At the sight of him she stopped short and cried, "Have you heard the sad news?"
"No; what sad news?" said Tinker.
"About poor Monsieur Courtnay! He has had an accident; he is laid up at Nice, ill among strangers! I go; I fly to nurse him!"
Madame de Belle-Île's face fell, and then flushed with anger. "You are a horrid3 and detestable boy!" she cried angrily.
"Oh, no! I'm not! It's quite true," said Tinker quietly, and he looked at her seriously. He wanted to warn her; then he saw that he could not do so without revealing Claire's secret. "I wish I could tell you about him," he went on. "But I can't. He really is a sweep!"
"Au revoir," said Tinker gently.
But she only tossed her head, and hurried on. Yet Tinker's honest expression of opinion had impressed her: she had a belief in the instinct of children generally and, like most people who came into contact with him, she had a strong belief in the instinct of Tinker. She tried to forget his words; but they kept recurring5 to her, and in spite of herself, unconsciously, they put her on her guard.
Tinker watched her out of sight, then he had half a thought of telling Claire that she had gone to Courtnay, doubtless at his summons. But he saw quickly that there was no need, and dismissed the thought from his mind. Also, he kept out of his cousin's way for some days; he had a feeling that,—however grateful she might be to him, the sight of him, reminding her of how badly Courtnay had behaved, would be unpleasant to her.
However, he watched her from a distance, and saw that she was pale and listless. Then he saw with great pleasure that Lord Crosland contrived6 to be with her a good deal, that he even neglected the system for her. But for all this pleasure, he was not quite easy in his mind; the knowledge that he had done his grand-uncle Bumpkin the service of saving him from such a son-in-law as Courtnay was a discomfort7 to him: he felt that this was a matter which must be set right, and he kept his eyes open for a chance. He looked, too, for the return of Courtnay and Madame de Belle-Île; but the days passed and they did not return.
One morning he found himself in an unhappy mood. It seemed to him that his wits had come to a standstill; for three days no new mischief8 had come the way of his idle hands, and his regular, dally9, mischievous10 practices had grown so regular as almost to have acquired the tastelessness of duties. The peculiar11 brightness and gaiety of Monte Carlo life had begun to pall12 upon him. Loneliness was eating into his soul; for of all the French boys who paraded the gardens of the Temple of Fortune, he could make nothing. Their costumes, which were of velvet13 and satin and lace, revolted him; their lack of spirit, their distaste for violent movement, their joy in parading their revolting costumes filled him with wondering contempt. As for the little French girls, he was at any time uninterested in girls; and these spindle-shanked precocities walked on two-inch heels, and tried to fascinate him with the graces of mature coquettes. His careful politeness was hard put to it to conceal15 his distaste for their conversation. Possibly he was hankering after a healthier life; but at any rate he, who was generally so full of energy, had mooned listlessly about the gardens all the morning, with a far-away look in his eyes, and the air of a strayed seraph16.
During his mooning about he had passed several times a little girl who looked English. She sat on a seat in the far corner—a strange, shy, timid child, watching with a half-frightened wonder the strikingly-dressed women and children who strolled up and down, chattering17 shrilly18. He gave her but indifferent glances as he passed; but, thanks to his father's careful training of his natural gift of observation, the indifferent glance of that child of the world took in more of a fellow-creature than most men's careful scrutiny20. He saw that she was frail21 and big-eyed, that her frock was ill-fitting and shabby, her hat shabbier, her shoes ready-made, that she wore no gloves, and that her mass of silky hair owed its unsuccessful attempts at tidiness to her own brushing. He summed her up as that archetype of patience, the gambler's neglected child.
Just before he went to his déjeuner, he saw that she was sitting there still. He took that meal with his father and Lord Crosland; and instead of hurrying off, directly he had eaten his dessert, to some pressing and generally mischievous business, he sat listening to their talk over their coffee and cigars, and only left them at the doors of the Casino. He strolled along the terrace, moody22 and disconsolate23, able to think of nothing to amuse him, and, as he came to the end of the gardens, he saw a group of French children gathered in front of the seat on which the little girl was sitting, and, coming nearer, he heard jeering24 cries of "Sale Anglaise! Sale Anglaise!"
In a flash Tinker's face shone with a very ecstasy25 of pure delight, and he swooped26 down on the group. The child was clutching the arm of the seat, and staring at her tormentors with parted lips and terrified eyes. For their part, they were enjoying themselves to the full. They had found a game which afforded them the maximum of pleasure, with the minimum of effort; and just as Tinker swooped down, a cropped and bullet-headed boy in blue velvet threw a handful of gravel27 into her face. She threw up her hands and burst into tears; the children's laughter rose to a shrill19 yell; and with extreme swiftness Tinker caught the bullet-headed boy a ringing box on the right ear and another on the left. The boy squealed28, turned, clawing and kicking, on Tinker, and, in ten seconds of crowded life, had learned the true significance of those cryptic29 terms an upper-cut on the potato-trap, a hook on the jaw30, a rattler on the conk, and a buster on the mark. He lay down on the path to digest the lesson, and his little friends fled, squealing31, away.
Tinker's face was one bright, seraphic smile as he took off his hat, and, with an admirable bow, said, "May I take you to your people?"
The bullet-headed boy rose to his feet and staggered away.
"Uncle's still in that big house," said the little girl, striving bravely to check her sobs.
"That's a nuisance," said Tinker thoughtfully; "for we can't get at him."
"I think he's forgotten all about me. He often does," said the little girl, without any resentment33; and she dusted the gravel off her frock.
"I might bolt in and remind him."
"They won't let us in—only grown-ups," said the little girl. "Uncle tried to get them to let me in; but they wouldn't."
"They're used to letting me in," said Tinker—"and hauling me out again," he added. "It brightens them up. You tell me what he's like."
Being a girl, the child was able to describe her uncle accurately34: but when she had done, Tinker shook his head:
"He must be just like a dozen other Englishmen in there," he said. "And they wouldn't give me time to ask each one if he were your uncle."
The little girl sighed, and said, "It doesn't matter, thank you," and, sitting down again on the seat, resumed her patient waiting, drooping35 forward with eyes rather dim.
Tinker studied her face, and his keen eye told him what was wrong.
"Have you had déjeuner?" he said sharply.
"No-o-o," said the little girl reluctantly.
"Then you've had nothing since your coffee this morning?"
"No, but it doesn't matter. Uncle is rather forgetful," said the little girl, but her lips moved at the thought of food as a hungry child's will.
"This won't do at all! Come along with me. It's rather late, but we'll find something."
Her face brightened for a moment; but she shook her head, and said, "No, I mustn't go away from here. Uncle might come back, and he would be so angry if he had to look for me."
Tinker shrugged36 his shoulders, turned on his heel, and was gone. She looked after him sadly. She would have liked him to stay a little longer; it was so nice to talk to an English boy after ten days in this strange land; and he seemed such a nice boy. But she only drooped37 a little more, and stared out over the bright sea with misty38 eyes, composing herself to endure her hunger.
Tinker went swiftly to the restaurant of the Hôtel des Princes, where the waiters greeted him with affectionate grins, and, addressing himself to the manager, set forth39 his new friend's plight40, and his wishes. The manager fell in with them on the instant, only too pleased to have the chance of obliging his most popular customer; and, in five minutes, Tinker left the restaurant followed by a waiter bearing a tray of dainties, all carefully chosen to tempt14 the appetite of a child. They took their way to the gardens, and the little girl brightened up at the sight of the returning Tinker. But when the waiter set the tray on the seat, she flushed painfully, and though she could not draw her hungry eyes away from the food, she stammered41, "T-t-thank you very m-m-much. B-b-but I haven't any money."
Tinker gave the waiter a couple of francs, and bade him come for the tray in half an hour. Then he said cheerfully, "That's all right. The food's paid for; and whether you eat it or not makes no difference. In fact, you may as well."
The child looked from his face to the food and back again, wavering; then said, with a little gasp42, "Oh, I am so hungry."
Tinker took this for a consent, put some aspic of pâté de foie gras on her plate, and watched her satisfy her hunger with great pleasure, which was not lessened43 by the fact that, for all her hunger, she ate with a delicate niceness. He had feared from her neglected air that her manners had also been neglected. After the aspic, he carved the breast of the chicken for her, helped her to salad, and mixed the ice water with the sirop to exactly the strength he liked himself; after the chicken, he helped her to meringues, and after the meringues lighted the kirsch of the poires au kirsch, which he had chosen because it always pleased him to see the kirsch burn, and ate one of the pears himself, while she ate the others. When she had finished her little sigh of content warmed his heart.
He put the tray behind the seat, and settled down beside her for a talk. Now that she was no longer hungry, she was no longer woebegone, and her laugh, though faint, was so pretty that he found himself making every effort to set her laughing. They talked about themselves with the simple egoism of children; and he learned that her name was Elsie Brand; that she was ten years old—nearly two years younger than himself—that her mother had died many years ago, and that she had lived with her father in his Devonshire parsonage by the sea till last year, when he, too, had died. Then her Uncle Richard had taken her away to live with him in London. Her story of her life in London lodgings44 set Tinker wondering about that Uncle Richard, and piecing together the details Elsie let fall about his late rising, his late going to bed, his morning headache and distaste for breakfast, he came to the conclusion that he was a bad hat who lived by his somewhat inferior wits.
At the end of her story he tried to persuade her to come to the sea with him and seek amusement there. But he failed; she would not leave the seat. He gathered, indeed, from her fear of vexing46 her uncle that that bad hat was in the habit of slapping her if she angered him, and, for a breath, he was filled with a fierce indignation which surprised him; she looked so frail. But he did not ask her if it were so, for his delicacy47 forewarned him that the question would provoke a struggle between her loyalty48 and her truthfulness49. He entertained her, therefore, with his reminiscences, and enjoyed to the full the admiration50 and wonder which filled her face as he talked. Absorbed in one another, they paid no heed51 to the passing of the hours; and the sudden fall of twilight52 surprised them.
They began to speculate whether Uncle Richard had had enough of his gambling53, and would come and fetch her. But, even now, Elsie was not impatient, so inured54 had she been to neglect. She only looked anxious again. Tinker, on the other hand, was impatient, very impatient, with Uncle Richard, whom he was disposed to regard as a gentleman in great need of a kicking. Moreover, the chill hour after sunset, so dangerous on that littoral55, was upon them, and he considered with disquiet56 the thin stuff of the child's frock.
Presently he said abruptly57, "I've promised my father to wear an overcoat during the fever hour. I must be off and get it, and a wrap for you. You won't be frightened, if I leave you alone?"
"Well, walk up and down quickly, so that you don't get a chill. If you keep near the seat, your uncle can't miss you if he comes."
"Very well," said Elsie, rising obediently. "Only—only—if you could get back soon."
"I will," said Tinker, and he bolted for the hotel.
Elsie walked up and down, trying to feel brave, but the odd shapes which the bushes assumed in the dim light daunted59 her not a little, and she strove to drive away the fancy that she saw people lurking60 among them. Tinker was gone a bare seven minutes; but to the timid child it seemed a very long while, and she welcomed his return with a gasp of relief.
He wore a smart, close-fitting brown racing61 overcoat, which reached to his ankles; and for her he brought his fur-lined ulster.
"Here I am," he said cheerfully. "Get into this," and he held out the ulster.
She put her arms into the sleeves, and he drew it around her and buttoned it up.
"You are a kind boy," she said, with a little break in her voice. A sudden strong but inexplicable62 impulse moved Tinker; he bent63 forward and kissed her on the lips.
While you might count a score the children stood quite still, staring at one another with eyes luminous64 in the starlight. Elsie's face was one pink flush, and Tinker was scarlet.
"That—that was a very funny kiss," she said in a curious voice.
"Oh, what's a kiss?" said Tinker, with forced bravado65, consumed with boyish shame for the lapse66.
"I—I—liked it," said Elsie. "No one has kissed me since father died." And her breath seemed to catch.
"Girls like kissing," said Tinker in a tone of a dispassionate observer. Then he seemed to thrust the matter away from him with some eagerness: and, slipping her arm through his, he said, "Come on, let's walk up and down."
They walked up and down, chattering away, till eight o'clock. Then he said, "My father will be expecting me; he dines at eight. Won't you come too?"
"No, no, thank you. I must wait for Uncle Richard; I must really." But her arm tightened67 round his involuntarily.
Tinker thought a while. The gardens were brighter now. The stars were shining with their full radiance, and the lamps were alight, so that even their retired68 corner was faintly bright.
"Well, you go on walking up and down. You won't feel so lonely as sitting still, and I'll be back as soon as I can;" he said, and off he went.
He found his father and Lord Crosland beginning their soup, and, sitting down, he told them of Elsie's plight. They were duly sympathetic; and his father at once gave him leave to take some dinner to her, and dine with her. Thereupon, after a brief but serious conference with the manager, Tinker departed, again followed by a waiter with a tray. Elsie had not looked for his return for a long while; and she was indeed pleased to be so soon freed from the struggle against her timidity.
They ate their dinner with great cheerfulness and good appetite, and for an hour after it they chattered69 away happily. Then Elsie grew drowsy70, very drowsy, indeed, and presently, nestled against Tinker, she fell asleep. Fortunately, the southern night was warm, and, in the fur-lined ulster, she could take no harm. He sat holding her to him, listening to her breathing, looking out over the sea, and revolving71 many memories and more schemes, till, at last, the lights began to dance before his eyes, and he, too, fell asleep.
He knew no more until he was awakened72 by someone shaking his arm, and found his father and Lord Crosland standing73 over them.
The lamps of the Casino and the gardens were out; only the dim starlight lighted the scene. The two children sat up and stared about them—Elsie sleepily, Tinker wide awake.
"We've found you at last. Hasn't your little friend's uncle come for her?" said Sir Tancred.
"No one has come," said Tinker.
Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland looked at one another.
"Desertion," murmured Lord Crosland softly.
"Well, come along," said Sir Tancred cheerfully. "We must put her up for to-night."
The children slipped off the seat; Tinker put Elsie's arm through his, and, holding her up when she stumbled over the long ulster, followed his father and Lord Crosland.
There were some empty bedrooms in their corridor, and Elsie was settled for the night in one of them.
Tinker awoke next morning, very cheerful at the thought of having a companion to join in his amusements. He made haste to knock at Elsie's door, and bid her come out for a swim before their coffee. She was soon dressed and found him waiting for her. She flushed a little as she greeted him, and he greeted her with a seraph's smile.
"I thought you'd like a bathe before our coffee," he said.
"It would be nice," said Elsie wistfully. "But my hair—it is such a trouble, even without being wetted by sea-water."
Tinker looked at the fine silky mass of it, and said with sympathetic seriousness, "I saw it was beyond you; but we'll manage."
He caught her hand, they ran down the stairs, out of the hotel, and most of the way to the beach. Then he took her to a lady's bathing-tent, and instructed the attendant to provide Elsie with the prettiest costume she had; changed himself, and in five minutes they were in the sea. To his joy, he found that she could swim nearly as well as he. But he was very careful of her, and the moment she looked cold he took her ashore75.
They came back to the hotel very hungry; and Tinker led the way through the passages at the back of the hall, down into the hotel kitchen, where he was welcomed with affectionate joy by the kitchen staff. The end of a long table had been laid with the finest napery and plate of the hotel; they sat down at it, and were forthwith served with an exquisitely77 cooked dish of fresh mullet, wonderful hot cakes, and steaming cups of fragrant78 café au lait. As he breakfasted, Tinker conversed79 with the chattering staff with a cheerful kindliness80 and a thorough knowledge of all their private concerns, keeping Elsie informed of the matters under discussion by such phrases as "It's Adolphe's wife; she beats him;" or, "Lucie has consulted a fortune-teller, who says she is going to marry a millionaire;" or, "Jean's eldest81 daughter has just made her first communion; they say she looked like a pretty little angel." But he did not tell her of the chaffing congratulations heaped on him on the prospect82 of his settling down with his beautiful blonde demoiselle. He accepted them with a smile of angelic indulgence.
When they had done they went upstairs; and, on the way, Tinker said, "I must have a shot at that hair of yours; it—it really gets on my nerves."
"It's no use," said Elsie with her ready flush. "I brush it as well as I can; but I can't do it very well, there's such a lot of it."
"Well, I'll do what I can," said Tinker, and he measured with thoughtful eye the silken mass, tangled83 and matted by the sea-water.
He led the way into his room, and set her in a chair, took off his coat, turned up his sleeves, took his hair brushes, and began upon it. It was his first essay as coiffeur, but his natural and trained deftness84 stood him in good stead. He kept a watchful85 eye on her face in the glass, and whenever it puckered86, brushed more gently; but, at times, in his absorption in his task, he so far forgot himself as to hiss87 like a groom88 cleaning a horse. In the middle of it Sir Tancred came in, and it was significant that he saw Tinker's occupation without a smile, made no joke upon it, but seemed to take it as the most natural thing in the world that his son should be discharging a function of the lady's maid. He greeted the children gravely, sat down, and watched the brushing with a respectful attention. Now and again he asked Elsie a question, which seemed too idle to be impertinent, but her answers told him all he wished to know; and presently he felt, with Tinker, that her uncle was a gentleman in great need of kicking.
At last Tinker had finished; Elsie rose with a luxurious89 sigh, and he looked at his work with fond pride. It was very beautiful, fine hair; and its sheen of changing light well repaid him for his trouble. Sir Tancred proposed that they should stroll down to the Casino, and find her uncle. Lord Crosland joined them in the hall and went with them. When they came to the Casino, they found a little crowd already gathered about its doors, waiting for them to open.
But Richard Brand was not in it, and at once Elsie's face grew anxious. As soon as the doors opened, Sir Tancred went in to ask if her uncle has made any inquiries90 about Elsie, or left word where she might find him. In ten minutes he came out again and said, "No; he has made no inquiries. Suppose you stroll with Elsie along towards the Condamine, Crosland; that is the way he would come. Tinker and I will wait here."
Lord Crosland looked at his face, said, "Come along, missie," and strolled off with the anxious child.
When they were out of hearing, Sir Tancred said, "I'm afraid the child is in a bad mess. This disgusting uncle of hers lost every penny at roulette last night; and the authorities, with their usual kindness, took his ticket to London, and put him in the train with twenty-five francs in his pocket."
"What a cad!" said Tinker shortly.
"Well, she is on our hands, and we must look after her till we can make arrangements—deposit her in a home or something."
Tinker said nothing for a while; he seemed plunged91 in profound thought. He kicked a little stone ten yards away; then raised his eyes to his father's face and said, in the firm voice of one whose mind is made up, "I should like to adopt her."
"Adopt her?" said Sir Tancred with some surprise.
"Yes; I should like to, very much."
"Well, thanks to your industry in the matter of flying-machines and stolen children, you have a nice little income, so we needn't consider the question of expense. You can afford it. But in what capacity would you adopt her—as father, uncle, guardian92, or what? The formalities must be observed."
"I think as a brother," said Tinker.
Sir Tancred thought a while, then he said, "You will find it a great responsibility."
"Yes; but I don't mind. I—I like her, don't you know!"
Sir Tancred's stern face relaxed into one of his rare and charming smiles. "Very good," he said. "You shall adopt her."
"Thank you, sir," said Tinker, and his smile matched his father's. "And may I have some money to dress her? Her clothes are dreadful."
"They are," said Sir Tancred; and, taking out his notecase, he gave him a thousand-franc note.
"Thank you," said Tinker, beaming. "I'll break it to her about her uncle."
He hurried off towards the Condamine, and overtaking Elsie and Lord Crosland, told her that it was all right, that they had arranged to take care of her for a few days, and carried her away to fetch Blazer, for his morning walk. It is to be feared that he gave her the impression that her uncle had been a party to the arrangement, but by a flood of talk he diverted successfully her mind from the matter. From an unworthy jealousy93 Blazer was at first disposed to sniff94 at Elsie, but when he found that she joined heartily95 in the few poor amusements the place afforded an honest dog, he became more gracious. The children made their déjeuner with Sir Tancred and Lord Crosland, and after it, having restored the reluctant Blazer to his lodging45 in the basement of the hotel, they took the train to Nice.
Tinker hired the largest commissionaire at the station and bought a small trunk, which he gave him to carry. Then he went straight to Madame Aline's and, having insisted on seeing Madame herself, explained that the bright and elaborate fashions affected96 by the little French girls would not suit Elsie.
Madame agreed with him, but said, "Simplicity97 is so expensive."
Tinker waved away the consideration, and showed Madame the thousand-franc note. At once she fell a victim to his irresistible98 charm, and set about meeting his taste with the liveliest energy, with the result that in less than an hour Elsie was provided with an evening frock of an exquisite76 shade of heliotrope99, an afternoon frock of no less exquisite shade of blue, and a hat, stockings, and gloves to match. They were packed in the trunk, and with them two pairs of shoes, which Madame sent for from a no less expensive bootmaker, and various other garments.
When they came out of her shop, Tinker considered for a while the hole he had made in the thousand-franc note, and said, "The time has come to be economical."
He examined the shops with a keen eye till he came to one which seemed more of the popular kind, and there he bought a frock of serge and three of dark-blue linen100, stouter102 shoes, slippers103, and two hats. Here he waited while Elsie changed, and when she came out, looking another creature, he said with a sigh of relief, "I knew you'd look all right if you had a chance."
They had ices at a café, and caught a train back to Monte Carlo. Elsie seemed dazed with her sudden wealth, while Tinker was full of a quiet, restful satisfaction. But it was in the evening that the great triumph came. When she came out of her room in her evening frock, Tinker regarded her for a moment with a satisfaction that was almost solemn, then he turned her round and said, "We match."
"There's no doubt about it," said Tinker, with calm, dispassionate, and judicial105 impartiality106.
When they came into the restaurant there was a faint murmur74 of delighted surprise from the tables they passed; and one stout101, but sentimental107 baroness108 cried, "Violà des séraphin!"
And truly, if you can conceive of a seraph in an Eton suit, a low-cut white waistcoat, and a white tie, there was something in what she said.
At the sight of them Sir Tancred smiled, and Lord Crosland said, "I congratulate you on your taste, young people."
"It was Tinker's," said Elsie; and she looked at him with a world of thankfulness and devotion in her eyes.
After dinner Tinker was uncomfortable. He felt bound to break to Elsie her uncle's desertion, and he was afraid of tears. With a vague notion of emphasising the difference between her uncle's régime and his own, he led the way to the corner of the gardens where they had first met and, standing before the seat on which she had waited so long and hungrily, he said, "I say, don't you think we could do without your uncle?"
"Do without uncle?" said Elsie surprised.
"Yes; suppose, instead of living with your uncle and his looking after you, you lived with us, and I looked after you? Suppose you were to be my adopted sister?"
"For good and all?" said Elsie in a hushed voice.
"Yes."
For answer she threw her arms round his neck, kissed him, and cried, "Oh, I do love you so."
"We'll consider it settled, then," he said.
Elsie loosed him. With a little deprecating cough, and a delicate tentativeness, he said, "About kissing, of course, now that you're my sister you have a right to kiss me sometimes; and—and—of course it's all right. But don't you think you could manage with once a day—when we say good-night?"
"In the morning, too," said Elsie greedily.
"Well, twice a day," said Tinker with a sigh.
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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dally
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| v.荒废(时日)，调情 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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seraph
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| n.六翼天使 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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21
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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23
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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25
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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28
squealed
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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30
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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31
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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32
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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33
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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34
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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35
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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36
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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39
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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40
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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41
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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43
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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44
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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45
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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46
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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49
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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littoral
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| adj.海岸的；湖岸的；n.沿（海）岸地区 | |
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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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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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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76
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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80
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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81
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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82
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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83
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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84
deftness
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85
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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86
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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88
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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92
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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94
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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96
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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97
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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98
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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99
heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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100
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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102
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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103
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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104
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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106
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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107
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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108
baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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109
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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