The mist took pity on the fretted6 structures of earlier generations: the Post Office with its shingle-tortured mansard, the red brick minarets8 of hulking old houses, factories with stingy and sooted9 windows, wooden tenements10 colored like mud. The city was full of such grotesqueries, but the clean towers were thrusting them from the business center, and on the farther hills were shining new houses, homes—they seemed—for laughter and tranquillity11.
Over a concrete bridge fled a limousine12 of long sleek13 hood14 and noiseless engine. These people in evening clothes were returning from an all-night rehearsal15 of a Little Theater play, an artistic16 adventure considerably17 illuminated18 by champagne19. Below the bridge curved a railroad, a maze20 of green and crimson21 lights. The New York Flyer boomed past, and twenty lines of polished steel leaped into the glare.
In one of the skyscrapers22 the wires of the Associated Press were closing down. The telegraph operators wearily raised their celluloid eye-shades after a night of talking with Paris and Peking. Through the building crawled the scrubwomen, yawning, their old shoes slapping. The dawn mist spun23 away. Cues of men with lunch-boxes clumped24 toward the immensity of new factories, sheets of glass and hollow tile, glittering shops where five thousand men worked beneath one roof, pouring out the honest wares25 that would be sold up the Euphrates and across the veldt. The whistles rolled out in greeting a chorus cheerful as the April dawn; the song of labor26 in a city built—it seemed—for giants.
II
There was nothing of the giant in the aspect of the man who was beginning to awaken27 on the sleeping-porch of a Dutch Colonial house in that residential28 district of Zenith known as Floral Heights.
His name was George F. Babbitt. He was forty-six years old now, in April, 1920, and he made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes nor poetry, but he was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more than people could afford to pay.
His large head was pink, his brown hair thin and dry. His face was babyish in slumber30, despite his wrinkles and the red spectacle-dents on the slopes of his nose. He was not fat but he was exceedingly well fed; his cheeks were pads, and the unroughened hand which lay helpless upon the khaki-colored blanket was slightly puffy. He seemed prosperous, extremely married and unromantic; and altogether unromantic appeared this sleeping-porch, which looked on one sizable elm, two respectable grass-plots, a cement driveway, and a corrugated31 iron garage. Yet Babbitt was again dreaming of the fairy child, a dream more romantic than scarlet32 pagodas33 by a silver sea.
For years the fairy child had come to him. Where others saw but Georgie Babbitt, she discerned gallant34 youth. She waited for him, in the darkness beyond mysterious groves35. When at last he could slip away from the crowded house he darted36 to her. His wife, his clamoring friends, sought to follow, but he escaped, the girl fleet beside him, and they crouched37 together on a shadowy hillside. She was so slim, so white, so eager! She cried that he was gay and valiant38, that she would wait for him, that they would sail—
Babbitt moaned; turned over; struggled back toward his dream. He could see only her face now, beyond misty40 waters. The furnace-man slammed the basement door. A dog barked in the next yard. As Babbitt sank blissfully into a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by whistling, and the rolled-up Advocate thumped41 the front door. Babbitt roused, his stomach constricted42 with alarm. As he relaxed, he was pierced by the familiar and irritating rattle43 of some one cranking a Ford29: snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah. Himself a pious44 motorist, Babbitt cranked with the unseen driver, with him waited through taut45 hours for the roar of the starting engine, with him agonized46 as the roar ceased and again began the infernal patient snap-ah-ah—a round, flat sound, a shivering cold-morning sound, a sound infuriating and inescapable. Not till the rising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was he released from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite tree, elm twigs47 against the gold patina48 of sky, and fumbled49 for sleep as for a drug. He who had been a boy very credulous50 of life was no longer greatly interested in the possible and improbable adventures of each new day.
He escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty.
III
It was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively51 produced alarm-clocks, with all modern attachments52, including cathedral chime, intermittent53 alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud of being awakened54 by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as creditable as buying expensive cord tires.
He sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and detested55 the grind of the real-estate business, and disliked his family, and disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had played poker56 at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays he was irritable57 before breakfast. It may have been the tremendous home-brewed beer of the prohibition-era and the cigars to which that beer enticed58 him; it may have been resentment59 of return from this fine, bold man-world to a restricted region of wives and stenographers, and of suggestions not to smoke so much.
From the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably cheerful “Time to get up, Georgie boy,” and the itchy sound, the brisk and scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush.
He grunted60; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas61, from under the khaki blanket; he sat on the edge of the cot, running his fingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt for his slippers62. He looked regretfully at the blanket—forever a suggestion to him of freedom and heroism63. He had bought it for a camping trip which had never come off. It symbolized64 gorgeous loafing, gorgeous cursing, virile65 flannel66 shirts.
He creaked to his feet, groaning67 at the waves of pain which passed behind his eyeballs. Though he waited for their scorching68 recurrence69, he looked blurrily out at the yard. It delighted him, as always; it was the neat yard of a successful business man of Zenith, that is, it was perfection, and made him also perfect. He regarded the corrugated iron garage. For the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth time in a year he reflected, “No class to that tin shack70. Have to build me a frame garage. But by golly it's the only thing on the place that isn't up-to-date!” While he stared he thought of a community garage for his acreage development, Glen Oriole. He stopped puffing71 and jiggling. His arms were akimbo. His petulant72, sleep-swollen face was set in harder lines. He suddenly seemed capable, an official, a man to contrive73, to direct, to get things done.
On the vigor74 of his idea he was carried down the hard, clean, unused-looking hall into the bathroom.
Though the house was not large it had, like all houses on Floral Heights, an altogether royal bathroom of porcelain75 and glazed76 tile and metal sleek as silver. The towel-rack was a rod of clear glass set in nickel. The tub was long enough for a Prussian Guard, and above the set bowl was a sensational77 exhibit of tooth-brush holder78, shaving-brush holder, soap-dish, sponge-dish, and medicine-cabinet, so glittering and so ingenious that they resembled an electrical instrument-board. But the Babbitt whose god was Modern Appliances was not pleased. The air of the bathroom was thick with the smell of a heathen toothpaste. “Verona been at it again! 'Stead of sticking to Lilidol, like I've re-peat-ed-ly asked her, she's gone and gotten some confounded stinkum stuff that makes you sick!”
The bath-mat was wrinkled and the floor was wet. (His daughter Verona eccentrically took baths in the morning, now and then.) He slipped on the mat, and slid against the tub. He said “Damn!” Furiously he snatched up his tube of shaving-cream, furiously he lathered79, with a belligerent80 slapping of the unctuous81 brush, furiously he raked his plump cheeks with a safety-razor. It pulled. The blade was dull. He said, “Damn—oh—oh—damn it!”
He hunted through the medicine-cabinet for a packet of new razor-blades (reflecting, as invariably, “Be cheaper to buy one of these dinguses and strop your own blades,”) and when he discovered the packet, behind the round box of bicarbonate of soda82, he thought ill of his wife for putting it there and very well of himself for not saying “Damn.” But he did say it, immediately afterward83, when with wet and soap-slippery fingers he tried to remove the horrible little envelope and crisp clinging oiled paper from the new blade. Then there was the problem, oft-pondered, never solved, of what to do with the old blade, which might imperil the fingers of his young. As usual, he tossed it on top of the medicine-cabinet, with a mental note that some day he must remove the fifty or sixty other blades that were also temporarily, piled up there. He finished his shaving in a growing testiness84 increased by his spinning headache and by the emptiness in his stomach. When he was done, his round face smooth and streamy and his eyes stinging from soapy water, he reached for a towel. The family towels were wet, wet and clammy and vile85, all of them wet, he found, as he blindly snatched them—his own face-towel, his wife's, Verona's, Ted7's, Tinka's, and the lone86 bath-towel with the huge welt of initial. Then George F. Babbitt did a dismaying thing. He wiped his face on the guest-towel! It was a pansy-embroidered trifle which always hung there to indicate that the Babbitts were in the best Floral Heights society. No one had ever used it. No guest had ever dared to. Guests secretively took a corner of the nearest regular towel.
He was raging, “By golly, here they go and use up all the towels, every doggone one of 'em, and they use 'em and get 'em all wet and sopping87, and never put out a dry one for me—of course, I'm the goat!—and then I want one and—I'm the only person in the doggone house that's got the slightest doggone bit of consideration for other people and thoughtfulness and consider there may be others that may want to use the doggone bathroom after me and consider—”
He was pitching the chill abominations into the bath-tub, pleased by the vindictiveness88 of that desolate89 flapping sound; and in the midst his wife serenely90 trotted91 in, observed serenely, “Why Georgie dear, what are you doing? Are you going to wash out the towels? Why, you needn't wash out the towels. Oh, Georgie, you didn't go and use the guest-towel, did you?”
It is not recorded that he was able to answer.
For the first time in weeks he was sufficiently92 roused by his wife to look at her.
IV
Myra Babbitt—Mrs. George F. Babbitt—was definitely mature. She had creases93 from the corners of her mouth to the bottom of her chin, and her plump neck bagged. But the thing that marked her as having passed the line was that she no longer had reticences before her husband, and no longer worried about not having reticences. She was in a petticoat now, and corsets which bulged94, and unaware95 of being seen in bulgy96 corsets. She had become so dully habituated to married life that in her full matronliness she was as sexless as an anemic nun97. She was a good woman, a kind woman, a diligent98 woman, but no one, save perhaps Tinka her ten-year-old, was at all interested in her or entirely99 aware that she was alive.
After a rather thorough discussion of all the domestic and social aspects of towels she apologized to Babbitt for his having an alcoholic100 headache; and he recovered enough to endure the search for a B.V.D. undershirt which had, he pointed101 out, malevolently102 been concealed103 among his clean pajamas.
“What do you think, Myra?” He pawed at the clothes hunched105 on a chair in their bedroom, while she moved about mysteriously adjusting and patting her petticoat and, to his jaundiced eye, never seeming to get on with her dressing106. “How about it? Shall I wear the brown suit another day?”
“I know, but gosh, it needs pressing.”
“That's so. Perhaps it does.”
“It certainly could stand being pressed, all right.”
“Yes, perhaps it wouldn't hurt it to be pressed.”
“But gee108, the coat doesn't need pressing. No sense in having the whole darn suit pressed, when the coat doesn't need it.”
“That's so.”
“But the pants certainly need it, all right. Look at them—look at those wrinkles—the pants certainly do need pressing.”
“That's so. Oh, Georgie, why couldn't you wear the brown coat with the blue trousers we were wondering what we'd do with them?”
“Good Lord! Did you ever in all my life know me to wear the coat of one suit and the pants of another? What do you think I am? A busted109 bookkeeper?”
“Well, why don't you put on the dark gray suit to-day, and stop in at the tailor and leave the brown trousers?”
“Well, they certainly need—Now where the devil is that gray suit? Oh, yes, here we are.”
He was able to get through the other crises of dressing with comparative resoluteness110 and calm.
His first adornment111 was the sleeveless dimity B.V.D. undershirt, in which he resembled a small boy humorlessly wearing a cheesecloth tabard at a civic112 pageant113. He never put on B.V.D.'s without thanking the God of Progress that he didn't wear tight, long, old-fashioned undergarments, like his father-in-law and partner, Henry Thompson. His second embellishment was combing and slicking back his hair. It gave him a tremendous forehead, arching up two inches beyond the former hair-line. But most wonder-working of all was the donning of his spectacles.
There is character in spectacles—the pretentious114 tortoiseshell, the meek115 pince-nez of the school teacher, the twisted silver-framed glasses of the old villager. Babbitt's spectacles had huge, circular, frameless lenses of the very best glass; the ear-pieces were thin bars of gold. In them he was the modern business man; one who gave orders to clerks and drove a car and played occasional golf and was scholarly in regard to Salesmanship. His head suddenly appeared not babyish but weighty, and you noted116 his heavy, blunt nose, his straight mouth and thick, long upper lip, his chin overfleshy but strong; with respect you beheld117 him put on the rest of his uniform as a Solid Citizen.
The gray suit was well cut, well made, and completely undistinguished. It was a standard suit. White piping on the V of the vest added a flavor of law and learning. His shoes were black laced boots, good boots, honest boots, standard boots, extraordinarily118 uninteresting boots. The only frivolity119 was in his purple knitted scarf. With considerable comment on the matter to Mrs. Babbitt (who, acrobatically fastening the back of her blouse to her skirt with a safety-pin, did not hear a word he said), he chose between the purple scarf and a tapestry120 effect with stringless brown harps121 among blown palms, and into it he thrust a snake-head pin with opal eyes.
A sensational event was changing from the brown suit to the gray the contents of his pockets. He was earnest about these objects. They were of eternal importance, like baseball or the Republican Party. They included a fountain pen and a silver pencil (always lacking a supply of new leads) which belonged in the righthand upper vest pocket. Without them he would have felt naked. On his watch-chain were a gold penknife, silver cigar-cutter, seven keys (the use of two of which he had forgotten), and incidentally a good watch. Depending from the chain was a large, yellowish elk's-tooth-proclamation of his membership in the Brotherly and Protective Order of Elks122. Most significant of all was his loose-leaf pocket note-book, that modern and efficient note-book which contained the addresses of people whom he had forgotten, prudent123 memoranda124 of postal125 money-orders which had reached their destinations months ago, stamps which had lost their mucilage, clippings of verses by T. Cholmondeley Frink and of the newspaper editorials from which Babbitt got his opinions and his polysyllables, notes to be sure and do things which he did not intend to do, and one curious inscription—D.S.S. D.M.Y.P.D.F.
But he had no cigarette-case. No one had ever happened to give him one, so he hadn't the habit, and people who carried cigarette-cases he regarded as effeminate.
Last, he stuck in his lapel the Boosters' Club button. With the conciseness126 of great art the button displayed two words: “Boosters-Pep!” It made Babbitt feel loyal and important. It associated him with Good Fellows, with men who were nice and human, and important in business circles. It was his V.C., his Legion of Honor ribbon, his Phi Beta Kappa key.
With the subtleties127 of dressing ran other complex worries. “I feel kind of punk this morning,” he said. “I think I had too much dinner last evening. You oughtn't to serve those heavy banana fritters.”
“But you asked me to have some.”
“I know, but—I tell you, when a fellow gets past forty he has to look after his digestion128. There's a lot of fellows that don't take proper care of themselves. I tell you at forty a man's a fool or his doctor—I mean, his own doctor. Folks don't give enough attention to this matter of dieting. Now I think—Course a man ought to have a good meal after the day's work, but it would be a good thing for both of us if we took lighter129 lunches.”
“But Georgie, here at home I always do have a light lunch.”
“Mean to imply I make a hog130 of myself, eating down-town? Yes, sure! You'd have a swell131 time if you had to eat the truck that new steward132 hands out to us at the Athletic133 Club! But I certainly do feel out of sorts, this morning. Funny, got a pain down here on the left side—but no, that wouldn't be appendicitis134, would it? Last night, when I was driving over to Verg Gunch's, I felt a pain in my stomach, too. Right here it was—kind of a sharp shooting pain. I—Where'd that dime135 go to? Why don't you serve more prunes136 at breakfast? Of course I eat an apple every evening—an apple a day keeps the doctor away—but still, you ought to have more prunes, and not all these fancy doodads.”
“The last time I had prunes you didn't eat them.”
“Well, I didn't feel like eating 'em, I suppose. Matter of fact, I think I did eat some of 'em. Anyway—I tell you it's mighty137 important to—I was saying to Verg Gunch, just last evening, most people don't take sufficient care of their diges—”
“Shall we have the Gunches for our dinner, next week?”
“Why sure; you bet.”
“Now see here, George: I want you to put on your nice dinner-jacket that evening.”
“Rats! The rest of 'em won't want to dress.”
“Of course they will. You remember when you didn't dress for the Littlefields' supper-party, and all the rest did, and how embarrassed you were.”
“Embarrassed, hell! I wasn't embarrassed. Everybody knows I can put on as expensive a Tux. as anybody else, and I should worry if I don't happen to have it on sometimes. All a darn nuisance, anyway. All right for a woman, that stays around the house all the time, but when a fellow's worked like the dickens all day, he doesn't want to go and hustle138 his head off getting into the soup-and-fish for a lot of folks that he's seen in just reg'lar ordinary clothes that same day.”
“You know you enjoy being seen in one. The other evening you admitted you were glad I'd insisted on your dressing. You said you felt a lot better for it. And oh, Georgie, I do wish you wouldn't say 'Tux.' It's 'dinner-jacket.'”
“Well, it's what all the nice folks say. Suppose Lucile McKelvey heard you calling it a 'Tux.'”
“Well, that's all right now! Lucile McKelvey can't pull anything on me! Her folks are common as mud, even if her husband and her dad are millionaires! I suppose you're trying to rub in your exalted140 social position! Well, let me tell you that your revered141 paternal142 ancestor, Henry T., doesn't even call it a 'Tux.'! He calls it a 'bobtail jacket for a ringtail monkey,' and you couldn't get him into one unless you chloroformed him!”
“Well, I don't want to be horrid, but Lord! you're getting as fussy144 as Verona. Ever since she got out of college she's been too rambunctious145 to live with—doesn't know what she wants—well, I know what she wants!—all she wants is to marry a millionaire, and live in Europe, and hold some preacher's hand, and simultaneously146 at the same time stay right here in Zenith and be some blooming kind of a socialist147 agitator148 or boss charity-worker or some damn thing! Lord, and Ted is just as bad! He wants to go to college, and he doesn't want to go to college. Only one of the three that knows her own mind is Tinka. Simply can't understand how I ever came to have a pair of shillyshallying children like Rone and Ted. I may not be any Rockefeller or James J. Shakespeare, but I certainly do know my own mind, and I do keep right on plugging along in the office and—Do you know the latest? Far as I can figure out, Ted's new bee is he'd like to be a movie actor and—And here I've told him a hundred times, if he'll go to college and law-school and make good, I'll set him up in business and—Verona just exactly as bad. Doesn't know what she wants. Well, well, come on! Aren't you ready yet? The girl rang the bell three minutes ago.”
V
Before he followed his wife, Babbitt stood at the westernmost window of their room. This residential settlement, Floral Heights, was on a rise; and though the center of the city was three miles away—Zenith had between three and four hundred thousand inhabitants now—he could see the top of the Second National Tower, an Indiana limestone building of thirty-five stories.
Its shining walls rose against April sky to a simple cornice like a streak149 of white fire. Integrity was in the tower, and decision. It bore its strength lightly as a tall soldier. As Babbitt stared, the nervousness was soothed150 from his face, his slack chin lifted in reverence151. All he articulated was “That's one lovely sight!” but he was inspired by the rhythm of the city; his love of it renewed. He beheld the tower as a temple-spire of the religion of business, a faith passionate152, exalted, surpassing common men; and as he clumped down to breakfast he whistled the ballad153 “Oh, by gee, by gosh, by jingo” as though it were a hymn154 melancholy155 and noble.
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aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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citadels
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| n.城堡，堡垒( citadel的名词复数 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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minarets
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| n.（清真寺旁由报告祈祷时刻的人使用的）光塔( minaret的名词复数 ) | |
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sooted
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| v.煤烟，烟灰( soot的过去分词 ) | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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tranquillity
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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hood
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rehearsal
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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considerably
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illuminated
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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crimson
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skyscrapers
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spun
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clumped
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wares
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labor
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awaken
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residential
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Ford
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slumber
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corrugated
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scarlet
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pagodas
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gallant
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groves
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darted
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crouched
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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39
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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40
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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41
thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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43
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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44
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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45
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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46
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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47
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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48
patina
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| n.铜器上的绿锈，年久而产生的光泽 | |
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49
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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50
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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51
quantitatively
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| adv.数量上 | |
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52
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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53
intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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54
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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55
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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57
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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58
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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60
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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61
pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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62
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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63
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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64
symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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66
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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67
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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68
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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69
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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70
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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71
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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72
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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73
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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74
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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75
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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76
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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77
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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78
holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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79
lathered
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| v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的过去式和过去分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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80
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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81
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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82
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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83
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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84
testiness
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| n.易怒，暴躁 | |
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85
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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86
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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87
sopping
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| adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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88
vindictiveness
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| 恶毒；怀恨在心 | |
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89
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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90
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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91
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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92
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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93
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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94
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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95
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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96
bulgy
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| a.膨胀的；凸出的 | |
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97
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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98
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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99
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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100
alcoholic
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| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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101
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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102
malevolently
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103
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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104
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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105
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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106
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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107
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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108
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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109
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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110
resoluteness
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111
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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112
civic
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| adj.城市的，都市的，市民的，公民的 | |
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113
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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114
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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115
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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116
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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117
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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118
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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119
frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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120
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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121
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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122
elks
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| n.麋鹿( elk的名词复数 ) | |
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123
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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124
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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125
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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126
conciseness
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| n.简洁，简短 | |
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127
subtleties
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| 细微( subtlety的名词复数 )； 精细； 巧妙； 细微的差别等 | |
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128
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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129
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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130
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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131
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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132
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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133
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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134
appendicitis
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| n.阑尾炎，盲肠炎 | |
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135
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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136
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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137
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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138
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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139
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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140
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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141
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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143
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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144
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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145
rambunctious
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| adj.喧闹的；粗鲁的 | |
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146
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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147
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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148
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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149
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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150
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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151
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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152
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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153
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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154
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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155
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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