“Their ideal of propriety13 up country is very different from ours,” he said, beginning one of his long comments. “I don't say that it concerns the conscience more than ours does; but they think evil of different things. We're getting Europeanized,—I don't mean you, Dunham; in spite of your endeavors you will always remain one of the most hopelessly American of our species,—and we have our little borrowed anxieties about the free association of young people. They have none whatever; though they are apt to look suspiciously upon married people's friendships with other people's wives and husbands. It's quite likely that Lurella, with the traditions of her queer world, has not imagined anything anomalous15 in her position. She may realize certain inconveniences. But she must see great advantages in it. Poor girl! How she must be rioting on the united devotion of cabin and forecastle, after the scanty16 gallantries of a hill town peopled by elderly unmarried women! I'm glad of it, for her sake. I wonder which she really prizes most: your ornate attentions, or the uncouth17 homage18 of those sailors, who are always running to fetch her rings and blocks when she makes a wild shot. I believe I don't care and shouldn't disapprove19 of her preference, whichever it was.” Staniford frowned before he added: “But I object to Hicks and his drolleries. It's impossible for that little wretch20 to think reverently21 of a young girl; it's shocking to see her treating him as if he were a gentleman.” Hicks's behavior really gave no grounds for reproach; and it was only his moral mechanism22, as Staniford called the character he constructed for him, which he could blame; nevertheless, the thought of him gave an oblique23 cast to Staniford's reflections, which he cut short by saying, “This sort of worship is every woman's due in girlhood; but I suppose a fortnight of it will make her a pert and silly coquette. What does she say to your literature, Dunham?”
Dunham had already begun to lend Lydia books,—his own and Staniford's,—in which he read aloud to her, and chose passages for her admiration24; but he was obliged to report that she had rather a passive taste in literature. She seemed to like what he said was good, but not to like it very much, or to care greatly for reading; or else she had never had the habit of talking books. He suggested this to Staniford, who at once philosophized it.
“Why, I rather like that, you know. We all read in such a literary way, now; we don't read simply for the joy or profit of it; we expect to talk about it, and say how it is this and that; and I've no doubt that we're sub-consciously harassed25, all the time, with an automatic process of criticism. Now Lurella, I fancy, reads with the sense of the days when people read in private, and not in public, as we do. She believes that your serious books are all true; and she knows that my novels are all lies—that's what some excellent Christians26 would call the fiction even of George Eliot or of Hawthorne; she would be ashamed to discuss the lives and loves of heroes and heroines who never existed. I think that's first-rate. She must wonder at your distempered interest in them. If one could get at it, I suppose the fresh wholesomeness27 of Lurella's mind would be something delicious,—a quality like spring water.”
He was one of those men who cannot rest in regard to people they meet till they have made some effort to formulate28 them. He liked to ticket them off; but when he could not classify them, he remained content with his mere29 study of them. His habit was one that does not promote sympathy with one's fellow creatures. He confessed even that it disposed him to wish for their less acquaintance when once he had got them generalized; they became then collected specimens31. Yet, for the time being, his curiosity in them gave him a specious32 air of sociability33. He lamented34 the insincerity which this involved, but he could not help it. The next novelty in character was as irresistible35 as the last; he sat down before it till it yielded its meaning, or suggested to him some analogy by which he could interpret it.
With this passion for the arrangement and distribution of his neighbors, it was not long before he had placed most of the people on board in what he called the psychology36 of the ship. He did not care that they should fit exactly in their order. He rather preferred that they should have idiosyncrasies which differentiated37 them from their species, and he enjoyed Lydia's being a little indifferent about books for this and for other reasons. “If she were literary, she would be like those vulgar little persons of genius in the magazine stories. She would have read all sorts of impossible things up in her village. She would have been discovered by some aesthetic38 summer boarder, who had happened to identify her with the gifted Daisy Dawn, and she would be going out on the aesthetic's money for the further expansion of her spirit in Europe. Somebody would be obliged to fall in love with her, and she would sacrifice her career for a man who was her inferior, as we should be subtly given to understand at the close. I think it's going to be as distinguished39 by and by not to like books as it is not to write them. Lurella is a prophetic soul; and if there's anything comforting about her, it's her being so merely and stupidly pretty.”
“She is not merely and stupidly pretty!” retorted Dunham. “She never does herself justice when you are by. She can talk very well, and on some subjects she thinks strongly.”
“Oh, I'm sorry for that!” said Staniford. “But call me some time when she's doing herself justice.”
“I don't mean that she's like the women we know. She doesn't say witty40 things, and she hasn't their responsive quickness; but her ideas are her own, no matter how old they are; and what she says she seems to be saying for the first time, and as if it had never been thought out before.”
“That is what I have been contending for,” said Staniford; “that is what I meant by spring water. It is that thrilling freshness which charms me in Lurella.” He laughed. “Have you converted her to your spectacular faith, yet?” Dunham blushed. “You have tried,” continued Staniford. “Tell me about it!”
“I will not talk with you on such matters,” said Dunham, “till you know how to treat serious things seriously.”
“I shall know how when I realize that they are serious with you. Well, I don't object to a woman's thinking strongly on religious subjects: it's the only safe ground for her strong thinking, and even there she had better feel strongly. Did you succeed in convincing her that Archbishop Laud41 was a saint incompris, and the good King Charles a blessed martyr42.”
Dunham did not answer till he had choked down some natural resentment43. He had, several years earlier, forsaken44 the pale Unitarian worship of his family, because, Staniford always said, he had such a feeling for color, and had adopted an extreme tint45 of ritualism. It was rumored46 at one time, before his engagement to Miss Hibbard, that he was going to unite with a celibate47 brotherhood48; he went regularly into retreat at certain seasons, to the vast entertainment of his friend; and, within the bounds of good taste, he was a zealous49 propagandist of his faith, of which he had the practical virtues50 in high degree. “I hope,” he said presently, “that I know how to respect convictions, even of those adhering to the Church in Error.”
Staniford laughed again. “I see you have not converted Lurella. Well, I like that in her, too. I wish I could have the arguments, pro14 and con3. It would have been amusing. I suppose,” he pondered aloud, “that she is a Calvinist of the deepest dye, and would regard me as a lost spirit for being outside of her church. She would look down upon me from one height, as I look down upon her from another. And really, as far as personal satisfaction in superiority goes, she might have the advantage of me. That's very curious, very interesting.”
As the first week wore away, the wonted incidents of a sea voyage lent their variety to the life on board. One day the ship ran into a school of whales, which remained heavily thumping52 and lolling about in her course, and blowing jets of water into the air, like so many breaks in garden hose, Staniford suggested. At another time some flying-fish came on board. The sailors caught a dolphin, and they promised a shark, by and by. All these things were turned to account for the young girl's amusement, as if they had happened for her. The dolphin died that she might wonder and pity his beautiful death; the cook fried her some of the flying-fish; some one was on the lookout53 to detect even porpoises54 for her. A sail in the offing won the discoverer envy when he pointed55 it out to her; a steamer, celebrity56. The captain ran a point out of his course to speak to a vessel57, that she might be able to tell what speaking a ship at sea was like.
At table the stores which the young men had laid in for private use became common luxuries, and she fared sumptuously58 every day upon dainties which she supposed were supplied by the ship,—delicate jellies and canned meats and syruped fruits; and, if she wondered at anything, she must have wondered at the scrupulous59 abstinence with which Captain Jenness, seconded by Mr. Watterson, refused the luxuries which his bounty60 provided them, and at the constancy with which Staniford declined some of these dishes, and Hicks declined others. Shortly after the latter began more distinctly to be tolerated, he appeared one day on deck with a steamer-chair in his hand, and offered it to Lydia's use, where she sat on a stool by the bulwark61. After that, as she reclined in this chair, wrapped in her red shawl, and provided with a book or some sort of becoming handiwork, she was even more picturesquely62 than before the centre about which the ship's pride and chivalrous64 sentiment revolved65. They were Americans, and they knew how to worship a woman.
Staniford did not seek occasions to please and amuse her, as the others did. When they met, as they must, three times a day, at table, he took his part in the talk, and now and then addressed her a perfunctory civility. He imagined that she disliked him, and he interested himself in imagining the ignorant grounds of her dislike. “A woman,” he said, “must always dislike some one in company; it's usually another woman; as there's none on board, I accept her enmity with meekness66.” Dunham wished to persuade him that he was mistaken. “Don't try to comfort me, Dunham,” he replied. “I find a pleasure in being detested67 which is inconceivable to your amiable bosom68.”
Dunham turned to go below, from where they stood at the head of the cabin stairs. Staniford looked round, and saw Lydia, whom they had kept from coming up; she must have heard him. He took his cigar from his mouth, and caught up a stool, which he placed near the ship's side, where Lydia usually sat, and without waiting for her concurrence69 got a stool for himself, and sat down with her.
“Well, Miss Blood,” he said, “it's Saturday afternoon at last, and we're at the end of our first week. Has it seemed very long to you?”
Lydia's color was bright with consciousness, but the glance she gave Staniford showed him looking tranquilly70 and honestly at her. “Yes,” she said, “it has seemed long.”
“That's merely the strangeness of everything. There's nothing like local familiarity to make the time pass,—except monotony; and one gets both at sea. Next week will go faster than this, and we shall all be at Trieste before we know it. Of course we shall have a storm or two, and that will retard71 us in fact as well as fancy. But you wouldn't feel that you'd been at sea if you hadn't had a storm.”
He knew that his tone was patronizing, but he had theorized the girl so much with a certain slight in his mind that he was not able at once to get the tone which he usually took towards women. This might not, indeed, have pleased some women any better than patronage72: it mocked while it caressed73 all their little pretenses74 and artificialities; he addressed them as if they must be in the joke of themselves, and did not expect to be taken seriously. At the same time he liked them greatly, and would not on any account have had the silliest of them different from what she was. He did not seek them as Dunham did; their society was not a matter of life or death with him; but he had an elder-brotherly kindness for the whole sex.
Lydia waited awhile for him to say something more, but he added nothing, and she observed, with a furtive75 look: “I presume you've seen some very severe storms at sea.”
“No,” Staniford answered, “I haven't. I've been over several times, but I've never seen anything alarming. I've experienced the ordinary seasickening tempestuousness76.”
“Have you—have you ever been in Italy?” asked Lydia, after another pause.
“Yes,” he said, “twice; I'm very fond of Italy.” He spoke77 of it in a familiar tone that might well have been discouraging to one of her total unacquaintance with it. Presently he added of his own motion, looking at her with his interest in her as a curious study, “You're going to Venice, I think Mr. Dunham told me.”
“Yes,” said Lydia.
“Well, I think it's rather a pity that you shouldn't arrive there directly, without the interposition of Trieste.” He scanned her yet more closely, but with a sort of absence in his look, as if he addressed some ideal of her.
“Why?” asked Lydia, apparently78 pushed to some self-assertion by this way of being looked and talked at.
“It's the strangest place in the world,” said Staniford; and then he mused79 again. “But I suppose—” He did not go on, and the word fell again to Lydia.
“I'm going to visit my aunt, who is staying there. She was where I live, last summer, and she told us about it. But I couldn't seem to understand it.”
“No one can understand it, without seeing it.”
“I've read some descriptions of it,” Lydia ventured.
“They're of no use,—the books.”
“Is Trieste a strange place, too?”
“It's strange, as a hundred other places are,—and it's picturesque63; but there's only one Venice.”
“I'm afraid sometimes,” she faltered80, as if his manner in regard to this peculiar81 place had been hopelessly exclusive, “that it will be almost too strange.”
“Oh, that's another matter,” said Staniford. “I confess I should be rather curious to know whether you liked Venice. I like it, but I can imagine myself sympathizing with people who detested it,—if they said so. Let me see what will give you some idea of it. Do you know Boston well?”
“No; I've only been there twice,” Lydia acknowledged.
“Then you've never seen the Back Bay by night, from the Long Bridge. Well, let me see—”
“I'm afraid,” interposed Lydia, “that I've not been about enough for you to give me an idea from other places. We always go to Greenfield to do our trading; and I've been to Keene and Springfield a good many times.”
“I'm sorry to say I haven't,” said Staniford. “But I'll tell you: Venice looks like an inundated82 town. If you could imagine those sunset clouds yonder turned marble, you would have Venice as she is at sunset. You must first think of the sea when you try to realize the place. If you don't find the sea too strange, you won't find Venice so.”
“I wish it would ever seem half as home-like!” cried the girl.
“Then you find the ship—I'm glad you find the ship—home-like,” said Staniford, tentatively.
“Oh, yes; everything is so convenient and pleasant. It seems sometimes as if I had always lived here.”
“Well, that's very nice,” assented83 Staniford, rather blankly. “Some people feel a little queer at sea—in the beginning. And you haven't—at all?” He could not help this leading question, yet he knew its meanness, and felt remorse85 for it.
“Oh, I did, at first,” responded the girl, but went no farther; and Staniford was glad of it. After all, why should he care to know what was in her mind?
“Captain Jenness,” he merely said, “understands making people at home.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” assented Lydia. “And Mr. Watterson is very agreeable, and Mr. Mason. I didn't suppose sailors were so. What soft, mild voices they have!”
“That's the speech of most of the Down East coast people.”
“Is it? I like it better than our voices. Our voices are so sharp and high, at home.”
“It's hard to believe that,” said Staniford, with a smile.
Lydia looked at him. “Oh, I wasn't born in South Bradfield. I was ten years old when I went there to live.”
“Where were you born, Miss Blood?” he asked.
“In California. My father had gone out for his health, but he died there.”
“Oh!” said Staniford. He had a book in his hand, and he began to scribble86 a little sketch87 of Lydia's pose, on a fly-leaf. She looked round and saw it. “You've detected me,” he said; “I haven't any right to keep your likeness88, now. I must make you a present of this work of art, Miss Blood.” He finished the sketch with some ironical89 flourishes, and made as if to tear out the leaf.
“Oh!” cried Lydia, simply, “you will spoil the book!”
“Then the book shall go with the picture, if you'll let it,” said Staniford.
“Do you mean to give it to me?” she asked, with surprise.
“That was my munificent90 intention. I want to write your name in it. What's the initial of your first name, Miss Blood?”
“L, thank you,” said Lydia.
“My name is Lydia,” persisted the girl. “What letter should it begin with?”
“Oh—oh, I knew Lydia began with an L,” stammered92 Staniford, “but I—I—I thought your first name was—”
“What?” asked Lydia sharply.
“I don't know. Lily,” he answered guiltily.
“Lily Blood!” cried the girl. “Lydia is bad enough; but Lily Blood! They couldn't have been such fools!”
“I beg your pardon. Of course not. I don't know how I could have got the idea. It was one of those impressions—hallucinations—” Staniford found himself in an attitude of lying excuse towards the simple girl, over whom he had been lording it in satirical fancy ever since he had seen her, and meekly93 anxious that she should not be vexed94 with him. He began to laugh at his predicament, and she smiled at his mistake. “What is the date?” he asked.
“The 15th,” she said; and he wrote under the sketch, Lydia Blood. Ship Aroostook, August 15, 1874, and handed it to her, with a bow surcharged with gravity.
She took it, and regarded the picture without comment.
“Ah!” said Staniford, “I see that you know how bad my sketch is. You sketch.”
“No, I don't know how to draw,” replied Lydia.
“No.”
“So glad,” said Staniford. He began to like this. A young man must find pleasure in sitting alone near a pretty young girl, and talking with her about herself and himself, no matter how plain and dull her speech is; and Staniford, though he found Lydia as blankly unresponsive as might be to the flattering irony96 of his habit, amused himself in realizing that here suddenly he was almost upon the terms of window-seat flirtation97 with a girl whom lately he had treated with perfect indifference98, and just now with fatherly patronage. The situation had something more even than the usual window-seat advantages; it had qualities as of a common shipwreck99, of their being cast away on a desolate100 island together. He felt more than ever that he must protect this helpless loveliness, since it had begun to please his imagination. “You don't criticise,” he said. “Is that because you are so amiable? I'm sure you could, if you would.”
“No,” returned Lydia; “I don't really know. But I've often wished I did know.”
“Then you didn't teach drawing, in your school?”
“How did you know I had a school?” asked Lydia quickly.
He disliked to confess his authority, because he disliked the authority, but he said, “Mr. Hicks told us.”
“Mr. Hicks!” Lydia gave a little frown as of instinctive101 displeasure, which gratified Staniford.
“Yes; the cabin-boy told him. You see, we are dreadful gossips on the Aroostook,—though there are so few ladies—” It had slipped from him, but it seemed to have no personal slant102 for Lydia.
“Oh, yes; I told Thomas,” she said. “No; it's only a country school. Once I thought I should go down to the State Normal School, and study drawing there; but I never did. Are you—are you a painter, Mr. Staniford?”
He could not recollect103 that she had pronounced his name before; he thought it came very winningly from her lips. “No, I'm not a painter. I'm not anything.” He hesitated; then he added recklessly, “I'm a farmer.”
“A farmer?” Lydia looked incredulous, but grave.
“Yes; I'm a horny-handed son of the soil. I'm a cattle-farmer; I'm a sheep-farmer; I don't know which. One day I'm the one, and the next day I'm the other.” Lydia looked mystified, and Staniford continued: “I mean that I have no profession, and that sometimes I think of going into farming, out West.”
“Yes?” said Lydia.
“How should I like it? Give me an opinion, Miss Blood.”
“Oh, I don't know,” answered the girl.
“You would never have dreamt that I was a farmer, would you?”
“No, I shouldn't,” said Lydia, honestly. “It's very hard work.”
“And I don't look fond of hard work?”
“I didn't say that.”
“And I've no right to press you for your meaning.”
“What I meant was—I mean—Perhaps if you had never tried it you didn't know what very hard work it was. Some of the summer boarders used to think our farmers had easy times.”
“I never was a summer boarder of that description. I know that farming is hard work, and I'm going into it because I dislike it. What do you think of that as a form of self-sacrifice?”
“I don't see why any one should sacrifice himself uselessly.”
“You don't? You have very little conception of martyrdom. Do you like teaching school?”
“Why do you teach, then?” Staniford had blundered. He knew why she taught, and he felt instantly that he had hurt her pride, more sensitive than that of a more sophisticated person, who would have had no scruple105 in saying that she did it because she was poor. He tried to retrieve106 himself. “Of course, I understand that school-teaching is useful self-sacrifice.” He trembled lest she should invent some pretext107 for leaving him; he could not afford to be left at a disadvantage. “But do you know, I would no more have taken you for a teacher than you me for a farmer.”
“Yes?” said Lydia.
He could not tell whether she was appeased108 or not, and he rather feared not. “You don't ask why. And I asked you why at once.”
Lydia laughed. “Well, why?”
“Oh, that's a secret. I'll tell you one of these days.” He had really no reason; he said this to gain time. He was always honest in his talk with men, but not always with women.
“I suppose I look very young,” said Lydia. “I used to be afraid of the big boys.”
“If the boys were big enough,” interposed Staniford, “they must have been afraid of you.”
Lydia said, as if she had not understood, “I had hard work to get my certificate. But I was older than I looked.”
“That is much better,” remarked Staniford, “than being younger than you look. I am twenty-eight, and people take me for thirty-four. I'm a prematurely109 middle-aged110 man. I wish you would tell me, Miss Blood, a little about South Bradfield. I've been trying to make out whether I was ever there. I tramped nearly everywhere when I was a student. What sort of people are they there?”
“Oh, they are very nice people,” said Lydia.
“Do you like them?”
“I never thought whether I did. They are nearly all old. Their children have gone away; they don't seem to live; they are just staying. When I first came there I was a little girl. One day I went into the grave-yard and counted the stones; there were three times as many as there were living persons in the village.”
“I think I know the kind of place,” said Staniford. “I suppose you're not very homesick?”
“Not for the place,” answered Lydia, evasively.
“Of course,” Staniford hastened to add, “you miss your own family circle.” To this she made no reply. It is the habit of people bred like her to remain silent for want of some sort of formulated111 comment upon remarks to which they assent84.
Staniford fell into a musing51 mood, which was without visible embarrassment112 to the young girl, who must have been inured113 to much severer silences in the society of South Bradfield. He remained staring at her throughout his reverie, which in fact related to her. He was thinking what sort of an old maid she would have become if she had remained in that village. He fancied elements of hardness and sharpness in her which would have asserted themselves as the joyless years went on, like the bony structure of her face as the softness of youth left it. She was saved from that, whatever was to be her destiny in Italy. From South Bradfield to Venice,—what a prodigious114 transition! It seemed as if it must transfigure her. “Miss Blood,” he exclaimed, “I wish I could be with you when you first see Venice!”
“Yes?” said Lydia.
Even the interrogative comment, with the rising inflection, could not chill his enthusiasm. “It is really the greatest sight in the world.”
Lydia had apparently no comment to make on this fact. She waited tranquilly a while before she said, “My father used to talk about Italy to me when I was little. He wanted to go. My mother said afterwards—after she had come home with me to South Bradfield—that she always believed he would have lived if he had gone there. He had consumption.”
“Oh!” said Staniford softly. Then he added, with the tact115 of his sex, “Miss Blood, you mustn't take cold, sitting here with me. This wind is chilly116. Shall I go below and get you some more wraps?”
“No, thank you,” said Lydia; “I believe I will go down, now.”
She went below to her room, and then came out into the cabin with some sewing at which she sat and stitched by the lamp. The captain was writing in his log-book; Dunham and Hicks were playing checkers together. Staniford, from a corner of a locker117, looked musingly118 upon this curious family circle. It was not the first time that its occupations had struck him oddly. Sometimes when they were all there together, Dunham read aloud. Hicks knew tricks of legerdemain119 which he played cleverly. The captain told some very good stories, and led off in the laugh. Lydia always sewed and listened. She did not seem to find herself strangely placed, and her presence characterized all that was said and done with a charming innocence120. As a bit of life, it was as pretty as it was quaint30.
“Really,” Staniford said to Dunham, as they turned in, that night, “she has domesticated121 us.”
“Yes,” assented Dunham with enthusiasm; “isn't she a nice girl?”
“She's intolerably passive. Or not passive, either. She says what she thinks, but she doesn't seem to have thought of many things. Did she ever tell you about her father?”
“No,” said Dunham.
“I mean about his dying of consumption?”
“No, she never spoke of him to me. Was he—”
“Um. It appears that we have been upon terms of confidence, then.” Staniford paused, with one boot in his hand. “I should never have thought it.”
“What was her father?” asked Dunham.
“Upon my word, I don't know. I didn't seem to get beyond elemental statements of intimate fact with her. He died in California, where she was born; and he always had a longing122 to go to Italy. That was rather pretty.”
“Yes, of course. We might fancy this about Lurella: that she has a sort of piety124 in visiting the scenes that her father wished to visit, and that—Well, anything is predicable of a girl who says so little and looks so much. She's certainly very handsome; and I'm bound to say that her room could not have been better than her company, so far.”
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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droll
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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21
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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22
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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23
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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24
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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26
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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27
wholesomeness
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| 卫生性 | |
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28
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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29
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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30
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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31
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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32
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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33
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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34
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
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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36
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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37
differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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38
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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39
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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40
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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41
laud
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| n.颂歌；v.赞美 | |
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42
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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43
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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44
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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45
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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46
rumored
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| adj.传说的，谣传的v.传闻( rumor的过去式和过去分词 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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47
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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48
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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49
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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50
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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51
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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52
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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53
lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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54
porpoises
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| n.鼠海豚( porpoise的名词复数 ) | |
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55
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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56
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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57
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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58
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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59
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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60
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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61
bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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62
picturesquely
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63
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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64
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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65
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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66
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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67
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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68
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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69
concurrence
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| n.同意；并发 | |
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70
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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71
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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72
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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73
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
pretenses
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| n.借口（pretense的复数形式） | |
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75
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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76
tempestuousness
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| n.剧烈，风暴 | |
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77
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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78
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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79
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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80
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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81
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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82
inundated
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| v.淹没( inundate的过去式和过去分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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83
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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85
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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86
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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87
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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88
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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89
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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90
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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91
fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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92
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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94
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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95
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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96
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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97
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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98
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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99
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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100
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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101
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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102
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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103
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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104
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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105
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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106
retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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107
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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108
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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109
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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110
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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111
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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112
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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113
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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114
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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115
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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116
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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117
locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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118
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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119
legerdemain
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| n.戏法，诈术 | |
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120
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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121
domesticated
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| adj.喜欢家庭生活的；（指动物）被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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123
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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124
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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