turn aside; then recognising him she slowly advanced and had presently taken the hand he held out.
“Nothing has happened,” she said with her beautiful eyes on him. “You’re not ill?”
“Nothing except that when I got to Paris I found how fond I had grown of Saint-Germain.”
She neither smiled nor looked flattered; it seemed indeed to Longmore that she took his reappearance with no pleasure. But he was uncertain, for he immediately noted47 that in his absence the whole character of her face had changed. It showed him something momentous48 had happened. It was no longer self-contained melancholy49 that he read in her eyes, but grief and agitation50 which had lately struggled with the passionate51 love of peace ruling her before all things else, and forced her to know that deep experience is never peaceful. She was pale and had evidently been shedding tears. He felt his heart beat hard—he seemed now to touch her secret. She continued to look at him with a clouded brow, as if his return had surrounded her with complications too great to be disguised by a colourless welcome. For some moments, as he turned and walked beside her, neither spoke52; then abruptly, “Tell me truly, Mr. Longmore,” she said, “why you’ve come back.” He inclined himself to her, almost pulling up again, with an air that startled her into a certainty of what she had feared. “Because I’ve learned the real answer to the question I asked you the other day. You’re not happy—you’re too good to be happy on the terms offered you. Madame de Mauves,” he went on with a gesture which protested against a gesture of her own, “I can’t be happy, you know, when you’re as little so as I make you out. I don’t care for anything so long as I only feel helpless and sore about you. I found during those dreary53 days in Paris that the thing in life I most care for is this daily privilege of seeing you. I know it’s very brutal54 to tell you I admire you; it’s an insult to you to treat you as if you had complained to me or appealed to me. But such a friendship as I waked up to there”—and he tossed his head toward the distant city—“is a potent55 force, I assure you. When forces are stupidly stifled56 they explode. However,” he went on, “if you had told me every trouble in your heart it would have mattered little; I couldn’t say more than I—that if that in life from which you’ve hoped most has given you least, this devoted57 respect of mine will refuse no service and betray no trust.”
She had begun to make marks in the earth with the point of her parasol, but she stopped and listened to him in perfect immobility—immobility save for the appearance by the time he had stopped speaking of a flush in her guarded clearness. Such as it was it told Longmore she was moved, and his first perceiving it was the happiest moment of his life. She raised her eyes at last, and they uttered a plea for non-insistence that unspeakably touched him.
“Thank you—thank you!” she said calmly enough; but the next moment her own emotion baffled this pretence58, a convulsion shook her for ten seconds and she burst into tears. Her tears vanished as quickly as they came, but they did Longmore a world of good. He had always felt indefinably afraid of her; her being had somehow seemed fed by a deeper faith and a stronger will than his own; but her half-dozen smothered59 sobs60 showed him the bottom of her heart and convinced him she was weak enough to be grateful. “Excuse me,” she said; “I’m too nervous to listen to you. I believe I could have dealt with an enemy to-day, but I can’t bear up under a friend.”
“You’re killing61 yourself with stoicism—that’s what is the matter with you!” he cried. “Listen to a friend for his own sake if not for yours. I’ve never presumed to offer you an atom of compassion62, and you can’t accuse yourself of an abuse of charity.”
She looked about her as under the constraint63 of this appeal, but it promised him a reluctant attention. Noting, however, by the wayside the fallen log on which they had rested a few evenings before, she went and sat down on it with a resigned grace while the young man, silent before her and watching her, took from her the mute assurance that if she was charitable now he must at least be very wise.
“Something came to my knowledge yesterday,” he said as he sat down beside her, “which gave me an intense impression of your loneliness. You’re truth itself, and there’s no truth about you. You believe in purity and duty and dignity, and you live in a world in which they’re daily belied64. I ask myself with vain rage how you ever came into such a world, and why the perversity65 of fate never let me know you before.”
She waited a little; she looked down, straight before her. “I like my ‘world’ no better than you do, and it was not for its own sake I came into it. But what particular group of people is worth pinning one’s faith upon? I confess it sometimes seems to me men and women are very poor creatures. I suppose I’m too romantic and always was. I’ve an unfortunate taste for poetic66 fitness. Life’s hard prose, and one must learn to read prose contentedly67. I believe I once supposed all the prose to be in America, which was very foolish. What I thought, what I believed, what I expected, when I was an ignorant girl fatally addicted68 to falling in love with my own theories, is more than I can begin to tell you now. Sometimes when I remember certain impulses, certain illusions of those days they take away my breath, and I wonder that my false point of view hasn’t led me into troubles greater than any I’ve now to lament69. I had a conviction which you’d probably smile at if I were to attempt to express it to you. It was a singular form for passionate faith to take, but it had all of the sweetness and the ardour of passionate faith. It led me to take a great step, and it lies behind me now, far off, a vague deceptive70 form melting in the light of experience. It has faded, but it hasn’t vanished. Some feelings, I’m sure, die only with ourselves; some illusions are as much the condition of our life as our heart-beats. They say that life itself is an illusion—that this world is a shadow of which the reality is yet to come. Life is all of a piece then and there’s no shame in being miserably71 human. As for my loneliness, it doesn’t greatly matter; it is the fault in part of my obstinacy72. There have been times when I’ve been frantically73 distressed75 and, to tell you the truth, wretchedly homesick, because my maid—a jewel of a maid—lied to me with every second breath. There have been moments when I’ve wished I was the daughter of a poor New England minister—living in a little white house under a couple of elms and doing all the housework.”
She had begun to speak slowly, with reserve and effort; but she went on quickly and as if talk were at last a relief. “My marriage introduced me to people and things which seemed to me at first very strange and then very horrible, and then, to tell the truth, of very little importance. At first I expended76 a great deal of sorrow and dismay and pity on it all; but there soon came a time when I began to wonder if it were worth one’s tears. If I could tell you the eternal friendships I’ve seen broken, the inconsolable woes77 consoled, the jealousies78 and vanities scrambling79 to outdo each other, you’d agree with me that tempers like yours and mine can understand neither such troubles nor such compensations. A year ago, while I was in the country, a friend of mine was in despair at the infidelity of her husband; she wrote me a most dolorous80 letter, and on my return to Paris I went immediately to see her. A week had elapsed, and as I had seen stranger things I thought she might have recovered her spirits. Not at all; she was still in despair—but at what? At the conduct, the abandoned, shameless conduct of—well of a lady I’ll call Madame de T. You’ll imagine of course that Madame de T. was the lady whom my friend’s husband preferred to his wife. Far from it; he had never seen her. Who then was Madame de T.? Madame de T. was cruelly devoted to M. de V. And who was M. de V.? M. de V. was—well, in two words again, my friend was cultivating two jealousies at once. I hardly know what I said to her; something at any rate that she found unpardonable, for she quite gave me up. Shortly afterwards my husband proposed we should cease to live in Paris, and I gladly assented81, for I believe I had taken a turn of spirits that made me a detestable companion. I should have preferred to go quite into the country, into Auvergne, where my husband has a house. But to him Paris in some degree is necessary, and Saint-Germain has been a conscious compromise.”
“A conscious compromise!” Longmore expressively82 repeated. “That’s your whole life.”
“It’s the life of many people,” she made prompt answer—“of most people of quiet tastes, and it’s certainly better than acute distress74. One’s at a loss theoretically to defend compromises; but if I found a poor creature who had managed to arrive at one I should think myself not urgently called to expose its weak side.” But she had no sooner uttered these words than she laughed all amicably83, as if to mitigate84 their too personal application.
“Heaven forbid one should do that unless one has something better to offer,” Longmore returned. “And yet I’m haunted by the dream of a life in which you should have found no compromises, for they’re a perversion85 of natures that tend only to goodness and rectitude. As I see it you should have found happiness serene86, profound, complete; a femme de chambre not a jewel perhaps, but warranted to tell but one fib a day; a society possibly rather provincial87, but—in spite of your poor opinion of mankind—a good deal of solid virtue88; jealousies and vanities very tame, and no particular iniquities89 and adulteries. A husband,” he added after a moment—“a husband of your own faith and race and spiritual substance, who would have loved you well.”
She rose to her feet, shaking her head. “You’re very kind to go to the expense of such dazzling visions for me. Visions are vain things; we must make the best of the reality we happen to be in for.”
“And yet,” said Longmore, provoked by what seemed the very wantonness of her patience, “the reality YOU ‘happen to be in for’ has, if I’m not in error, very recently taken a shape that keenly tests your philosophy.”
She seemed on the point of replying that his sympathy was too zealous90; but a couple of impatient tears in his eyes proved it founded on a devotion of which she mightn’t make light. “Ah philosophy?” she echoed. “I HAVE none. Thank heaven,” she cried with vehemence91, “I have none! I believe, Mr. Longmore,” she added in a moment, “that I’ve nothing on earth but a conscience—it’s a good time to tell you so—nothing but a dogged obstinate92 clinging conscience. Does that prove me to be indeed of your faith and race, and have you one yourself for which you can say as much? I don’t speak in vanity, for I believe that if my conscience may prevent me from doing anything very base it will effectually prevent me also from doing anything very fine.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” her friend returned with high emphasis—“that proves we’re made for each other. It’s very certain I too shall never cut a great romantic figure. And yet I’ve fancied that in my case the unaccommodating organ we speak of might be blinded and gagged a while, in a really good cause, if not turned out of doors. In yours,” he went on with the same appealing irony93, “is it absolutely beyond being ‘squared’?”
But she made no concession94 to his tone. “Don’t laugh at your conscience,” she answered gravely; “that’s the only blasphemy95 I know.”
She had hardly spoken when she turned suddenly at an unexpected sound, and at the same moment he heard a footstep in an adjacent by-path which crossed their own at a short distance from where they stood.
“It’s M. de Mauves,” she said at once; with which she moved slowly forward. Longmore, wondering how she knew without seeing, had overtaken her by the time her husband came into view. A solitary96 walk in the forest was a pastime to which M. de Mauves was not addicted, but he seemed on this occasion to have resorted to it with some equanimity97. He was smoking a fragrant98 cigar and had thrust his thumb into the armhole of his waistcoat with the air of a man thinking at his ease. He stopped short with surprise on seeing his wife and her companion, and his surprise had for Longmore even the pitch of impertinence. He glanced rapidly from one to the other, fixed the young man’s own look sharply a single instant and then lifted his hat with formal politeness.
“I was not aware,” he said, turning to Madame de Mauves, “that I might congratulate you on the return of monsieur.”
“You should at once have known it,” she immediately answered, “if I had expected such a pleasure.”
She had turned very pale, and Longmore felt this to be a first meeting after some commotion99. “My return was unexpected to myself,” he said to her husband. “I came back last night.”
M. de Mauves seemed to express such satisfaction as could consort100 with a limited interest. “It’s needless for me to make you welcome. Madame de Mauves knows the duties of hospitality.” And with another bow he continued his walk.
She pursued her homeward course with her friend, neither of them pretending much not to consent to appear silent. The Count’s few moments with them had both chilled Longmore and angered him, casting a shadow across a prospect101 which had somehow, just before, begun to open and almost to brighten. He watched his companion narrowly as they went, and wondered what she had last had to suffer. Her husband’s presence had checked her disposition102 to talk, though nothing betrayed she had recognised his making a point at her expense. Yet if matters were none the less plainly at a crisis between them he could but wonder vainly what it was on her part that prevented some practical protest or some rupture103. What did she suspect?—how much did she know? To what was she resigned?—how much had she forgiven? How, above all, did she reconcile with knowledge, or with suspicion, that intense consideration she had just now all but assured him she entertained? “She has loved him once,” Longmore said with a sinking of the heart, “and with her to love once is to commit herself for ever. Her clever husband thinks her too prim104. What would a stupid poet call it?” He relapsed with aching impotence into the sense of her being somehow beyond him, unattainable, immeasurable by his own fretful logic105. Suddenly he gave three passionate switches in the air with his cane106 which made Madame de Mauves look round. She could hardly have guessed their signifying that where ambition was so vain the next best thing to it was the very ardour of hopelessness.
She found in her drawing-room the little elderly Frenchman, M. de Chalumeau, whom Longmore had observed a few days before on the terrace. On this occasion too Madame Clairin was entertaining him, but as her sister-in-law came in she surrendered her post and addressed herself to our hero. Longmore, at thirty, was still an ingenuous107 youth, and there was something in this lady’s large assured attack that fairly intimidated108 him. He was doubtless not as reassured109 as he ought to have been at finding he had not absolutely forfeited110 her favour by his want of resource during their last interview, and a suspicion of her being prepared to approach him on another line completed his distress.
“So you’ve returned from Brussels by way of the forest?” she archly asked.
“I’ve not been to Brussels. I returned yesterday from Paris by the only way—by the train.”
Madame Clairin was infinitely111 struck. “I’ve never known a person at all to be so fond of Saint-Germain. They generally declare it’s horribly dull.”
“That’s not very polite to you,” said Longmore, vexed112 at his lack of superior form and determined113 not to be abashed114.
“Ah what have I to do with it?” Madame Clairin brightly wailed115. “I’m the dullest thing here. They’ve not had, other gentlemen, your success with my sister-in-law.”
“It would have been very easy to have it. Madame de Mauves is kindness itself.”
She swung open her great fan. “To her own countrymen!”
Longmore remained silent; he hated the tone of this conversation.
The speaker looked at him a little and then took in their hostess, to whom M. de Chalumeau was serving up another epigram, which the charming creature received with a droop116 of the head and eyes that strayed through the window. “Don’t pretend to tell me,” Madame Clairin suddenly exhaled117, “that you’re not in love with that pretty woman.”
“Allons donc!” cried Longmore in the most inspired French he had ever uttered. He rose the next minute and took a hasty farewell.
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1
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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7
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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10
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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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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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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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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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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imperturbably
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| adv.泰然地，镇静地，平静地 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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45
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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46
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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47
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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48
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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49
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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50
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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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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52
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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53
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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54
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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56
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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57
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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58
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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59
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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60
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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61
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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62
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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63
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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64
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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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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contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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73
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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74
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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77
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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81
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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83
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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84
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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85
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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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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89
iniquities
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| n.邪恶( iniquity的名词复数 )；极不公正 | |
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90
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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92
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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95
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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96
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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98
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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99
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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100
consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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101
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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102
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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103
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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104
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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105
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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106
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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107
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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108
intimidated
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| v.恐吓；威胁adj.害怕的；受到威胁的 | |
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109
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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110
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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112
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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113
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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114
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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117
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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