“Let me pass,” said the Duke, rather breathlessly. “Thank you. Make way please. Thanks.” And with quick-pulsing heart he made his way down the aisle4 to the front row. There awaited him a surprise that was like a douche of cold water full in his face. Zuleika was not there! It had never occurred to him that she herself might not be punctual.
The Warden5 was there, reading his programme with an air of great solemnity. “Where,” asked the Duke, “is your grand-daughter?” His tone was as of a man saying “If she is dead, don’t break it gently to me.”
“My grand-daughter?” said the Warden. “Ah, Duke, good evening.”
“She’s not ill?”
“Oh no, I think not. She said something about changing the dress she wore at dinner. She will come.” And the Warden thanked his young friend for the great kindness he had shown to Zuleika. He hoped the Duke had not let her worry him with her artless prattle6. “She seems to be a good, amiable7 girl,” he added, in his detached way.
Sitting beside him, the Duke looked curiously8 at the venerable profile, as at a mummy’s. To think that this had once been a man! To think that his blood flowed in the veins9 of Zuleika! Hitherto the Duke had seen nothing grotesque10 in him—had regarded him always as a dignified11 specimen12 of priest and scholar. Such a life as the Warden’s, year following year in ornamental13 seclusion14 from the follies15 and fusses of the world, had to the Duke seemed rather admirable and enviable. Often he himself had (for a minute or so) meditated16 taking a fellowship at All Souls and spending here in Oxford17 the greater part of his life. He had never been young, and it never had occurred to him that the Warden had been young once. To-night he saw the old man in a new light—saw that he was mad. Here was a man who—for had he not married and begotten18 a child?—must have known, in some degree, the emotion of love. How, after that, could he have gone on thus, year by year, rusting19 among his books, asking no favour of life, waiting for death without a sign of impatience20? Why had he not killed himself long ago? Why cumbered he the earth?
On the dais an undergraduate was singing a song entitled “She Loves Not Me.” Such plaints are apt to leave us unharrowed. Across the footlights of an opera-house, the despair of some Italian tenor21 in red tights and a yellow wig22 may be convincing enough. Not so, at a concert, the despair of a shy British amateur in evening dress. The undergraduate on the dais, fumbling23 with his sheet of music while he predicted that only when he were “laid within the church-yard cold and grey” would his lady begin to pity him, seemed to the Duke rather ridiculous; but not half so ridiculous as the Warden. This fictitious24 love-affair was less nugatory25 than the actual humdrum26 for which Dr. Dobson had sold his soul to the devil. Also, little as one might suspect it, the warbler was perhaps expressing a genuine sentiment. Zuleika herself, belike, was in his thoughts.
As he began the second stanza27, predicting that when his lady died too the angels of heaven would bear her straight to him, the audience heard a loud murmur28, or subdued29 roar, outside the Hall. And after a few bars the warbler suddenly ceased, staring straight in front of him as though he saw a vision. Automatically, all heads veered30 in the direction of his gaze. From the entrance, slowly along the aisle, came Zuleika, brilliant in black.
To the Duke, who had rapturously risen, she nodded and smiled as she swerved31 down on the chair beside him. She looked to him somehow different. He had quite forgiven her for being late: her mere32 presence was a perfect excuse. And the very change in her, though he could not define it, was somehow pleasing to him. He was about to question her, but she shook her head and held up to her lips a black-gloved forefinger34, enjoining35 silence for the singer, who, with dogged British pluck, had harked back to the beginning of the second stanza. When his task was done and he shuffled36 down from the dais, he received a great ovation37. Zuleika, in the way peculiar38 to persons who are in the habit of appearing before the public, held her hands well above the level of her brow, and clapped them with a vigour39 demonstrative not less of her presence than of her delight.
“And now,” she asked, turning to the Duke, “do you see? do you see?”
“Something, yes. But what?”
He knew now what made the difference. It was that her little face was flanked by two black pearls.
“Think,” said she, “how deeply I must have been brooding over you since we parted!”
“Is this really,” he asked, pointing to the left ear-ring, “the pearl you wore to-day?”
“Yes. Isn’t it strange? A man ought to be pleased when a woman goes quite unconsciously into mourning for him—goes just because she really does mourn him.”
“I am more than pleased. I am touched. When did the change come?”
“I don’t know. I only noticed it after dinner, when I saw myself in the mirror. All through dinner I had been thinking of you and of—well, of to-morrow. And this dear sensitive pink pearl had again expressed my soul. And there was I, in a yellow gown with green embroideries41, gay as a jacamar, jarring hideously42 on myself. I covered my eyes and rushed upstairs, rang the bell and tore my things off. My maid was very cross.”
Cross! The Duke was shot through with envy of one who was in a position to be unkind to Zuleika. “Happy maid!” he murmured. Zuleika replied that he was stealing her thunder: hadn’t she envied the girl at his lodgings43? “But I,” she said, “wanted only to serve you in meekness44. The idea of ever being pert to you didn’t enter into my head. You show a side of your character as unpleasing as it was unforeseen.”
“Perhaps then,” said the Duke, “it is as well that I am going to die.” She acknowledged his rebuke45 with a pretty gesture of penitence46. “You may have been faultless in love,” he added; “but you would not have laid down your life for me.”
“Oh,” she answered, “wouldn’t I though? You don’t know me. That is just the sort of thing I should have loved to do. I am much more romantic than you are, really. I wonder,” she said, glancing at his breast, “if YOUR pink pearl would have turned black? And I wonder if YOU would have taken the trouble to change that extraordinary coat you are wearing?”
In sooth, no costume could have been more beautifully Cimmerian than Zuleika’s. And yet, thought the Duke, watching her as the concert proceeded, the effect of her was not lugubrious47. Her darkness shone. The black satin gown she wore was a stream of shifting high-lights. Big black diamonds were around her throat and wrists, and tiny black diamonds starred the fan she wielded48. In her hair gleamed a great raven’s wing. And brighter, brighter than all these were her eyes. Assuredly no, there was nothing morbid49 about her. Would one even (wondered the Duke, for a disloyal instant) go so far as to say she was heartless? Ah no, she was merely strong. She was one who could tread the tragic50 plane without stumbling, and be resilient in the valley of the shadow. What she had just said was no more than the truth: she would have loved to die for him, had he not forfeited51 her heart. She would have asked no tears. That she had none to shed for him now, that she did but share his exhilaration, was the measure of her worthiness52 to have the homage53 of his self-slaughter.
“By the way,” she whispered, “I want to ask one little favour of you. Will you, please, at the last moment to-morrow, call out my name in a loud voice, so that every one around can hear?”
“Of course I will.”
“So that no one shall ever be able to say it wasn’t for me that you died, you know.”
“Yes, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t—at such a moment.”
“Thank you.” His face glowed.
Thus did they commune, these two, radiant without and within. And behind them, throughout the Hall, the undergraduates craned their necks for a glimpse. The Duke’s piano solo, which was the last item in the first half of the programme, was eagerly awaited. Already, whispered first from the lips of Oover and the others who had come on from the Junta56, the news of his resolve had gone from ear to ear among the men. He, for his part, had forgotten the scene at the Junta, the baleful effect of his example. For him the Hall was a cave of solitude—no one there but Zuleika and himself. Yet almost, like the late Mr. John Bright, he heard in the air the beating of the wings of the Angel of Death. Not awful wings; little wings that sprouted57 from the shoulders of a rosy58 and blindfold59 child. Love and Death—for him they were exquisitely60 one. And it seemed to him, when his turn came to play, that he floated, rather than walked, to the dais.
He had not considered what he would play tonight. Nor, maybe, was he conscious now of choosing. His fingers caressed61 the keyboard vaguely62; and anon this ivory had voice and language; and for its master, and for some of his hearers, arose a vision. And it was as though in delicate procession, very slowly, listless with weeping, certain figures passed by, hooded63, and drooping65 forasmuch as by the loss of him whom they were following to his grave their own hold on life had been loosened. He had been so beautiful and young. Lo, he was but a burden to be carried hence, dust to be hidden out of sight. Very slowly, very wretchedly they went by. But, as they went, another feeling, faint at first, an all but imperceptible current, seemed to flow through the procession; and now one, now another of the mourners would look wanly66 up, with cast-back hood64, as though listening; and anon all were listening on their way, first in wonder, then in rapture67; for the soul of their friend was singing to them: they heard his voice, but clearer and more blithe68 than they had ever known it—a voice etherealised by a triumph of joy that was not yet for them to share. But presently the voice receded69, its echoes dying away into the sphere whence it came. It ceased; and the mourners were left alone again with their sorrow, and passed on all unsolaced, and drooping, weeping.
Soon after the Duke had begun to play, an invisible figure came and stood by and listened; a frail70 man, dressed in the fashion of 1840; the shade of none other than Frederic Chopin. Behind whom, a moment later, came a woman of somewhat masculine aspect and dominant71 demeanour, mounting guard over him, and, as it were, ready to catch him if he fell. He bowed his head lower and lower, he looked up with an ecstasy72 more and more intense, according to the procedure of his Marche Funebre. And among the audience, too, there was a bowing and uplifting of heads, just as among the figures of the mourners evoked73. Yet the head of the player himself was all the while erect74, and his face glad and serene75. Nobly sensitive as was his playing of the mournful passages, he smiled brilliantly through them.
And Zuleika returned his gaze with a smile not less gay. She was not sure what he was playing. But she assumed that it was for her, and that the music had some reference to his impending76 death. She was one of the people who say “I don’t know anything about music really, but I know what I like.” And she liked this; and she beat time to it with her fan. She thought her Duke looked very handsome. She was proud of him. Strange that this time yesterday she had been wildly in love with him! Strange, too, that this time to-morrow he would be dead! She was immensely glad she had saved him this afternoon. To-morrow! There came back to her what he had told her about the omen54 at Tankerton, that stately home: “On the eve of the death of a Duke of Dorset, two black owls77 come always and perch78 on the battlements. They remain there through the night, hooting79. At dawn they fly away, none knows whither.” Perhaps, thought she, at this very moment these two birds were on the battlements.
The music ceased. In the hush80 that followed it, her applause rang sharp and notable. Not so Chopin’s. Of him and his intense excitement none but his companion was aware. “Plus fin33 que Pachmann!” he reiterated81, waving his arms wildly, and dancing.
“Tu auras une migraine affreuse. Rentrons, petit coeur!” said George Sand, gently but firmly.
“Laisse-moi le saluer,” cried the composer, struggling in her grasp.
“Demain soir, oui. Il sera parmi nous,” said the novelist, as she hurried him away. “Moi aussi,” she added to herself, “je me promets un beau plaisir en faisant la connaissance de ce jeune homme.”
Zuleika was the first to rise as “ce jeune homme” came down from the dais. Now was the interval82 between the two parts of the programme. There was a general creaking and scraping of pushed-back chairs as the audience rose and went forth83 into the night. The noise aroused from sleep the good Warden, who, having peered at his programme, complimented the Duke with old-world courtesy and went to sleep again. Zuleika, thrusting her fan under one arm, shook the player by both hands. Also, she told him that she knew nothing about music really, but that she knew what she liked. As she passed with him up the aisle, she said this again. People who say it are never tired of saying it.
Outside, the crowd was greater than ever. All the undergraduates from all the Colleges seemed now to be concentrated in the great Front Quadrangle of Judas. Even in the glow of the Japanese lanterns that hung around in honour of the concert, the faces of the lads looked a little pale. For it was known by all now that the Duke was to die. Even while the concert was in progress, the news had spread out from the Hall, through the thronged84 doorway, down the thronged steps, to the confines of the crowd. Nor had Oover and the other men from the Junta made any secret of their own determination. And now, as the rest saw Zuleika yet again at close quarters, and verified their remembrance of her, the half-formed desire in them to die too was hardened to a vow85.
You cannot make a man by standing a sheep on its hind-legs. But by standing a flock of sheep in that position you can make a crowd of men. If man were not a gregarious86 animal, the world might have achieved, by this time, some real progress towards civilisation87. Segregate88 him, and he is no fool. But let him loose among his fellows, and he is lost—he becomes just an unit in unreason. If any one of the undergraduates had met Miss Dobson in the desert of Sahara, he would have fallen in love with her; but not one in a thousand of them would have wished to die because she did not love him. The Duke’s was a peculiar case. For him to fall in love was itself a violent peripety, bound to produce a violent upheaval89; and such was his pride that for his love to be unrequited would naturally enamour him of death. These other, these quite ordinary, young men were the victims less of Zuleika than of the Duke’s example, and of one another. A crowd, proportionately to its size, magnifies all that in its units pertains90 to the emotions, and diminishes all that in them pertains to thought. It was because these undergraduates were a crowd that their passion for Zuleika was so intense; and it was because they were a crowd that they followed so blindly the lead given to them. To die for Miss Dobson was “the thing to do.” The Duke was going to do it. The Junta was going to do it. It is a hateful fact, but we must face the fact, that snobbishness91 was one of the springs to the tragedy here chronicled.
We may set to this crowd’s credit that it refrained now from following Zuleika. Not one of the ladies present was deserted92 by her escort. All the men recognised the Duke’s right to be alone with Zuleika now. We may set also to their credit that they carefully guarded the ladies from all knowledge of what was afoot.
Side by side, the great lover and his beloved wandered away, beyond the light of the Japanese lanterns, and came to Salt Cellar.
The moon, like a gardenia93 in the night’s button-hole—but no! why should a writer never be able to mention the moon without likening her to something else—usually something to which she bears not the faintest resemblance?... The moon, looking like nothing whatsoever94 but herself, was engaged in her old and futile95 endeavour to mark the hours correctly on the sun-dial at the centre of the lawn. Never, except once, late one night in the eighteenth century, when the toper who was Sub-Warden had spent an hour in trying to set his watch here, had she received the slightest encouragement. Still she wanly persisted. And this was the more absurd in her because Salt Cellar offered very good scope for those legitimate96 effects of hers which we one and all admire. Was it nothing to her to have cut those black shadows across the cloisters97? Was it nothing to her that she so magically mingled99 her rays with the candle-light shed forth from Zuleika’s bedroom? Nothing, that she had cleansed100 the lawn of all its colour, and made of it a platform of silver-grey, fit for fairies to dance on?
If Zuleika, as she paced the gravel101 path, had seen how transfigured—how nobly like the Tragic Muse—she was just now, she could not have gone on bothering the Duke for a keepsake of the tragedy that was to be.
She was still set on having his two studs. He was still firm in his refusal to misappropriate those heirlooms. In vain she pointed102 out to him that the pearls he meant, the white ones, no longer existed; that the pearls he was wearing were no more “entailed” than if he had got them yesterday. “And you actually DID get them yesterday,” she said. “And from me. And I want them back.”
“You are ingenious,” he admitted. “I, in my simple way, am but head of the Tanville-Tankerton family. Had you accepted my offer of marriage, you would have had the right to wear these two pearls during your life-time. I am very happy to die for you. But tamper103 with the property of my successor I cannot and will not. I am sorry,” he added.
“Sorry!” echoed Zuleika. “Yes, and you were ‘sorry’ you couldn’t dine with me to-night. But any little niggling scruple104 is more to you than I am. What old maids men are!” And viciously with her fan she struck one of the cloister98 pillars.
Her outburst was lost on the Duke. At her taunt105 about his not dining with her, he had stood still, clapping one hand to his brow. The events of the early evening swept back to him—his speech, its unforeseen and horrible reception. He saw again the preternaturally solemn face of Oover, and the flushed faces of the rest. He had thought, as he pointed down to the abyss over which he stood, these fellows would recoil106, and pull themselves together. They had recoiled107, and pulled themselves together, only in the manner of athletes about to spring. He was responsible for them. His own life was his to lose: others he must not squander108. Besides, he had reckoned to die alone, unique; aloft and apart... “There is something—something I had forgotten,” he said to Zuleika, “something that will be a great shock to you”; and he gave her an outline of what had passed at the Junta.
“And you are sure they really MEANT it?” she asked in a voice that trembled.
“They are not children. You yourself have just been calling them ‘men.’ Why should they obey you?”
She turned at sound of a footstep, and saw a young man approaching. He wore a coat like the Duke’s, and in his hand he dangled110 a handkerchief. He bowed awkwardly, and, holding out the handkerchief, said to her “I beg your pardon, but I think you dropped this. I have just picked it up.”
Zuleika looked at the handkerchief, which was obviously a man’s, and smilingly shook her head.
“I don’t think you know The MacQuern,” said the Duke, with sulky grace. “This,” he said to the intruder, “is Miss Dobson.”
“And is it really true,” asked Zuleika, retaining The MacQuern’s hand, “that you want to die for me?”
Well, the Scots are a self-seeking and a resolute111, but a shy, race; swift to act, when swiftness is needed, but seldom knowing quite what to say. The MacQuern, with native reluctance112 to give something for nothing, had determined113 to have the pleasure of knowing the young lady for whom he was to lay down his life; and this purpose he had, by the simple stratagem114 of his own handkerchief, achieved. Nevertheless, in answer to Zuleika’s question, and with the pressure of her hand to inspire him, the only word that rose to his lips was “Ay” (which may be roughly translated as “Yes”).
“You will do nothing of the sort,” interposed the Duke.
“There,” said Zuleika, still retaining The MacQuern’s hand, “you see, it is forbidden. You must not defy our dear little Duke. He is not used to it. It is not done.”
“I don’t know,” said The MacQuern, with a stony115 glance at the Duke, “that he has anything to do with the matter.”
“He is older and wiser than you. More a man of the world. Regard him as your tutor.”
“Do YOU want me not to die for you?” asked the young man.
“Ah, I should not dare to impose my wishes on you,” said she, dropping his hand. “Even,” she added, “if I knew what my wishes were. And I don’t. I know only that I think it is very, very beautiful of you to think of dying for me.”
“Then that settles it,” said The MacQuern.
“No, no! You must not let yourself be influenced by ME. Besides, I am not in a mood to influence anybody. I am overwhelmed. Tell me,” she said, heedless of the Duke, who stood tapping his heel on the ground, with every manifestation116 of disapproval117 and impatience, “tell me, is it true that some of the other men love me too, and—feel as you do?”
The MacQuern said cautiously that he could answer for no one but himself. “But,” he allowed, “I saw a good many men whom I know, outside the Hall here, just now, and they seemed to have made up their minds.”
“To die for me? To-morrow?”
“To-morrow. After the Eights, I suppose; at the same time as the Duke. It wouldn’t do to leave the races undecided.”
“Of COURSE not. But the poor dears! It is too touching118! I have done nothing, nothing to deserve it.”
“Nothing whatsoever,” said the Duke drily.
“Oh HE,” said Zuleika, “thinks me an unredeemed brute119; just because I don’t love him. YOU, dear Mr. MacQuern—does one call you ‘Mr.’? ‘The’ would sound so odd in the vocative. And I can’t very well call you ‘MacQuern’—YOU don’t think me unkind, do you? I simply can’t bear to think of all these young lives cut short without my having done a thing to brighten them. What can I do?—what can I do to show my gratitude120?”
An idea struck her. She looked up to the lit window of her room. “Melisande!” she called.
A figure appeared at the window. “Mademoiselle desire?”
“My tricks, Melisande! Bring down the box, quick!” She turned excitedly to the two young men. “It is all I can do in return, you see. If I could dance for them, I would. If I could sing, I would sing to them. I do what I can. You,” she said to the Duke, “must go on to the platform and announce it.”
“Announce what?”
“Why, that I am going to do my tricks! All you need say is ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have the pleasure to—’ What is the matter now?”
“You make me feel slightly unwell,” said the Duke.
“And YOU are the most d-dis-disobliging and the unkindest and the b-beastliest person I ever met,” Zuleika sobbed121 at him through her hands. The MacQuern glared reproaches at him. So did Melisande, who had just appeared through the postern, holding in her arms the great casket of malachite. A painful scene; and the Duke gave in. He said he would do anything—anything. Peace was restored.
The MacQuern had relieved Melisande of her burden; and to him was the privilege of bearing it, in procession with his adored and her quelled122 mentor123, towards the Hall.
Zuleika babbled124 like a child going to a juvenile125 party. This was the great night, as yet, in her life. Illustrious enough already it had seemed to her, as eve of that ultimate flattery vowed126 her by the Duke. So fine a thing had his doom127 seemed to her—his doom alone—that it had sufficed to flood her pink pearl with the right hue128. And now not on him alone need she ponder. Now he was but the centre of a group—a group that might grow and grow—a group that might with a little encouragement be a multitude... With such hopes dimly whirling in the recesses129 of her soul, her beautiful red lips babbled.
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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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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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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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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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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specimen
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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rusting
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impatience
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tenor
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wig
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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fictitious
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nugatory
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humdrum
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stanza
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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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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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31
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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34
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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35
enjoining
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| v.命令( enjoin的现在分词 ) | |
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36
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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37
ovation
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| n.欢呼，热烈欢迎，热烈鼓掌 | |
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38
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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39
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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40
lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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41
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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42
hideously
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| adv.可怕地，非常讨厌地 | |
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43
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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44
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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45
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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46
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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47
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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48
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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49
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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50
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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51
forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
worthiness
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| 价值，值得 | |
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53
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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54
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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55
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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56
junta
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| n.团体；政务审议会 | |
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57
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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58
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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59
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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60
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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61
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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63
hooded
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| adj.戴头巾的；有罩盖的；颈部因肋骨运动而膨胀的 | |
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64
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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65
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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66
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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67
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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68
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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69
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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70
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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71
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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72
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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73
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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74
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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75
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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76
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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77
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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78
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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79
hooting
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的现在分词 )； 倒好儿； 倒彩 | |
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80
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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81
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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83
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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84
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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86
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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87
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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88
segregate
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| adj.分离的，被隔离的；vt.使分离，使隔离 | |
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89
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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90
pertains
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| 关于( pertain的第三人称单数 )； 有关； 存在； 适用 | |
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91
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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92
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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93
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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94
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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95
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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96
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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97
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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99
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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100
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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102
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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103
tamper
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| v.干预，玩弄，贿赂，窜改，削弱，损害 | |
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104
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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105
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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106
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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107
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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108
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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109
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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110
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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111
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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112
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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113
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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114
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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115
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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116
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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117
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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118
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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119
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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120
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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121
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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122
quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
mentor
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| n.指导者，良师益友；v.指导 | |
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124
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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125
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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126
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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127
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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128
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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129
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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