Maggie and Edwin understood each other on the whole very well. Only in minor17 points did their sympathy fail. And as Edwin would be exasperated18 because Maggie’s attitude towards argument was that of a woman, so would Maggie resent a certain mulishness in him characteristic of the unfathomable stupid sex. Once a week, for example, when his room was ‘done out,’ there was invariably a skirmish between them, because Edwin really did hate anybody to ‘meddle among his things.’ The derangement19 of even a brush on the dressing-table would rankle20 in his mind. Also he was very ‘crotchety about his meals,’ and on the subject of fresh air. Unless he was sitting in a perceptible draught21, he thought he was being poisoned by nitrogen: but when he could see the curtain or blind trembling in the wind he was hygienically at ease. His existence was a series of catarrhal colds, which, however, as he would learnedly explain to Maggie, could not be connected, in the brain of a reasonable person, with currents of fresh air. Maggie mutely disdained22 his science. This, too, fretted23 him. Occasionally she would somewhat tartly24 assert that he was a regular old maid. The accusation25 made no impression on him at all. But when, more than ordinarily exacerbated26, she sang out that he was ‘exactly like his father,’ he felt wounded.
Two.
The appearance of his bedroom, and the fact that he enjoyed being in it alone, gave some ground for Maggie’s first accusation. A screen hid the bed, and this screen was half covered with written papers of memoranda27; roughly, it divided the room into dormitory and study. The whole chamber28 was occupied by Edwin’s personal goods, great and small, ranged in the most careful order; it was full; in the occupation of a young man who was not precociously29 an old maid, it would have been littered. It was a complex and yet practical apparatus30 for daily use, completely organised for the production of comfort. Edwin would move about in it with the loving and assured gestures of a creator; and always he was improving its perfection. His bedroom was his passion.
Often, during the wilderness31 of the day, he would think of his bedroom as of a refuge, to which in the evening he should hasten. Ascending32 the stairs after the meal, his heart would run on in advance of his legs, and be within the room before his hand had opened the door. And then he would close the door, as upon the whole tedious world, and turn up the gas, and light the stove with an explosive plop, and settle himself. And in the first few minutes of reading he would with distinct, conscious pleasure, allow his attention to circle the room, dwelling33 upon piled and serried34 volumes, and delighting in orderliness and in convenience. And he would reflect: “This is my life. This is what I shall always live for. This is the best. And why not?” It seemed to him when he was alone in his bedroom and in the night, that he had respectably well solved the problem offered to him by destiny. He insisted to himself sharply that he was not made for marriage, that he had always known marriage to be impossible for him, that what had happened was bound to have happened. For a few weeks he had lived in a fool’s paradise: that was all... Fantastic scheme, mad self-deception! In such wise he thought of his love-affair. His profound satisfaction was that none except his father knew of it, and even his father did not know how far it had gone. He felt that if the town had been aware of his jilting, he could not have borne the humiliation35. To himself he had been horribly humiliated36; but he had recovered in his own esteem37.
It was only by very slow processes, by insensible degrees, that he had arrived at the stage of being able to say to his mirror, “I’ve got over that!” And who could judge better than he? He could trace no mark of the episode in his face. Save for the detail of a moustache, it seemed to him that he had looked on precisely38 the same unchangeable face for a dozen years. Strange, that suffering had left no sign! Strange, that, in the months just after Hilda’s marriage, no acquaintance had taken him on one side and said, “What is the tragedy I can read on your features?”
And indeed the truth was that no one suspected. The vision of his face would remain with people long after he had passed them in the street, or spoken to them in the shop. The charm of his sadness persisted in their memory. But they would easily explain it to themselves by saying that his face had a naturally melancholy40 cast—a sort of accident that had happened to him in the beginning! He had a considerable reputation, of which he was imperfectly aware, for secretiveness, timidity, gentleness, and intellectual superiority. Sundry41 young women thought of him wistfully when smiling upon quite other young men, and would even kiss him while kissing them, according to the notorious perversity42 of love.
Three.
He was reading Swift’s “Tale of a Tub” eagerly, tasting with a palate consciously fastidious and yet catholic, the fine savour of a masterpiece. By his secret enthusiasm, which would escape from him at rare intervals43 in a word to a friend, he was continuing the reputation of the “Tale of a Tub” from one century towards the next. A classic remains44 a classic only because a few hundred Edwins up and down England enjoy it so heartily45 that their pleasure becomes religious. Edwin, according to his programme, had no right to be amusing himself with Swift at that hour. The portly Hallam, whom he found tedious, ought to have been in his hands. But Swift had caught him and would not let him go. Herein was one of the consequences of the pocketableness of Cassell’s new series. Edwin had been obliged to agree with Tom Orgreave (now a married man) that the books were not volumes for a collector; but they were so cheap, and they came from the press so often—once a week, and they could be carried so comfortably over the heart, that he could not resist most of them. His professed46 idea was that by their aid he could read smaller works in odd moments, at any time, thus surpassing his programme. He had not foreseen that Swift would make a breach47 in his programme, which was already in a bad way.
But he went on reading tranquilly48, despite the damage to it; for in the immediate49 future shone the hope of the new life, when programmes would never be neglected. In less than a month he would be thirty years of age. At twenty, it had seemed a great age, an age of absolute maturity50. Now, he felt as young and as boyish as ever, especially before his father, and he perceived that his vague early notion about the finality of such an age as thirty had been infantile. Nevertheless, the entry into another decade presented itself to him as solemn, and he meant to signalise it by new and mightier51 resolutions to execute vaster programmes. He was intermittently52 engaged, during these weeks, in the delicious, the enchanting53 business of constructing the ideal programme and scheming the spare hours to ensure its achievement. He lived in a dream and illusion of ultimate perfection.
Several times, despite the spell of Swift, he glanced at his watch. The hand went from nine to ten minutes past ten. And then he thought he heard the sound for which he had been listening. He jumped up, abandoned the book with its marker, opened the window wide, and lifting the blind by its rod, put his head out. Yes, he could hear the yelling afar off, over the hill, softened54 by distance into something gentle and attractive.
“‘Signal!’ ‘Signal!’ Special edition! ‘Signal!’” And then words incomprehensible.
It came nearer in the night.
He drew down the window, and left the room. The mere55 distant sound of the newsboys’ voices had roused him to a pleasing excitement. He fumbled56 in his pockets. He had neither a halfpenny nor a penny—it was just like him—and those newsboys with their valuable tidings would not care to halt and weigh out change with a balance.
“Got a halfpenny? Quick!” he cried, running into the kitchen, where Maggie and Mrs Nixon were engaged in some calm and endless domestic occupation amid linen57 that hung down whitely.
“Paper,” he said.
“At this time of night? You’ll never get one at this time of night!” she said, in her simplicity59.
“Come on!”
He stamped his foot with impatience60. It was absolutely astonishing, the ignorance in which Maggie lived, and lived efficiently61 and in content. Edwin filled the house with newspapers, and she never looked at them, never had the idea of looking at them, unless occasionally at the ‘Signal’ for an account of a wedding or a bazaar62. In which case she would glance at the world for an instant with mild naïveté, shocked by the horrible things that were apparently going on there, and in five minutes would forget all about it again. Here the whole of England, Ireland, and Scotland was at its front doors that night waiting for newsboys, and to her the night was like any other night! Yet she read many books.
“Here’s a penny,” she said. “Don’t forget to give it me back.”
He ran out bareheaded. At the corner of the street somebody else was expectant. He could distinguish all the words now—
“‘Signal!’ Special edition! Mester Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill. Full report. Gladstone’s speech. Special!”
The dark running figures approached, stopping at frequent gates, and their hoarse63 voices split the night. The next moment they had gone by, in a flying column, and Edwin and the other man found themselves with fluttering paper in their hands, they knew not how! It was the most unceremonious snatch-and-thrust transaction that could be imagined. Bleakridge was silent again, and its gates closed, and the shouts were descending64 violently into Bursley.
“Where’s father?” Maggie called out when she heard Edwin in the hall.
“Hasn’t he come in yet?” Edwin replied negligently65, as he mounted the stairs with his desire.
In his room he settled himself once more under the gas, and opened the flimsy newspaper with joy. Yes, there it was—columns, columns, in small type! An hour or two previously66 Gladstone had been speaking in Parliament, and by magic the whole of his speech, with all the little convolutions of his intricate sentences, had got into Edwin’s bedroom. Edwin began to read, as it were voluptuously67. Not that he had a peculiar68 interest in Irish politics! What he had was a passion for great news, for news long expected. He could thrill responsively to a fine event. I say that his pleasure had the voluptuousness69 of an artistic70 sensation.
Moreover, the attraction of politics in general was increasing for him. Politics occupied his mind, often obsessing71 it. And this was so in spite of the fact that he had done almost nothing in the last election, and that the pillars of the Liberal Club were beginning to suspect him of being a weakling who might follow his father into the wilderness between two frontiers.
As he read the speech, slowly disengaging its significance from the thicket72 of words, it seemed incredible. A parliament in Dublin! The Irish taxing themselves according to their own caprices! The Irish controlling the Royal Irish Constabulary! The Irish members withdrawn73 from Westminster! A separate nation! Surely Gladstone could not mean it! The project had the same air of unreality as that of his marriage with Hilda. It did not convince. It was too good to be true. It could not materialise itself. And yet, as his glance, flitting from left to right and right to left, eagerly, reached the bottom of one column and jumped with a crinkling of paper to the top of the next, and then to the next after that, the sense of unreality did depart. He agreed with the principles of the Bill, and with all its details. Whatever Gladstone had proposed would have received his sympathy. He was persuaded in advance; he concurred74 in advance. All he lacked was faith. And those sentences, helped by his image of the aged39 legislator dominating the House, and by the wondrous75 legend of the orator’s divine power—those long stretching, majestic76, misty77 sentences gave him faith. Henceforward he was an ardent78 Home Ruler. Reason might or might not have entered into the affair had the circumstances of it been other; but in fact reason did not. Faith alone sufficed. For ever afterwards argument about Home Rule was merely tedious to him, and he had difficulty in crediting that opponents of it were neither stupid nor insincere. Home Rule was part of his religion, beyond and above argument.
He wondered what they were saying at the Liberal Club, and smiled disdainfully at the thought of the unseemly language that would animate79 the luxurious80 heaviness of the Conservative Club, where prominent publicans gathered after eleven o’clock to uphold the State and arrange a few bets with sporting clients. He admitted, as the supreme81 importance of the night leaped out at him from the printed page, that, if only for form’s sake, he ought to have been at the Liberal Club that evening. He had been requested to go, but had refused, because on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, he always spent the evening in study or in the semblance82 of study. He would not break that rule even in honour of the culmination83 of the dazzling career of his political idol84. Perhaps another proof of the justice of Maggie’s assertion that he was a regular old maid!
He knew what his father would say. His father would be furious. His father in his uncontrolled fury would destroy Gladstone. And such was his father’s empire over him that he was almost ready on Gladstone’s behalf to adopt an apologetic and slightly shamed attitude to his father concerning this madness of Home Rule—to admit by his self-conscious blushes that it was madness. He well knew that at breakfast the next morning, in spite of any effort to the contrary, he would have a guilty air when his father began to storm. The conception of a separate parliament in Dublin, and of separate taxation85, could not stand before his father’s anger...
“What the deuce—!” he exclaimed. “If that isn’t the old man I’m—” Startled, he looked at his watch. It was after midnight.
Four.
As he opened the garden door, he saw, in the porch where had passed his first secret interview with Hilda, the figure of his father as it were awkwardly rising from the step. The gas had not been turned out in the hall, and it gave a feeble but sufficient illumination to the porch and the nearest parts of the garden. Darius stood silent and apparently irresolute87, with a mournful and even despairing face. He wore his best black suit, and a new silk hat and new black gloves, and in one hand he carried a copy of “The Signal” that was very crumpled88. He ignored Edwin.
“Hello, father!” said Edwin persuasively89. “Anything wrong?”
The heavy figure moved itself into the house without a word, and Edwin shut and bolted the door.
“Funeral go off all right?” Edwin inquired with as much nonchalance90 as he could. (The thought crossed his mind: “I suppose he hasn’t been having a drop too much, for once in a way? Why did he come round into the garden?”)
Darius loosed a really terrible sigh. “Yes,” he answered, expressing with a single word the most profound melancholy.
Four days previously Edwin and Maggie had seen their father considerably agitated91 by an item of gossip, casually92 received, to which it seemed to them he attached an excessive importance. Namely, that old Shushions, having been found straying and destitute93 by the authorities appointed to deal with such matters, had been taken to the workhouse and was dying there. Darius had heard the news as though it had been a message brought on horseback in a melodrama94. “The Bastille!” he exclaimed, in a whisper, and had left the house on the instant. Edwin, while the name of Shushions reminded him of moments when he had most intensely lived, was disposed to regard the case of Mr Shushions philosophically95. Of course it was a pity that Mr Shushions should be in the workhouse; but after all, from what Edwin remembered and could surmise96, the workhouse would be very much the same as any other house to that senile mentality97. Thus Edwin had sagely98 argued, and Maggie had agreed with him. But to them the workhouse was absolutely nothing but a name. They were no more afraid of the workhouse than of the Russian secret police; and of their father’s early history they knew naught99.
Mr Shushions had died in the workhouse, and Darius had taken his body out of the workhouse, and had organised for it a funeral which was to be rendered impressive by a procession of Turnhill Sunday school teachers. Edwin’s activity in connexion with the funeral had been limited to the funeral cards, in the preparation of which his father had shown an irritability100 more than usually offensive. And now the funeral was over. Darius had devoted101 to it the whole of Home Rule Tuesday, and had returned to his house at a singular hour and in a singular condition.
And Edwin, loathing102 sentimentality and full of the wisdom of nearly thirty years, sedately104 pitied his father for looking ridiculous and grotesque105. He knew for a fact that his father did not see Mr Shushions from one year’s end to the next: hence they could not have been intimate friends, or even friends: hence his father’s emotion was throughout exaggerated and sentimental103. His acquaintance with history and with biography told him that tyrants106 often carried sentimentality to the absurd, and he was rather pleased with himself for being able thus to correlate the general past and the particular present. What he did not suspect was the existence of circumstances which made the death of Mr Shushions in the workhouse the most distressing107 tragedy that could by any possibility have happened to Darius Clayhanger.
“Shall I put the gas out, or will you?” he asked, with kindly108 secret superiority, unaware109, with all his omniscience110, that the being in front of him was not a successful steam-printer and tyrannical father, but a tiny ragged111 boy who could still taste the Bastille skilly and still see his mother weeping round the knees of a powerful god named Shushions.
“I—I don’t know,” said Darius, with another sigh.
The next instant he sat down heavily on the stairs and began openly to blubber. His hat fell off and rolled about undecidedly.
“By Jove!” said Edwin to himself, “I shall have to treat this man like a blooming child!” He was rather startled, and interested. He picked up the hat.
“Better not sit there,” he advised. “Come into the dining-room a bit.”
“What?” Darius asked feebly.
“Is he deaf?” Edwin thought, and half shouted: “Better not sit there. It’s chilly112. Come into the dining-room a bit. Come on.”
Darius held out a hand, with a gesture inexpressibly sad; and Edwin, almost before he realised what he was doing, took it and assisted his father to his feet and helped him to the twilit dining-room, where Darius fell into a chair. Some bread and cheese had been laid for him on a napkin, and there was a gleam of red in the grate. Edwin turned up the gas, and Darius blinked. His coarse cheeks were all wet.
“Better have your overcoat off, hadn’t you?”
Darius shook his head.
“Well, will you eat something?”
Edwin was not equal to this situation. It alarmed him, and yet he did not see why it should alarm him. He left the room very quietly, went upstairs, and knocked at Maggie’s door. He had to knock several times.
“Who’s there?”
“I say, Mag!”
“What is it?”
“Open the door,” he said.
“You can come in.”
He opened the door, and within the darkness of the room he could vaguely114 distinguish a white bed.
“Father’s come. He’s in a funny state.”
“How?”
“Well, he’s crying all over the place, and he won’t eat, or do anything!”
“All right,” said Maggie—and a figure sat up in the bed. “Perhaps I’d better come down.”
“Now, father,” she said brusquely, entering the dining-room, “what’s amiss?”
Darius gazed at her stupidly. “Nothing,” he muttered.
“You’re very late, I think. When did you have your last meal?”
He shook his head.
“Shall I make you some nice hot tea?”
He nodded.
“Very well,” she said comfortingly.
Soon with her hair hanging about her face and hiding it, she was bending over the gleam of fire, and insinuating117 a small saucepan into the middle of it, and encouraging the gleam with a pair of bellows118. Meanwhile Edwin uneasily ranged the room, and Darius sat motionless.
“Seen Gladstone’s speech, I suppose?” Edwin said, daring a fearful topic in the extraordinary circumstances.
Darius paid no heed119. Edwin and Maggie exchanged a glance. Maggie made the tea direct into a large cup, which she had previously warmed by putting it upside down on the saucepan lid. When it was infused and sweetened, she tasted it, as for a baby, and blew on it, and gave the cup to her father, who, by degrees, emptied it, though not exclusively into his mouth.
“Will you eat something now?” she suggested.
He would not.
“Very well, then, Edwin will help you upstairs.”
The ascent121 to bed was processional; Maggie hovered122 behind. But at the dining-room door Darius, giving no explanation, insisted on turning back: apparently he tried to speak but could not. He had forgotten his “Signal.” Snatching at it, he held it like a treasure. All three of them went into the father’s bedroom. Maggie turned up the gas. Darius sat on the bed, looking dully at the carpet.
“Better see him into bed,” Maggie murmured quickly to Edwin, and Edwin nodded—the nod of capability—as who should say, “Leave all that to me!” But in fact he was exceedingly diffident about seeing his father into bed.
Maggie departed.
“Now then,” Edwin began the business. “Let’s get that overcoat off, eh?” To his surprise Darius was most pliant123. When the great clumsy figure, with its wet cheeks, stood in trousers, shirt, and socks, Edwin said, “You’re all right now, aren’t you?” And the figure nodded.
“Well, good-night.”
Edwin came out on to the landing, shut the door, and walked about a little in his own room. Then he went back to his father’s room. Maggie’s door was closed. Darius was already in bed, but the gas was blazing at full.
“You’ve forgotten the gas,” he said lightly and pleasantly, and turned it down to a blue point.
“I say, lad,” the old man stopped him, as he was finally leaving.
“Yes?”
“What about that Home Rule?”
The voice was weak, infantile. Edwin hesitated. The “Signal” made a patch of white on the ottoman.
“Oh!” he answered soothingly124, and yet with condescension125, “it’s much about what everybody expected. Better leave that till to-morrow.”
He shut the door. The landing received light through the open door of his bedroom and from the hall below. He went downstairs, bolted the front door, and extinguished the hall gas. Then he came softly up, and listened at his father’s door. Not a sound! He entered his own room and began to undress, and then, half clothed, crept back to his father’s door. Now he could hear a heavy, irregular snoring.
“Devilish odd, all this!” he reflected, as he got into bed. Assuredly he had disconcerting thoughts, not all unpleasant. His excitement had even an agreeable, zestful126 quality.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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slippered
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| 穿拖鞋的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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rankle
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| v.（怨恨，失望等）难以释怀 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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tartly
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accusation
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exacerbated
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| v.使恶化，使加重( exacerbate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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precociously
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| Precociously | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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45
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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46
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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47
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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48
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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49
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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50
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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51
mightier
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| adj. 强有力的，强大的，巨大的 adv. 很，极其 | |
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52
intermittently
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| adv.间歇地；断断续续 | |
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53
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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54
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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57
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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58
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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59
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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60
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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61
efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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62
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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63
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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64
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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65
negligently
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66
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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67
voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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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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71
obsessing
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| v.时刻困扰( obsess的现在分词 )；缠住；使痴迷；使迷恋 | |
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72
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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73
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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74
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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76
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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78
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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79
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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80
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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81
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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82
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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83
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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84
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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85
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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86
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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87
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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89
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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90
nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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91
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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92
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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93
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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94
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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95
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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96
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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97
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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98
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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99
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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100
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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101
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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102
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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103
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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104
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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105
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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106
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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107
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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108
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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109
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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110
omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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111
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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112
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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113
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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114
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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115
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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116
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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117
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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118
bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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119
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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120
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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121
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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122
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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123
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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124
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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125
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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126
zestful
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| adj.有滋味 | |
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