One thing was clear, Felipe must not be consulted in regard to them. He had never known of them, and need not now. Felipe was far too much in sympathy with Ramona to take a just view of the situation. He would be sure to have a quixotic idea of Ramona's right of ownership. It was not impossible that Father Salvierderra might have the same feeling. If so, she must yield; but that would go harder with her than all the rest. Almost the Senora would have been ready to keep the whole thing a secret from the Father, if he had not been at the time of the Senora Ortegna's death fully8 informed of all the particulars of her bequest9 to her adopted child. At any rate, it would be nearly a year before the Father came again, and in the mean time she would not risk writing about it. The treasure was as safe in Saint Catharine's keeping as it had been all these fourteen years; it should still lie hidden there. When Ramona went away with Alessandro, she would write to Father Salvierderra, simply stating the facts in her own way, and telling him that all further questions must wait for decision until they met.
And so she plotted and planned, and mapped out the future in her tireless weaving brain, till she was somewhat soothed10 for the partial failure of her plans.
There is nothing so skilful11 in its own defence as imperious pride. It has an ingenious system of its own, of reprisals12,—a system so ingenious that the defeat must be sore indeed, after which it cannot still find some booty to bring off! And even greater than this ingenuity13 at reprisals is its capacity for self-deception. In this regard, it outdoes vanity a thousandfold. Wounded vanity knows when it is mortally hurt; and limps off the field, piteous, all disguises thrown away. But pride carries its banner to the last; and fast as it is driven from one field unfurls it in another, never admitting that there is a shade less honor in the second field than in the first, or in the third than in the second; and so on till death. It is impossible not to have a certain sort of admiration14 for this kind of pride. Cruel, those who have it, are to all who come in their way; but they are equally cruel to themselves, when pride demands the sacrifice. Such pride as this has led many a forlorn hope, on the earth, when all other motives16 have died out of men's breasts; has won many a crown, which has not been called by its true name.
Before the afternoon was over, the Senora had her plan, her chart of the future, as it were, all reconstructed; the sting of her discomfiture17 soothed; the placid18 quiet of her manner restored; her habitual19 occupations also, and little ways, all resumed. She was going to do “nothing” in regard to Ramona. Only she herself knew how much that meant; how bitterly much! She wished she were sure that Felipe also would do “nothing;” but her mind still misgave20 her about Felipe. Unpityingly she had led him on, and entangled21 him in his own words, step by step, till she had brought him to the position she wished him to take. Ostensibly, his position and hers were one, their action a unit; all the same, she did not deceive herself as to his real feeling about the affair. He loved Ramona. He liked Alessandro. Barring the question of family pride, which he had hardly thought of till she suggested it, and which he would not dwell on apart from her continuing to press it,—barring this, he would have liked to have Alessandro marry Ramona and remain on the place. All this would come uppermost in Felipe's mind again when he was removed from the pressure of her influence. Nevertheless, she did not intend to speak with him on the subject again, or to permit him to speak to her. Her ends would be best attained by taking and keeping the ground that the question of their non-interference having been settled once for all, the painful topic should never be renewed between them. In patient silence they must await Ramona's action; must bear whatever of disgrace and pain she chose to inflict22 on the family which had sheltered her from her infancy23 till now.
The details of the “nothing” she proposed to do, slowly arranged themselves in her mind. There should be no apparent change in Ramona's position in the house. She should come and go as freely as ever; no watch on her movements; she should eat, sleep, rise up and sit down with them, as before; there should be not a word, or act, that Felipe's sympathetic sensitiveness could construe24 into any provocation25 to Ramona to run away. Nevertheless, Ramona should be made to feel, every moment of every hour, that she was in disgrace; that she was with them, but not of them; that she had chosen an alien's position, and must abide26 by it. How this was to be done, the Senora did not put in words to herself, but she knew very well. If anything would bring the girl to her senses, this would. There might still be a hope, the Senora believed, so little did she know Ramona's nature, or the depth of her affection for Alessandro, that she might be in this manner brought to see the enormity of the offence she would commit if she persisted in her purpose. And if she did perceive this, confess her wrong, and give up the marriage,—the Senora grew almost generous and tolerant in her thoughts as she contemplated27 this contingency,—if she did thus humble28 herself and return to her rightful allegiance to the Moreno house, the Senora would forgive her, and would do more for her than she had ever hitherto done. She would take her to Los Angeles and to Monterey; would show her a little more of the world; and it was by no means unlikely that there might thus come about for her a satisfactory and honorable marriage. Felipe should see that she was not disposed to deal unfairly by Ramona in any way, if Ramona herself would behave properly.
Ramona's surprise, when the Senora entered her room just before supper, and, in her ordinary tone, asked a question about the chili29 which was drying on the veranda30, was so great, that she could not avoid showing it both in her voice and look.
The Senora recognized this immediately, but gave no sign of having done so, continuing what she had to say about the chili, the hot sun, the turning of the grapes, etc., precisely31 as she would have spoken to Ramona a week previous. At least, this was what Ramona at first thought; but before the sentences were finished, she had detected in the Senora's eye and tone the weapons which were to be employed against her. The emotion of half-grateful wonder with which she had heard the first words changed quickly to heartsick misery33 before they were concluded; and she said to herself: “That's the way she is going to break me down, she thinks! But she can't do it. I can bear anything for four days; and the minute Alessandro comes, I will go away with him.” This train of thought in Ramona's mind was reflected in her face. The Senora saw it, and hardened herself still more. It was to be war, then. No hope of surrender. Very well. The girl had made her choice.
Margarita was now the most puzzled person in the household. She had overheard snatches of the conversation between Felipe and his mother and Ramona, having let her curiosity get so far the better of her discretion34 as to creep to the door and listen. In fact, she narrowly escaped being caught, having had barely time to begin her feint of sweeping35 the passage-way, when Ramona, flinging the door wide open, came out, after her final reply to the Senora, the words of which Margarita had distinctly heard: “God will punish you.”
“Holy Virgin36! how dare she say that to the Senora?” ejaculated Margarita, under her breath; and the next second Ramona rushed by, not even seeing her. But the Senora's vigilant37 eyes, following Ramona, saw her; and the Senora's voice had a ring of suspicion in it, as she called, “How comes it you are sweeping the passage-way at this hour of the day, Margarita?”
It was surely the devil himself that put into Margarita's head the quick lie which she instantaneously told. “There was early breakfast, Senora, to be cooked for Alessandro, who was setting off in haste, and my mother was not up, so I had it to cook.”
As Margarita said this, Felipe fixed38 his eyes steadily39 upon her. She changed color. Felipe knew this was a lie. He had seen Margarita peering about among the willows40 while he was talking with Alessandro at the sheepfold; he had seen Alessandro halt for a moment and speak to her as he rode past,—only for a moment; then, pricking41 his horse sharply, he had galloped42 off down the valley road. No breakfast had Alessandro had at Margarita's hands, or any other's, that morning. What could have been Margarita's motive15 for telling this lie?
But Felipe had too many serious cares on his mind to busy himself long with any thought of Margarita or her fibs. She had said the first thing which came into her head, most likely, to shelter herself from the Senora's displeasure; which was indeed very near the truth, only there was added a spice of malice43 against Alessandro. A slight undercurrent of jealous antagonism44 towards him had begun to grow up among the servants of late; fostered, if not originated, by Margarita's sharp sayings as to his being admitted to such strange intimacy45 with the family.
While Felipe continued ill, and was so soothed to rest by his music, there was no room for cavil46. It was natural that Alessandro came and went as a physician might. But after Felipe had recovered, why should this freedom and intimacy continue? More than once there had been sullen47 mutterings of this kind on the north veranda, when all the laborers48 and servants were gathered there of an evening, Alessandro alone being absent from the group, and the sounds of his voice or his violin coming from the south veranda, where the family sat.
“It would be a good thing if we too had a bit of music now and then,” Juan Canito would grumble49; “but the lad's chary50 enough of his bow on this side the house.”
“Ho! we're not good enough for him to play to!” Margarita would reply; “'Like master, like servant,' is a good proverb sometimes, but not always. But there's a deal going on, on the veranda yonder, besides fiddling51!” and Margarita's lips would purse themselves up in an expression of concentrated mystery and secret knowledge, well fitted to draw from everybody a fire of questions, none of which, however, would she answer. She knew better than to slander52 the Senorita Ramona, or to say a word even reflecting upon her unfavorably. Not a man or a woman there would have borne it. They all had loved Ramona ever since she came among them as a toddling53 baby. They petted her then, and idolized her now. Not one of them whom she had not done good offices for,—nursed them, cheered them, remembered their birthdays and their saints'-days. To no one but her mother had Margarita unbosomed what she knew, and what she suspected; and old Marda, frightened at the bare pronouncing of such words, had terrified Margarita into the solemnest of promises never, under any circumstances whatever, to say such things to any other member of the family. Marda did not believe them. She could not. She believed that Margarita's jealousy54 had imagined all.
“And the Senora; she'd send you packing off this place in an hour, and me too, long's I've lived here, if ever she was to know of you blackening the Senorita. An Indian, too! You must be mad, Margarita!”
When Margarita, in triumph, had flown to tell her that the Senora had just dragged the Senorita Ramona up the garden-walk, and shoved her into her room and locked the door, and that it was because she had caught her with Alessandro at the washing-stones, Marda first crossed herself in sheer mechanical fashion at the shock of the story, and then cuffed55 Margarita's ears for telling her.
“I'll take the head off your neck, if you say that aloud again! Whatever's come to the Senora! Forty years I've lived under this roof, and I never saw her lift a hand to a living creature yet. You're out of your senses, child!” she said, all the time gazing fearfully towards the room.
“You'll see whether I am out of my senses or not,” retorted Margarita, and ran back to the dining-room. And after the dining-room door was shut, and the unhappy pretence56 of a supper had begun, old Marda had herself crept softly to the Senorita's door and listened, and heard Ramona sobbing57 as if her heart would break. Then she knew that what Margarita had said must be true, and her faithful soul was in sore straits what to think. The Senorita misdemean herself! Never! Whatever happened, it was not that! There was some horrible mistake somewhere. Kneeling at the keyhole, she had called cautiously to Ramona, “Oh, my lamb, what is it?” But Ramona had not heard her, and the danger was too great of remaining; so scrambling58 up with difficulty from her rheumatic knees, the old woman had hobbled back to the kitchen as much in the dark as before, and, by a curiously59 illogical consequence, crosser than ever to her daughter. All the next day she watched for herself, and could not but see that all appearances bore out Margarita's statements. Alessandro's sudden departure had been a tremendous corroboration60 of the story. Not one of the men had had an inkling of it; Juan Canito, Luigo, both alike astonished; no word left, no message sent; only Senor Felipe had said carelessly to Juan Can, after breakfast: “You'll have to look after things yourself for a few days, Juan. Alessandro has gone to Temecula.”
“For a few days!” exclaimed Margarita, sarcastically61, when this was repeated to her. “That's easy said! If Alessandro Assis is seen here again, I'll eat my head! He's played his last tune62 on the south veranda, I wager63 you.”
But when at supper-time of this same eventful day the Senora was heard, as she passed the Senorita's door, to say in her ordinary voice, “Are you ready for supper, Ramona?” and Ramona was seen to come out and walk by the Senora's side to the dining-room; silent, to be sure,—but then that was no strange thing, the Senorita always was more silent in the Senora's presence,—when Marda, standing64 in the court-yard, feigning65 to be feeding her chickens, but keeping a close eye on the passage-ways, saw this, she was relieved, and thought: “It's only a dispute there has been. There will be disputes in families sometimes. It is none of our affair. All is settled now.”
And Margarita, standing in the dining-room, when she saw them all coming in as usual,—the Senora, Felipe, Ramona,—no change, even to her scrutinizing66 eye, in anybody's face, was more surprised than she had been for many a day; and began to think again, as she had more than once since this tragedy began, that she must have dreamed much that she remembered.
But surfaces are deceitful, and eyes see little. Considering its complexity67, the fineness and delicacy68 of its mechanism69, the results attainable70 by the human eye seem far from adequate to the expenditure71 put upon it. We have flattered ourselves by inventing proverbs of comparison in matter of blindness,—“blind as a bat,” for instance. It would be safe to say that there cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms72 of their families. Tempers strain and recover, hearts break and heal, strength falters73, fails, and comes near to giving way altogether, every day, without being noted74 by the closest lookers-on.
Before night of this second day since the trouble had burst like a storm-cloud on the peaceful Moreno household, everything had so resumed the ordinary expression and routine, that a shrewder observer and reasoner than Margarita might well be excused for doubting if any serious disaster could have occurred to any one. Senor Felipe sauntered about in his usual fashion, smoking his cigarettes, or lay on his bed in the veranda, dozing75. The Senora went her usual rounds of inspection76, fed her birds, spoke32 to every one in her usual tone, sat in her carved chair with her hands folded, gazing out on the southern sky. Ramona busied herself with her usual duties, dusted the chapel77, put fresh flowers before all the Madonnas, and then sat down at her embroidery78. Ramona had been for a long time at work on a beautiful altar-cloth for the chapel. It was to have been a present to the Senora. It was nearly done. As she held up the frame in which it was stretched, and looked at the delicate tracery of the pattern, she sighed. It had been with a mingled79 feeling of interest and hopelessness that she had for months been at work on it, often saying to herself, “She won't care much for it, beautiful as it is, just because I did it; but Father Salvierderra will be pleased when he sees it.”
Now, as she wove the fine threads in and out, she thought: “She will never let it be used on the altar. I wonder if I could any way get it to Father Salvierderra, at Santa Barbara. I would like to give it to him. I will ask Alessandro. I'm sure the Senora would never use it, and it would be a shame to leave it here. I shall take it with me.” But as she thought these things, her face was unruffled. A strange composure had settled on Ramona. “Only four days; only four days; I can bear anything for four days!” these words were coming and going in her mind like refrains of songs which haunt one's memory and will not be still. She saw that Felipe looked anxiously at her, but she answered his inquiring looks always with a gentle smile. It was evident that the Senora did not intend that she and Felipe should have any private conversation; but that did not so much matter. After all, there was not so much to be said. Felipe knew all. She could tell him nothing; Felipe had acted for the best, as he thought, in sending Alessandro away till the heat of the Senora's anger should have spent itself.
After her first dismay at suddenly learning that Alessandro had gone, had passed, she had reflected that it was just as well. He would come back prepared to take her with him. How, or where, she did not know; but she would go with no questions. Perhaps she would not even bid the Senora good-by; she wondered how that would arrange itself, and how far Alessandro would have to take her, to find a priest to marry them. It was a terrible thing to have to do, to go out of a home in such a way: no wedding—no wedding clothes—no friends—to go unmarried, and journey to a priest's house, to have the ceremony performed; “but it is not my fault,” said Ramona to herself; “it is hers. She drives me to do it. If it is wrong, the blame will be hers. Father Salvierderra would gladly come here and marry us, if she would send for him. I wish we could go to him, Alessandro and I; perhaps we can. I would not be afraid to ride so far; we could do it in two days.” The more Ramona thought of this, the more it appeared to her the natural thing for them to do. “He will be on our side, I know he will,” she thought. “He always liked Alessandro, and he loves me.”
It was strange how little bitterness toward the Senora was in the girl's mind; how comparatively little she thought of her. Her heart was too full of Alessandro and of their future; and it had never been Ramona's habit to dwell on the Senora in her thoughts. As from her childhood up she had accepted the fact of the Senora's coldness toward her, so now she accepted her injustice80 and opposition81 as part of the nature of things, and not to be altered.
During all these hours, during the coming and going of these crowds of fears, sorrows, memories, anticipations82 in Ramona's heart, all that there was to be seen to the eye was simply a calm, quiet girl, sitting on the veranda, diligently83 working at her lace-frame. Even Felipe was deceived by her calmness, and wondered what it meant,—if it could be that she was undergoing the change that his mother had thought possible, and designated as coming “to her senses.” Even Felipe did not know the steadfast84 fibre of the girl's nature; neither did he realize what a bond had grown between her and Alessandro. In fact, he sometimes wondered of what this bond had been made. He had himself seen the greater part of their intercourse85 with each other; nothing could have been farther removed from anything like love-making. There had been no crisis of incident, or marked moments of experience such as in Felipe's imaginations of love were essential to the fulness of its growth. This is a common mistake on the part of those who have never felt love's true bonds. Once in those chains, one perceives that they are not of the sort full forged in a day. They are made as the great iron cables are made, on which bridges are swung across the widest water-channels,—not of single huge rods, or bars, which would be stronger, perhaps, to look at, but of myriads86 of the finest wires, each one by itself so fine, so frail87, it would barely hold a child's kite in the wind: by hundreds, hundreds of thousands of such, twisted, re-twisted together, are made the mighty88 cables, which do not any more swerve89 from their place in the air, under the weight and jar of the ceaseless traffic and tread of two cities, than the solid earth swerves90 under the same ceaseless weight and jar. Such cables do not break.
Even Ramona herself would have found it hard to tell why she thus loved Alessandro; how it began, or by what it grew. It had not been a sudden adoration91, like his passion for her; it was, in the beginning, simply a response; but now it was as strong a love as his,—as strong, and as unchangeable. The Senora's harsh words had been like a forcing-house air to it, and the sudden knowledge of the fact of her own Indian descent seemed to her like a revelation, pointing out the path in which destiny called her to walk. She thrilled with pleasure at the thought of the joy with which Alessandro would hear this,—the joy and the surprise. She imagined to herself, in hundreds of ways, the time, place, and phrase in which she would tell him. She could not satisfy herself as to the best; as to which would give keenest pleasure to him and to her. She would tell him, as soon as she saw him; it should be her first word of greeting. No! There would be too much of trouble and embarrassment92 then. She would wait till they were far away, till they were alone, in the wilderness93; and then she would turn to him, and say, “Alessandro, my people are your people!” Or she would wait, and keep her secret until she had reached Temecula, and they had begun their life there, and Alessandro had been astonished to see how readily and kindly94 she took to all the ways of the Indian village; and then, when he expressed some such emotion, she would quietly say, “But I too am an Indian, Alessandro!”
Strange, sad bride's dreams these; but they made Ramona's heart beat with happiness as she dreamed them.
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1
discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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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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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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40
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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42
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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43
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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49
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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51
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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52
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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53
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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54
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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cuffed
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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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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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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corroboration
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| n.进一步的证实，进一步的证据 | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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71
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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falters
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的第三人称单数 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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82
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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84
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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89
swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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swerves
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| n.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的名词复数 )v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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92
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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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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