“I doubt you’ll see a soul of them till four o’clock, when Ernestine, that’s one of Paula’s sisters, is going to wallop me at tennis—at least so she’s threatened and pledged.”
And Graham sat through the lunch, where only men sat, took his part in the conversation on breeds and breeding, learned much, contributed a mite1 from his own world-experiences, and was unable to shake from his eyes the persistent2 image of his hostess, the vision of the rounded and delicate white of her against the dark wet background of the swimming stallion. And all the afternoon, looking over prize Merinos and Berkshire gilts4, continually that vision burned up under his eyelids5. Even at four, in the tennis court, himself playing against Ernestine, he missed more than one stroke because the image of the flying ball would suddenly be eclipsed by the image of a white marble figure of a woman that strove and clung on the back of a great horse.
Graham, although an outlander, knew his California, and, while every girl of the swimming suits was gowned for dinner, was not surprised to find no man similarly accoutered. Nor had he made the mistake of so being himself, despite the Big House and the magnificent scale on which it operated.
Between the first and second gongs, all the guests drifted into the long dining room. Sharp after the second gong, Dick Forrest arrived and precipitated6 cocktails8. And Graham impatiently waited the appearance of the woman who had worried his eyes since noon. He was prepared for all manner of disappointment. Too many gorgeous stripped athletes had he seen slouched into conventional garmenting, to expect too much of the marvelous creature in the white silken swimming suit when it should appear garbed10 as civilized11 women garb9.
He caught his breath with an imperceptible gasp12 when she entered. She paused, naturally, for just the right flash of an instant in the arched doorway13, limned14 against the darkness behind her, the soft glow of the indirect lighting15 full upon her. Graham’s lips gasped16 apart, and remained apart, his eyes ravished with the beauty and surprise of her he had deemed so small, so fairy-like. Here was no delicate midget of a child-woman or boy-girl on a stallion, but a grand lady, as only a small woman can be grand on occasion.
Taller in truth was she, as well as in seeming, than he had judged her, and as finely proportioned in her gown as in her swimming suit. He noted17 her shining gold-brown hair piled high; the healthy tinge18 of her skin that was clean and clear and white; the singing throat, full and round, incomparably set on a healthy chest; and the gown, dull blue, a sort of medieval thing with half-fitting, half-clinging body, with flowing sleeves and trimmings of gold-jeweled bands.
She smiled an embracing salutation and greeting. Graham recognized it as kin3 to the one he had seen when she smiled from the back of the stallion. When she started forward, he could not fail to see the inimitable way she carried the cling and weight of her draperies with her knees—round knees, he knew, that he had seen press desperately19 into the round muscle-pads of Mountain Lad. Graham observed, also, that she neither wore nor needed corseting. Nor could he fail, as she crossed the floor, to see two women: one, the grand lady, the mistress of the Big House; one, the lovely equestrienne statue beneath the dull-blue, golden-trimmed gown, that no gowning could ever make his memory forget.
She was upon them, among them, and Graham’s hand held hers in the formal introduction as he was made welcome to the Big House and all the hacienda in a voice that he knew was a singing voice and that could proceed only from a throat that pillared, such as hers, from a chest deep as hers despite her smallness.
At table, across the corner from her, he could not help a surreptitious studying of her. While he held his own in the general fun and foolishness, it was his hostess that mostly filled the circle of his eye and the content of his mind.
It was as bizarre a company as Graham had ever sat down to dinner with. The sheep-buyer and the correspondent for the Breeders’ Gazette were still guests. Three machine-loads of men, women, and girls, totaling fourteen, had arrived shortly before the first gong and had remained to ride home in the moonlight. Graham could not remember their names; but he made out that they came from some valley town thirty miles away called Wickenberg, and that they were of the small-town banking20, professional, and wealthy-farmer class. They were full of spirits, laughter, and the latest jokes and catches sprung in the latest slang.
“I see right now,” Graham told Paula, “if your place continues to be the caravanserai which it has been since my arrival, that I might as well give up trying to remember names and people.”
“I don’t blame you,” she laughed concurrence21. “But these are neighbors. They drop in any time. Mrs. Watson, there, next to Dick, is of the old land-aristocracy. Her grandfather, Wicken, came across the Sierras in 1846. Wickenberg is named after him. And that pretty dark-eyed girl is her daughter....”
And while Paula gave him a running sketch22 of the chance guests, Graham heard scarce half she said, so occupied was he in trying to sense his way to an understanding of her. Naturalness was her keynote, was his first judgment23. In not many moments he had decided24 that her key-note was joy. But he was dissatisfied with both conclusions, and knew he had not put his finger on her. And then it came to him—pride. That was it! It was in her eye, in the poise25 of her head, in the curling tendrils of her hair, in her sensitive nostrils26, in the mobile lips, in the very pitch and angle of the rounded chin, in her hands, small, muscular and veined, that he knew at sight to be the hard-worked hands of one who had spent long hours at the piano. Pride it was, in every muscle, nerve, and quiver of her—conscious, sentient27, stinging pride.
She might be joyous28 and natural, boy and woman, fun and frolic; but always the pride was there, vibrant29, tense, intrinsic, the basic stuff of which she was builded. She was a woman, frank, outspoken30, straight-looking, plastic, democratic; but toy she was not. At times, to him, she seemed to glint an impression of steel—thin, jewel-like steel. She seemed strength in its most delicate terms and fabrics32. He fondled the impression of her as of silverspun wire, of fine leather, of twisted hair-sennit from the heads of maidens33 such as the Marquesans make, of carven pearl-shell for the lure34 of the bonita, and of barbed ivory at the heads of sea-spears such as the Eskimos throw.
“All right, Aaron,” they heard Dick Forrest’s voice rising, in a lull35, from the other end of the table. “Here’s something from Phillips Brooks36 for you to chew on. Brooks said that no man ’has come to true greatness who has not felt in some degree that his life belongs to his race, and that what God gives him, he gives him for mankind.’”
“So at last you believe in God?” the man, addressed Aaron, genially37 sneered38 back. He was a slender, long-faced olive-brunette, with brilliant black eyes and the blackest of long black beards.
“I’m hanged if I know,” Dick answered. “Anyway, I quoted only figuratively. Call it morality, call it good, call it evolution.”
“A man doesn’t have to be intellectually correct in order to be great,” intruded39 a quiet, long-faced Irishman, whose sleeves were threadbare and frayed40. “And by the same token many men who are most correct in sizing up the universe have been least great.”
“True for you, Terrence,” Dick applauded.
“It’s a matter of definition,” languidly spoke31 up an unmistakable Hindoo, crumbling41 his bread with exquisitely42 slender and small-boned fingers. “What shall we mean as great?"
“Shall we say beauty?" softly queried43 a tragic-faced youth, sensitive and shrinking, crowned with an abominably44 trimmed head of long hair.
Ernestine rose suddenly at her place, hands on table, leaning forward with a fine simulation of intensity45.
“They’re off!” she cried. “They’re off! Now we’ll have the universe settled all over again for the thousandth time. Theodore"—to the youthful poet—"it’s a poor start. Get into the running. Ride your father ion and your mother ion, and you’ll finish three lengths ahead.”
Ernestine turned on the black-bearded one:
“Now, Aaron. He’s not in form. You start it. You know how. Begin: ’As Bergson so well has said, with the utmost refinement47 of philosophic48 speech allied49 with the most comprehensive intellectual outlook that....’”
More laughter roared down the table, drowning Ernestine’s conclusion as well as the laughing retort of the black-bearded one.
“Our philosophers won’t have a chance to-night,” Paula stole in an aside to Graham.
“Philosophers?” he questioned back. “They didn’t come with the Wickenberg crowd. Who and what are they? I’m all at sea.”
“They—” Paula hesitated. “They live here. They call themselves the jungle-birds. They have a camp in the woods a couple of miles away, where they never do anything except read and talk. I’ll wager50, right now, you’ll find fifty of Dick’s latest, uncatalogued books in their cabins. They have the run of the library, as well, and you’ll see them drifting in and out, any time of the day or night, with their arms full of books—also, the latest magazines. Dick says they are responsible for his possessing the most exhaustive and up-to-date library on philosophy on the Pacific Coast. In a way, they sort of digest such things for him. It’s great fun for Dick, and, besides, it saves him time. He’s a dreadfully hard worker, you know.”
“I understand that they... that Dick takes care of them?” Graham asked, the while he pleasured in looking straight into the blue eyes that looked so straight into his.
As she answered, he was occupied with noting the faintest hint of bronze—perhaps a trick of the light—in her long, brown lashes51. Perforce, he lifted his gaze to her eyebrows52, brown, delicately stenciled53, and made sure that the hint of bronze was there. Still lifting his gaze to her high-piled hair, he again saw, but more pronounced, the bronze note glinting from the brown-golden hair. Nor did he fail to startle and thrill to a dazzlement of smile and teeth and eye that frequently lived its life in her face. Hers was no thin smile of restraint, he judged. When she smiled she smiled all of herself, generously, joyously54, throwing the largess of all her being into the natural expression of what was herself and which domiciled somewhere within that pretty head of hers.
“Yes,” she was saying. “They have never to worry, as long as they live, over mere55 bread and butter. Dick is most generous, and, rather immoral56, in his encouragement of idleness on the part of men like them. It’s a funny place, as you’ll find out until you come to understand us. They... they are appurtenances, and—and hereditaments, and such things. They will be with us always until we bury them or they bury us. Once in a while one or another of them drifts away—for a time. Like the cat, you know. Then it costs Dick real money to get them back. Terrence, there—Terrence McFane—he’s an epicurean anarchist57, if you know what that means. He wouldn’t kill a flea58. He has a pet cat I gave him, a Persian of the bluest blue, and he carefully picks her fleas59, not injuring them, stores them in a vial, and turns them loose in the forest on his long walks when he tires of human companionship and communes with nature.
“Well, only last year, he got a bee in his bonnet—the alphabet. He started for Egypt—without a cent, of course—to run the alphabet down in the home of its origin and thereby60 to win the formula that would explain the cosmos61. He got as far as Denver, traveling as tramps travel, when he mixed up in some I. W. W. riot for free speech or something. Dick had to hire lawyers, pay fines, and do just about everything to get him safe home again.
“And the one with a beard—Aaron Hancock. Like Terrence, he won’t work. Aaron’s a Southerner. Says none of his people ever did work, and that there have always been peasants and fools who just couldn’t be restrained from working. That’s why he wears a beard. To shave, he holds, is unnecessary work, and, therefore, immoral. I remember, at Melbourne, when he broke in upon Dick and me, a sunburnt wild man from out the Australian bush. It seems he’d been making original researches in anthropology62, or folk-lore-ology, or something like that. Dick had known him years before in Paris, and Dick assured him, if he ever drifted back to America, of food and shelter. So here he is.”
“And the poet?” Graham asked, glad that she must still talk for a while, enabling him to study the quick dazzlement of smile that played upon her face.
“Oh, Theo—Theodore Malken, though we call him Leo. He won’t work, either. His people are old Californian stock and dreadfully wealthy; but they disowned him and he disowned them when he was fifteen. They say he is lunatic, and he says they are merely maddening. He really writes some remarkable63 verse... when he does write; but he prefers to dream and live in the jungle with Terrence and Aaron. He was tutoring immigrant Jews in San Francisco, when Terrence and Aaron rescued him, or captured him, I don’t know which. He’s been with us two years now, and he’s actually filling out, despite the facts that Dick is absurdly generous in furnishing supplies and that they’d rather talk and read and dream than cook. The only good meals they get is when they descend64 upon us, like to-night.”
“And the Hindoo, there—who’s he?”
“That’s Dar Hyal. He’s their guest. The three of them invited him up, just as Aaron first invited Terrence, and as Aaron and Terrence invited Leo. Dick says, in time, three more are bound to appear, and then he’ll have his Seven Sages65 of the Madroño Grove66. Their jungle camp is in a madroño grove, you know. It’s a most beautiful spot, with living springs, a canyon—but I was telling you about Dar Hyal.
“He’s a revolutionist, of sorts. He’s dabbled67 in our universities, studied in France, Italy, Switzerland, is a political refugee from India, and he’s hitched68 his wagon69 to two stars: one, a new synthetic70 system of philosophy; the other, rebellion against the tyranny of British rule in India. He advocates individual terrorism and direct mass action. That’s why his paper, Kadar, or Badar, or something like that, was suppressed here in California, and why he narrowly escaped being deported71; and that’s why he’s up here just now, devoting himself to formulating72 his philosophy.
“He and Aaron quarrel tremendously—that is, on philosophical73 matters. And now—” Paula sighed and erased74 the sigh with her smile—"and now, I’m done. Consider yourself acquainted. And, oh, if you encounter our sages more intimately, a word of warning, especially if the encounter be in the stag room: Dar Hyal is a total abstainer75; Theodore Malken can get poetically76 drunk, and usually does, on one cocktail7; Aaron Hancock is an expert wine-bibber; and Terrence McFane, knowing little of one drink from another, and caring less, can put ninety-nine men out of a hundred under the table and go right on lucidly77 expounding78 epicurean anarchy79.”
One thing Graham noted as the dinner proceeded. The sages called Dick Forrest by his first name; but they always addressed Paula as “Mrs. Forrest,” although she called them by their first names. There was nothing affected80 about it. Quite unconsciously did they, who respected few things under the sun, and among such few things not even work— quite unconsciously, and invariably, did they recognize the certain definite aloofness81 in Dick Forrest’s wife so that her given name was alien to their lips. By such tokens Evan Graham was not slow in learning that Dick Forrest’s wife had a way with her, compounded of sheerest democracy and equally sheer royalty82.
It was the same thing, after dinner, in the big living room. She dared as she pleased, but nobody assumed. Before the company settled down, Paula seemed everywhere, bubbling over with more outrageous83 spirits than any of them. From this group or that, from one corner or another, her laugh rang out. And her laugh fascinated Graham. There was a fibrous thrill in it, most sweet to the ear, that differentiated84 it from any laugh he had ever heard. It caused Graham to lose the thread of young Mr. Wombold’s contention85 that what California needed was not a Japanese exclusion86 law but at least two hundred thousand Japanese coolies to do the farm labor87 of California and knock in the head the threatened eight-hour day for agricultural laborers88. Young Mr. Wombold, Graham gleaned89, was an hereditary90 large land-owner in the vicinity of Wickenberg who prided himself on not yielding to the trend of the times by becoming an absentee landlord.
From the piano, where Eddie Mason was the center of a group of girls, came much noise of ragtime91 music and slangtime song. Terrence McFane and Aaron Hancock fell into a heated argument over the music of futurism. And Graham was saved from the Japanese situation with Mr. Wombold by Dar Hyal, who proceeded to proclaim Asia for the Asiatics and California for the Californians.
Paula, catching92 up her skirts for speed, fled down the room in some romp93, pursued by Dick, who captured her as she strove to dodge94 around the Wombold group.
“Wicked woman,” Dick reproved her in mock wrath95; and, the next moment, joined her in persuading Dar Hyal to dance.
And Dar Hyal succumbed96, flinging Asia and the Asiatics to the winds, along with his arms and legs, as he weirdly97 parodied98 the tango in what he declared to be the “blastic” culmination99 of modern dancing.
Forrest, his arm still about her, detaining her for the threatened punishment not yet inflicted101, shook his head somberly.
“The Acorn Song!” Ernestine called from the piano; and the cry was taken up by Eddie Mason and the girls.
“Oh, do, Dick,” Paula pleaded. “Mr. Graham is the only one who hasn’t heard it.”
Dick shook his head.
“Then sing him your Goldfish Song.”
“I’ll sing him Mountain Lad’s song,” Dick bullied102, a whimsical sparkle in his eyes. He stamped his feet, pranced103, nickered a not bad imitation of Mountain Lad, tossed an imaginary mane, and cried:
“Hear me! I am Eros! I stamp upon the hills!”
“The Acorn Song,” Paula interrupted quickly and quietly, with just the hint of steel in her voice.
Dick obediently ceased his chant of Mountain Lad, but shook his head like a stubborn colt.
“I have a new song,” he said solemnly. “It is about you and me, Paula. I got it from the Nishinam.”
“The Nishinam are the extinct aborigines of this part of California,” Paula shot in a swift aside of explanation to Graham.
Dick danced half a dozen steps, stiff-legged, as Indians dance, slapped his thighs104 with his palms, and began a new chant, still retaining his hold on his wife.
“Me, I am Ai-kut, the first man of the Nishinam. Ai-kut is the short for Adam, and my father and my mother were the coyote and the moon. And this is Yo-to-to-wi, my wife. She is the first woman of the Nishinam. Her father and her mother were the grasshopper105 and the ring-tailed cat. They were the best father and mother left after my father and mother. The coyote is very wise, the moon is very old; but who ever heard much of anything of credit to the grasshopper and the ring-tailed cat? The Nishinam are always right. The mother of all women had to be a cat, a little, wizened106, sad-faced, shrewd ring-tailed cat.”
Whereupon the song of the first man and woman was interrupted by protests from the women and acclamations from the men.
“This is Yo-to-to-wi, which is the short for Eve,” Dick chanted on, drawing Paula bruskly closer to his side with a semblance107 of savage108 roughness. “Yo-to-to-wi is not much to look at. But be not hard upon her. The fault is with the grasshopper and the ring-tailed cat. Me, I am Ai-kut, the first man; but question not my taste. I was the first man, and this, I saw, was the first woman. Where there is but one choice, there is not much to choose. Adam was so circumstanced. He chose Eve. Yo-to-to-wi was the one woman in all the world for me, so I chose Yo-to-to-wi.”
And Evan Graham, listening, his eyes on that possessive, encircling arm of all his hostess’s fairness, felt an awareness109 of hurt, and arose unsummoned the thought, to be dismissed angrily, “Dick Forrest is lucky—too lucky.”
“Me, I am Ai-kut,” Dick chanted on. “This is my dew of woman. She is my honey-dew of woman. I have lied to you. Her father and her mother were neither hopper nor cat. They were the Sierra dawn and the summer east wind of the mountains. Together they conspired110, and from the air and earth they sweated all sweetness till in a mist of their own love the leaves of the chaparral and the manzanita were dewed with the honey-dew.
“Yo-to-to-wi is my honey-dew woman. Hear me! I am Ai-kut. Yo-to-to-wi is my quail111 woman, my deer-woman, my lush-woman of all soft rain and fat soil. She was born of the thin starlight and the brittle112 dawn-light before the sun . . .
“And,” Forrest concluded, relapsing into his natural voice and enunciation113, having reached the limit of extemporization,—"and if you think old, sweet, blue-eyed Solomon has anything on me in singing the Song of Songs, just put your names down for the subscription114 edition of my Song of Songs.”
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1
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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gilts
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| n.镀金[银]材料，金[银]色涂层( gilt的名词复数 )；高度可靠的证券，金边证券；除去诱人的外表；让人扫兴 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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precipitated
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| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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limned
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| v.画( limn的过去式和过去分词 )；勾画；描写；描述 | |
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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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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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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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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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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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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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42
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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43
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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44
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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45
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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46
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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47
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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48
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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49
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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50
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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51
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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52
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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53
stenciled
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| v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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57
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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58
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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59
fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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61
cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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62
anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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63
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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64
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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65
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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66
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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dabbled
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| v.涉猎( dabble的过去式和过去分词 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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68
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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69
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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deported
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| v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 )；举止 | |
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formulating
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| v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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abstainer
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| 节制者，戒酒者，弃权者 | |
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poetically
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| adv.有诗意地，用韵文 | |
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lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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expounding
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的现在分词 ) | |
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79
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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81
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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82
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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83
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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84
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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85
contention
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| n.争论，争辩，论战；论点，主张 | |
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86
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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88
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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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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91
ragtime
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| n.拉格泰姆音乐 | |
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92
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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93
romp
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| n.欢闹；v.嬉闹玩笑 | |
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94
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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95
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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96
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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97
weirdly
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| 古怪地 | |
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98
parodied
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| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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100
acorn
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| n.橡实，橡子 | |
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101
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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105
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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106
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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107
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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108
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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109
awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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110
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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111
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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112
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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113
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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114
subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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