When Campton took his sketch1 of George to Léonce Black, the dealer2 who specialized3 in “Camptons,” he was surprised at the magnitude of the sum which the great picture-broker, lounging in a glossy4 War Office uniform among his Gauguins and Vuillards, immediately offered.
Léonce Black noted6 his surprise and smiled. “You think there’s nothing doing nowadays? Don’t you believe it, Mr. Campton. Now that the big men have stopped painting, the collectors are all the keener to snap up what’s left in their portfolios7.” He placed the cheque in Campton’s hand, and drew back to study the effect of the sketch, which he had slipped into a frame against a velvet8 curtain. “Ah——” he said, as if he were tasting an old wine.
As Campton turned to go the dealer’s enthusiasm bubbled over. “Haven’t you got anything more? Remember me if you have.”
“I don’t sell my sketches,” said Campton. “This was exceptional—for a charity....”
“I know, I know. Well, you’re likely to have a good many more calls of the same sort before we get this 162war over,” the dealer remarked philosophically9. “Anyhow, remember I can place anything you’ll give me. When people want a Campton it’s to me they come. I’ve got standing10 orders from two clients ... both given before the war, and both good to-day.”
Campton paused in the doorway11, seized by his old fear of the painting’s passing into Anderson Brant’s possession.
“Look here: where is this one going?”
The dealer cocked his handsome grey head and glanced archly through plump eyelids12. “Violation of professional secrecy13? Well.... Well ... under constraint14 I’ll confess it’s to a young lady: great admirer, artist herself. Had her order by cable from New York a year ago. Been on the lookout15 ever since.”
“Oh, all right,” Campton answered, repocketing the money.
He set out at once for “The Friends of French Art,” and Léonce Black, bound for the Ministry16 of War, walked by his side, regaling him alternately with the gossip of the Ministry and with racy anecdotes17 of the dealers18’ world. In M. Black’s opinion the war was an inexcusable blunder, since Germany was getting to be the best market for the kind of freak painters out of whom the dealers who “know how to make a man ‘foam’” can make a big turn over. “I don’t know what on earth will become of all those poor devils now: Paris cared for them only because she knew Germany would 163give any money for their things. Personally, as you know, I’ve always preferred sounder goods: I’m a classic, my dear Campton, and I can feel only classic art,” said the dealer, swelling19 out his uniformed breast and stroking his Assyrian nose as though its handsome curve followed the pure Delphic line. “But, as long as things go on as they are at present in my department of the administration, the war’s not going to end in a hurry,” he continued. “And now we’re in for it, we’ve got to see the thing through.”
Campton found Boylston, as usual, in his melancholy20 cabinet particulier. He was listening to the tale of a young woman with streaming eyes and an extravagant21 hat. She was so absorbed in her trouble that she did not notice Campton’s entrance, and behind her back the painter made a sign to say that she was not to be interrupted.
He was as much interested in the suppliant’s tale as in watching Boylston’s way of listening. That modest and commonplace-looking young man was beginning to excite a lively curiosity in Campton. It was not only that he remembered George’s commendation, for he knew that the generous enthusiasms of youth may be inspired by trifles imperceptible to the older. It was Boylston himself who interested the painter. He knew no more of the young man than the scant22 details Miss Anthony could give. Boylston, it appeared, was the oldest hope of a well-to-do Connecticut family. On his 164leaving college a place had been reserved for him in the paternal23 business; but he had announced good-humouredly that he did not mean to spend his life in an office, and one day, after a ten minutes’ conversation with his father, as to which details were lacking, he had packed a suitcase and sailed for France. There he had lived ever since, in shabby rooms in the rue24 de Verneuil, on the scant allowance remitted25 by an irate26 parent: apparently27 never running into debt, yet always ready to help a friend.
All the American art-students in Paris knew Boylston; and though he was still in the early thirties, they all looked up to him. For Boylston had one quality which always impresses youth: Boylston knew everybody. Whether you went with him to a smart restaurant in the rue Royale, or to a wine-shop of the Left Bank, the patron welcomed him with the same cordiality, and sent the same emphatic28 instructions to the cook. The first fresh peas and the tenderest spring chicken were always for this quiet youth, who, when he was alone, dined cheerfully on veal29 and vin ordinaire. If you wanted to know where to get the best Burgundy, Boylston could tell you; he could also tell you where to buy an engagement ring for your girl, a Ford30 runabout going at half-price, or the papier timbré on which to address a summons to a recalcitrant31 laundress.
If you got into a row with your landlady32 you found that Boylston knew her, and that at sight of him she 165melted and withdrew her claim; or, failing this, he knew the solicitor33 in whose office her son was a clerk, or had other means of reducing her to reason. Boylston also knew a man who could make old clocks go, another who could clean flannels34 without their shrinking, and a third who could get you old picture-frames for a song; and, best of all, when any inexperienced American youth was caught in the dark Parisian cobweb (and the people at home were on no account to hear about it) Boylston was found to be the friend and familiar of certain occult authorities who, with a smile and a word of warning, could break the mesh35 and free the victim.
The mystery was, how and why all these people did what Boylston wanted; but the reason began to dawn on Campton as he watched the young woman in the foolish hat deliver herself of her grievance36. Boylston was simply a perfect listener—and most of his life was spent in listening. Everything about him listened: his round forehead and peering screwed-up eyes, his lips twitching37 responsively under the close-clipped moustache, and every crease38 and dimple of his sagacious and humorous young countenance39; even the attitude of his short fat body, with elbows comfortably bedded in heaped up papers, and fingers plunged40 into his crinkled hair. There was never a hint of hurry or impatience41 about him: having once asserted his right to do what he liked with his life, he was apparently content 166to let all his friends prey42 on it. You never caught his eye on the clock, or his lips shaping an answer before you had turned the last corner of your story. Yet when the story was told, and he had surveyed it in all its bearings, you could be sure he would do what he could for you, and do it before the day was over.
“Very well, Mademoiselle,” he said, when the young woman had finished. “I promise you I’ll see Mme. Beausite, and try to get her to recognize your claim.”
“Mind you, I don’t ask charity—I won’t take charity from your committee!” the young lady hissed43, gathering44 up a tawdry hand-bag.
“Oh, we’re not forcing it on any one,” smiled Boylston, opening the door for her.
When he turned back to Campton his face was flushed and frowning. “Poor thing! She’s a nuisance, but I’ll fight to the last ditch for her. The chap she lives with was Beausite’s secretary and understudy, and devilled for him before the war. The poor fellow has come back from the front a complete wreck45, and can’t even collect the salary Beausite owes him for the last three months before the war. Beausite’s plea is that he’s too poor, and that the war lets him out of paying. Of course he counts on our doing it for him.”
“And you’re not going to?”
“Well,” said Boylston humorously, “I shouldn’t wonder if he beat us in the long run. But I’ll have a try first; and anyhow the poor girl needn’t know. She 167used to earn a little money doing fashion-articles, but of course there’s no market for that now, and I don’t see how the pair can live. They have a little boy, and there’s an infirm mother, and they’re waiting to get married till the girl can find a job.”
“Good Lord!” Campton groaned46, with a sudden vision of the countless47 little trades and traffics arrested by the war, and all the industrious48 thousands reduced to querulous pauperism49 or slow death.
“How do they live—all these people?”
“They don’t—always. I could tell you——”
“Don’t, for God’s sake; I can’t stand it.” Campton drew out the cheque. “Here: this is what I’ve got for the Davrils.”
“Good Lord!” said Boylston, staring with round eyes.
“It will pull them through, anyhow, won’t it?” Campton triumphed.
“Well——” said Boylston. “It will if you’ll endorse50 it,” he added, smiling. Campton laughed and took up a pen.
A day or two later Campton, returning home one afternoon, overtook a small black-veiled figure with a limp like his own. He guessed at once that it was the lame51 Davril girl, come to thank him; and his dislike of such ceremonies caused him to glance about for a way of escape. But as he did so the girl turned with a smile 168that put him to shame. He remembered Adele Anthony’s saying, one day when he had found her in her refugee office patiently undergoing a like ordeal52: “We’ve no right to refuse the only coin they can repay us in.”
The Davril girl was a plain likeness53 of her brother, with the same hungry flame in her eyes. She wore the nondescript black that Campton had remarked at the funeral; and knowing the importance which the French attach to every detail of conventional mourning, he wondered that mother and daughter had not laid out part of his gift in crape. But doubtless the equally strong instinct of thrift54 had caused Mme. Davril to put away the whole sum.
Mlle. Davril greeted Campton pleasantly, and assured him that she had not found the long way from Villejuif to Montmartre too difficult.
“I would have gone to you,” the painter protested; but she answered that she wanted to see with her own eyes where her brother’s friend lived.
In the studio she looked about her with a quick searching glance, said “Oh, a piano——” as if the fact were connected with the object of her errand—and then, settling herself in an armchair, unclasped her shabby hand-bag.
“Monsieur, there has been a misunderstanding; this money is not ours.” She laid Campton’s cheque on the table.
A flush of annoyance55 rose to the painter’s face. What 169on earth had Boylston let him in for? If the Davrils were as proud as all that it was not worth while to have sold a sketch it had cost him such a pang56 to part with. He felt the exasperation57 of the would be philanthropist when he first discovers that nothing complicates58 life as much as doing good.
“But, Mademoiselle——”
“This money is not ours. If René had lived he would never have sold your picture; and we would starve rather than betray his trust.”
When stout59 ladies in velvet declare that they would starve rather than sacrifice this or that principle, the statement has only the cold beauty of rhetoric60; but on the drawn61 lips of a thinly-clad young woman evidently acquainted with the process, it becomes a fiery62 reality.
“Starve—nonsense! My dear young lady, you betray him when you talk like that,” said Campton, moved.
She shook her head. “It depends, Monsieur, which things matter most to one. We shall never—my mother and I—do anything that René would not have done. The picture was not ours: we brought it back to you——”
“But if the picture’s not yours it’s mine,” Campton interrupted; “and I’d a right to sell it, and a right to do what I choose with the money.”
His visitor smiled. “That’s what we feel; it was 170what I was coming to.” And clasping her threadbare glove-tips about the arms of the chair Mlle. Davril set forth63 with extreme precision the object of her visit.
It was to propose that Campton should hand over the cheque to “The Friends of French Art,” devoting one-third to the aid of the families of combatant painters, the rest to young musicians and authors. “It doesn’t seem right that only the painters’ families should benefit by what your committee are doing. And René would have thought so too. He knew so many young men of letters and journalists who, before the war, just managed to keep their families alive; and in my profession I could tell you of poor music-teachers and accompanists whose work stopped the day war broke out, and who have been living ever since on the crusts their luckier comrades could spare them. René would have let us accept from you help that was shared with others: he would have been so glad, often, of a few francs to relieve the misery64 we see about us. And this great sum might be the beginning of a co-operative work for artists ruined by the war.”
She went on to explain that in the families of almost all the young artists at the front there was at least one member at home who practised one of the arts, or who was capable of doing some kind of useful work. The value of Campton’s gift, Mlle. Davril argued, would be tripled if it were so employed as to give the artists and their families occupation: producing at 171least the illusion that those who could were earning their living, or helping65 their less fortunate comrades. “It’s not only a question of saving their dignity: I don’t believe much in that. You have dignity or you haven’t—and if you have, it doesn’t need any saving,” this clear-toned young woman remarked. “The real question, for all of us artists, is that of keeping our hands in, and our interest in our work alive; sometimes, too, of giving a new talent its first chance. At any rate, it would mean work and not stagnation66; which is all that most charity produces.”
She developed her plan: for the musicians, concerts in private houses (hence her glance at the piano); for the painters, small exhibitions in the rooms of the committee, where their pictures would be sold with the deduction67 of a percentage, to be returned to the general fund; and for the writers—well, their lot was perhaps the hardest to deal with; but an employment agency might be opened, where those who chose could put their names down and take such work as was offered. Above all, Mlle. Davril again insisted, the fund created by Campton’s gift was to be spent only in giving employment, not for mere68 relief.
Campton listened with growing attention. Nothing hitherto had been less in the line of his interests than the large schemes of general amelioration which were coming to be classed under the transatlantic term of “Social Welfare.” If questioned on the subject a few 172months earlier he would probably have concealed69 his fundamental indifference70 under the profession of an extreme individualism, and the assertion of every man’s right to suffer and starve in his own way. Even since René Davril’s death had brought home to him the boundless71 havoc72 of the war, he had felt no more than the impulse to ease his own pain by putting his hand in his pocket when a particular case was too poignant73 to be ignored.
Yet here were people who had already offered their dearest to France, and were now pleading to be allowed to give all the rest; and who had had the courage and wisdom to think out in advance the form in which their gift would do most good. Campton had the awe74 of the unpractical man for anyone who knows how to apply his ideas. He felt that there was no use in disputing Mlle. Davril’s plan: he must either agree to it or repocket his cheque.
“I’ll do as you want, of course; but I’m not much good about details. Hadn’t you better consult some one else?” he suggested.
Oh, that was already done: she had outlined her project to Miss Anthony and Mr. Boylston, who approved. All she wanted was Campton’s consent; and this he gave the more cordially when he learned that, for the present at least, nothing more was expected of him. First steps in beneficence, he felt, were unspeakably terrifying; yet he was already aware that, 173resist as he might, he would never be able to keep his footing on the brink75 of that abyss.
Into it, as the days went by, his gaze was oftener and oftener plunged. He had begun to feel that pity was his only remaining link with his kind, the one barrier between himself and the dreadful solitude76 which awaited him when he returned to his studio. What would there have been to think of there, alone among his unfinished pictures and his broken memories, if not the wants and woes77 of people more bereft78 than himself? His own future was not a thing to dwell on. George was safe: but what George and he were likely to make of each other after the ordeal was over was a question he preferred to put aside. He was more and more taking George and his safety for granted, as a solid standing-ground from which to reach out a hand to the thousands struggling in the depths. As long as the world’s fate was in the balance it was every man’s duty to throw into that balance his last ounce of brain and muscle. Campton wondered how he had ever thought that an accident of birth, a remoteness merely geographical79, could justify80, or even make possible, an attitude of moral aloofness81. Harvey Mayhew’s reasons for wishing to annihilate82 Germany began to seem less grotesque83 than his own for standing aside.
In the heat of his conversion84 he no longer grudged85 the hours given to Mr. Mayhew. He patiently led his truculent86 relative from one government office to another, 174everywhere laying stress on Mr. Mayhew’s sympathy with France and his desire to advocate her cause in the United States, and trying to curtail87 his enumeration88 of his grievances89 by a glance at the clock, and the reminder90 that they had another Minister to see. Mr. Mayhew was not very manageable. His adventure had grown with repetition, and he was increasingly disposed to feel that the retaliation91 he called down on Germany could best be justified92 by telling every one what he had suffered from her. Intensely aware of the value of time in Utica, he was less sensible of it in Paris, and seemed to think that, since he had left a flourishing business to preach the Holy War, other people ought to leave their affairs to give him a hearing. But his zeal93 and persistence94 were irresistible95, and doors which Campton had seen barred against the most reasonable appeals flew open at the sound of Mr. Mayhew’s trumpet96. His pink face and silvery hair gave him an apostolic air, and circles to which America had hitherto been a mere speck97 in space suddenly discovered that he represented that legendary98 character, the Typical American.
The keen Boylston, prompt to note and utilize99 the fact, urged Campton to interest Mr. Mayhew in “The Friends of French Art,” and with considerable flourish the former Peace Delegate was produced at a committee meeting and given his head. But his interest flagged when he found that the “Friends” concerned 175themselves with Atrocities100 only in so far as any act of war is one, and that their immediate5 task was the humdrum101 one of feeding and clothing the families of the combatants and sending “comforts” to the trenches102. He served up, with a somewhat dog-eared eloquence103, the usual account of his own experiences, and pressed a modest gift upon the treasurer104; but when he departed, after wringing105 everybody’s hands, and leaving the French members bedewed with emotion, Campton had the conviction that their quiet weekly meetings would not often be fluttered by his presence.
Campton was spending an increasing amount of time in the Palais Royal restaurant, where he performed any drudgery106 for which no initiative was required. Once or twice, when Miss Anthony was submerged by a fresh influx107 of refugees, he lent her a hand too; and on most days he dropped in late at her office, waited for her to sift108 and dismiss the last applicants109, and saw her home through the incessant110 rain. It interested him to note that the altruism111 she had so long wasted on pampered112 friends was developing into a wise and orderly beneficence. He had always thought of her as an eternal schoolgirl; now she had grown into a woman. Sometimes he fancied the change dated from the moment when their eyes had met across the station, the day they had seen George off. He wondered whether it might not be interesting to paint her new face, if ever painting became again thinkable.
In himself he imagined the capacity to be quite dead. He loved his son: yes—but he was beginning to see that he loved him for certain qualities he had read into him, and that perhaps after all——. Well, perhaps after all the sin for which he was now atoning114 in loneliness was that of having been too exclusively an artist, of having cherished George too egotistically and self-indulgently, too much as his own most beautiful creation. If he had loved him more humanly, more tenderly and recklessly, might he have not put into his son the tenderness and recklessness which were beginning to seem to him the qualities most supremely115 human?
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1
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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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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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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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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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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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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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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mesh
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| n.网孔，网丝，陷阱；vt.以网捕捉，啮合，匹配；vi.适合； [计算机]网络 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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40
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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41
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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42
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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43
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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44
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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45
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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46
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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47
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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48
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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50
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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53
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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54
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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56
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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57
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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58
complicates
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| 使复杂化( complicate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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61
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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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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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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81
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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82
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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83
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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85
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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curtail
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| vt.截短，缩短；削减 | |
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enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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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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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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97
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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99
utilize
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| vt.使用，利用 | |
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100
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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101
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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102
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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103
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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104
treasurer
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| n.司库，财务主管 | |
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105
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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106
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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107
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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108
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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109
applicants
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| 申请人，求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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110
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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111
altruism
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| n.利他主义，不自私 | |
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112
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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114
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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115
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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