“Of course I have. She is going to give me a sitting.”
“At what hour, of what day?” said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of meaning.
“She did not say,” replied Triplet, avoiding his wife's eye.
“I know she did not,” was the answer. “I would rather you had brought me the ten shillings than this fine story,” said she.
“Wife!” said Triplet, “don't put me into a frame of mind in which successful comedies are not written.” He scribbled9 away; but his wife's despondency told upon the man of disappointments. Then he stuck fast; then he became fidgety.
“Do keep those children quiet!” said the father.
“Hush, my dears,” said the mother; “let your father write. Comedy seems to give you more trouble than tragedy, James,” added she, soothingly11.
“Yes,” was his answer. “Sorrow comes somehow more natural to me; but for all that I have got a bright thought, Mrs. Triplet. Listen, all of you. You see, Jane, they are all at a sumptuous12 banquet, all the dramatis personae, except the poet.”
Triplet went on writing, and reading his work out: “Music, sparkling wine, massive plate, rose-water in the hand-glasses, soup, fish—shall I have three sorts of fish? I will; they are cheap in this market. Ah! Fortune, you wretch13, here at least I am your master, and I'll make you know it—venison,” wrote Triplet, with a malicious14 grin, “game, pickles15 and provocatives in the center of the table; then up jumps one of the guests, and says he—”
“Oh dear, I am so hungry.”
This was not from the comedy, but from one of the boys.
“And so am I,” cried a girl.
“That is an absurd remark, Lysimachus,” said Triplet with a suspicious calmness. “How can a boy be hungry three hours after breakfast?”
“But, father, there was no breakfast for breakfast.”
“Now I ask you, Mrs. Triplet,” appealed the author, “how I am to write comic scenes if you let Lysimachus and Roxalana here put the heavy business in every five minutes?”
“Forgive them; the poor things are hungry.”
“Then let them be hungry in another room,” said the irritated scribe. “They shan't cling round my pen, and paralyze it, just when it is going to make all our fortunes; but you women,” snapped Triplet the Just, “have no consideration for people's feelings. Send them all to bed; every man Jack16 of them!”
Triplet darted18 a fierce glance at them. “Hungry, hungry,” cried he; “is that a proper expression to use before a father who is sitting down here, all gayety” (scratching wildly with his pen) “and hilarity” (scratch) “to write a com—com—” he choked a moment; then in a very different voice, all sadness and tenderness, he said: “Where's the youngest—where's Lucy? As if I didn't know you are hungry.”
Lucy came to him directly. He took her on his knee, pressed her gently to his side, and wrote silently. The others were still.
“And I am not hungry at all,” said bluff19 Lysimachus, taking his sister's cue; then going upon his own tact20 he added, “I had a great piece of bread and butter yesterday!”
“Wife, they will drive me mad!” and he dashed at the paper.
The second boy explained to his mother, sotto voce: “Mother, he made us hungry out of his book.”
“It is a beautiful book,” said Lucy. “Is it a cookery book?”
Triplet roared: “Do you hear that?” inquired he, all trace of ill-humor gone. “Wife,” he resumed, after a gallant21 scribble8, “I took that sermon I wrote.”
“And beautiful it was, James. I'm sure it quite cheered me up with thinking that we shall all be dead before so very long.”
“Well, the reverend gentleman would not have it. He said it was too hard upon sin. 'You run at the Devil like a mad bull,' said he. 'Sell it in Lambeth, sir; here calmness and decency22 are before everything,' says he. 'My congregation expect to go to heaven down hill. Perhaps the chaplain of Newgate might give you a crown for it,' said he,” and Triplet dashed viciously at the paper. “Ah!” sighed he, “if my friend Mrs. Woffington would but drop these stupid comedies and take to tragedy, this house would soon be all smiles.”
“Oh James!” replied Mrs. Triplet, almost peevishly23, “how can you expect anything but fine words from that woman? You won't believe what all the world says. You will trust to your own good heart.”
“Never mind, James,” said the woman. “I wonder how you put up with me at all—a sick, useless creature. I often wish to die, for your sake. I know you would do better. I am such a weight round your neck.”
The man made no answer, but he put Lucy gently down, and went to the woman, and took her forehead to his bosom26, and held it there; and after a while returned with silent energy to his comedy.
“Ay, do, husband. That helps you often in your writing.”
Lysimachus brought him the fiddle, and Triplet essayed a merry tune; but it came out so doleful, that he shook his head, and laid the instrument down. Music must be in the heart, or it will come out of the fingers—notes, not music.
“No,” said he; “let us be serious and finish this comedy slap off. Perhaps it hitches28 because I forgot to invoke29 the comic muse30. She must be a black-hearted jade31, if she doesn't come with merry notions to a poor devil, starving in the midst of his hungry little ones.”
“We are past help from heathen goddesses,” said the woman. “We must pray to Heaven to look down upon us and our children.”
The man looked up with a very bad expression on his countenance32.
“You forget,” said he sullenly33, “our street is very narrow, and the opposite houses are very high.”
“James!”
“How can Heaven be expected to see what honest folk endure in so dark a hole as this?” cried the man, fiercely.
“James,” said the woman, with fear and sorrow, “what words are these?”
The man rose and flung his pen upon the floor.
“Have we given honesty a fair trial—yes or no?”
“No!” said the woman, without a moment's hesitation34; “not till we die, as we have lived. Heaven is higher than the sky; children,” said she, lest perchance her husband's words should have harmed their young souls, “the sky is above the earth, and heaven is higher than the sky; and Heaven is just.”
“I suppose it is so,” said the man, a little cowed by her. “Everybody says so. I think so, at bottom, myself; but I can't see it. I want to see it, but I can't!” cried he, fiercely. “Have my children offended Heaven? They will starve—they will die! If I was Heaven, I'd be just, and send an angel to take these children's part. They cried to me for bread—I had no bread; so I gave them hard words. The moment I had done that I knew it was all over. God knows it took a long while to break my heart; but it is broken at last; quite, quite broken! broken! broken!”
And the poor thing laid his head upon the table, and sobbed35, beyond all power of restraint. The children cried round him, scarce knowing why; and Mrs. Triplet could only say, “My poor husband!” and prayed and wept upon the couch where she lay.
It was at this juncture36 that a lady, who had knocked gently and unheard, opened the door, and with a light step entered the apartment; but no sooner had she caught sight of Triplet's anguish37, than, saying hastily, “Stay, I forgot something,” she made as hasty an exit.
This gave Triplet a moment to recover himself; and Mrs. Woffington, whose lynx eye had comprehended all at a glance, and who had determined38 at once what line to take, came flying in again, saying:
“Wasn't somebody inquiring for an angel? Here I am. See, Mr. Triplet;” and she showed him a note, which said: “Madam, you are an angel. From a perfect stranger,” explained she; “so it must be true.”
“Mrs. Woffington,” said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill39 whistle.
“Now you will see another angel—there are two sorts of them.”
Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.
“Lucifer, avaunt!” cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the wall; “and wait outside the door,” added she, conversationally40.
“I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic—black draughts41 from Burgundy;” and she smiled. And, recovered from their first surprise, young and old began to thaw42 beneath that witching, irresistible43 smile. “Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon44 with you? I am so hungry.” Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent him for a pie she professed45 to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street.
“Mother,” said Alcibiades, “will the lady give me a bit of her pie?”
“Hush! you rude boy!” cried the mother.
“She is not much of a lady if she does not,” cried Mrs. Woffington. “Now, children, first let us look at—ahem—a comedy. Nineteen dramatis personae! What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, or nine? that is the question. You can't bring your armies into our drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger-and-bowl. Are you the Marlborough of comedy? Can you marshal battalions46 on a turkey carpet, and make gentlefolks witty47 in platoons? What is this in the first act? A duel48, and both wounded! You butcher!”
“They are not to die, ma'am!” cried Triplet, deprecatingly “upon my honor,” said he, solemnly, spreading his bands on his bosom.
“Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? No! Give me a pen; this is the way we run people through the body.” Then she wrote (“business.” Araminta looks out of the garret window. Combatants drop their swords, put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and P. S.) “Now, children, who helps me to lay the cloth?”
“I!”
“And I!” (The children run to the cupboard.)
Mrs. Triplet (half rising). “Madam, I—can't think of allowing you.”
Mrs. Woffington replied: “Sit down, madam, or I must use brute force. If you are ill, be ill—till I make you well. Twelve plates, quick! Twenty-four knives, quicker! Forty-eight forks quickest!” She met the children with the cloth and laid it; then she met them again and laid knives and forks, all at full gallop49, which mightily50 excited the bairns. Pompey came in with the pie, Mrs. Woffington took it and set it before Triplet.
Mrs. Woffington. “Your coat, Mr. Triplet, if you please.”
Mr. Triplet. “My coat, madam!”
Mrs. Woffington. “Yes, off with it—there's a hole in it—and carve.” Then she whipped to the other end of the table and stitched like wild-fire. “Be pleased to cast your eyes on that, Mrs. Triplet. Pass it to the lady, young gentleman. Fire away, Mr. Triplet, never mind us women. Woffington's housewife, ma'am, fearful to the eye, only it holds everything in the world, and there is a small space for everything else—to be returned by the bearer. Thank you, sir.” (Stitches away like lightning at the coat.) “Eat away, children! now is your time; when once I begin, the pie will soon end; I do everything so quick.”
Roxalana. “The lady sews quicker than you, mother.”
Woffington. “Bless the child, don't come so near my sword-arm; the needle will go into your eye, and out at the back of your head.”
“The needle will be lost—the child no more—enter undertaker—house turned topsy-turvy—father shows Woffington to the door—off she goes with a face as long and dismal52 as some people's comedies—no names—crying fine chan-ey oranges.”
Lucy said gravely:
“Mother, the lady is very funny.”
“You will be as funny when you are as well paid for it.”
This just hit poor Trip's notion of humor, and he began to choke, with his mouth full of pie.
“James, take care,” said Mrs. Triplet, sad and solemn.
James looked up.
“Oh, James!”
“Yes, my dear. I regret to say you have no sense of humor; nummore than a cat, Jane.”
“What! because the poor thing can't laugh at your comedy?”
“No, ma'am; but she laughs at nothing.”
“Try her with one of your tragedies, my lad.”
“I am sure, James,” said the poor, good, lackadaisical55 woman, “if I don't laugh, it is not for want of the will. I used to be a very hearty56 laugher,” whined57 she; “but I haven't laughed this two years.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the Woffington. “Then the next two years you shall do nothing else.”
“Does it?” said the actress, coolly.
Lucy. “She is not a comedy lady. You don't ever cry, pretty lady?”
Woffington (ironically). “Oh, of course not.”
Lucy (confidentially). “Comedy is crying. Father cried all the time he was writing his one.”
Triplet turned red as fire.
“Hold your tongue,” said he. “I was bursting with merriment. Wife, our children talk too much; they put their noses into everything, and criticise59 their own father.”
“Unnatural offspring!” laughed the visitor.
“And when they take up a notion, Socrates couldn't convince them to the contrary. For instance, madam, all this morning they thought fit to assume that they were starving.”
“So we were,” said Lysimachus, “until the angel came; and the devil went for the pie.”
“There—there—there! Now, you mark my words; we shall never get that idea out of their heads—”
“Until,” said Mrs. Woffington, lumping a huge cut of pie into Roxalana's plate, “we put a very different idea into their stomachs.” This and the look she cast on Mrs. Triplet fairly caught that good, though somber60 personage. She giggled61; put her hand to her face, and said: “I'm sure I ask your pardon, ma'am.”
It was no use; the comedian had determined they should all laugh, and they were made to laugh. Then she rose, and showed them how to drink healths a la Francaise; and keen were her little admirers to touch her glass with theirs. And the pure wine she had brought did Mrs. Triplet much good, too; though not so much as the music and sunshine of her face and voice. Then, when their stomachs were full of good food, and the soul of the grape tingled62 in their veins63, and their souls glowed under her great magnetic power, she suddenly seized the fiddle, and showed them another of her enchantments64. She put it on her knee, and played a tune that would have made gout, cholic and phthisic dance upon their last legs. She played to the eye as well as to the ear, with such a smart gesture of the bow, and such a radiance of face as she looked at them, that whether the music came out of her wooden shell, or her horse-hair wand, or her bright self, seemed doubtful. They pranced65 on their chairs; they could not keep still. She jumped up; so did they. She gave a wild Irish horroo. She put the fiddle in Triplet's hand.
Triplet went hors de lui; he played like Paganini, or an intoxicated67 demon68. Woffington covered the buckle69 in gallant style; she danced, the children danced. Triplet fiddled70 and danced, and flung his limbs in wild dislocation: the wineglasses danced; and last, Mrs. Triplet was observed to be bobbing about on her sofa, in a monstrous71 absurd way, droning out the tune, and playing her hands with mild enjoyment72, all to herself. Woffington pointed73 out this pantomimic soliloquy to the two boys, with a glance full of fiery74 meaning. This was enough. With a fiendish yell, they fell upon her, and tore her, shrieking75, off the sofa. And lo! when she was once launched, she danced up to her husband, and set to him with a meek76 deliberation that was as funny as any part of the scene. So then the mover of all this slipped on one side, and let the stone of merriment—roll—and roll it did; there was no swimming, sprawling77, or irrelevant78 frisking; their feet struck the ground for every note of the fiddle, pat as its echo, their faces shone, their hearts leaped, and their poor frozen natures came out, and warmed themselves at the glowing melody; a great sunbeam had come into their abode79, and these human motes80 danced in it. The elder ones recovered their gravity first, they sat down breathless, and put their hands to their hearts; they looked at one another, and then at the goddess who had revived them. Their first feeling was wonder; were they the same, who, ten minutes ago, were weeping together? Yes! ten minutes ago they were rayless, joyless, hopeless. Now the sun was in their hearts, and sorrow and sighing were fled, as fogs disperse81 before the god of day. It was magical; could a mortal play upon the soul of man, woman and child like this? Happy Woffington! and suppose this was more than half acting82, but such acting as Triplet never dreamed of; and to tell the honest, simple truth, I myself should not have suspected it; but children are sharper than one would think, and Alcibiades Triplet told, in after years, that, when they were all dancing except the lady, he caught sight of her face—and it was quite, quite grave, and even sad; but, as often as she saw him look at her, she smiled at him so gayly—he couldn't believe it was the same face.
If it was art, glory be to such art so worthily83 applied84! and honor to such creatures as this, that come like sunshine into poor men's houses, and tune drooping85 hearts to daylight and hope!
The wonder of these worthy86 people soon changed to gratitude87. Mrs. Woffington stopped their mouths at once.
“No, no!” cried she; “if you really love me, no scenes; I hate them. Tell these brats to kiss me, and let me go. I must sit for my picture after dinner; it is a long way to Bloomsbury Square.”
The children needed no bidding; they clustered round her, and poured out their innocent hearts as children only do.
“I shall pray for you after father and mother,” said one.
“I shall pray for you after daily bread,” said Lucy, “because we were tho hungry till you came!”
“My poor children!” cried Woffington, and hard to grown-up actors, as she called us, but sensitive to children, she fairly melted as she embraced them.
It was at this precise juncture that the door was unceremoniously opened, and the two gentlemen burst upon the scene!
My reader now guesses whom Sir Charles Pomander surprised more than he did Mrs. Woffington. He could not for the life of him comprehend what she was doing, and what was her ulterior object. The nil88 admirari of the fine gentleman deserted89 him, and he gazed open-mouthed, like the veriest chaw-bacon.
The actress, unable to extricate90 herself in a moment from the children, stood there like Charity, in New College Chapel91, while the mother kissed her hand, and the father quietly dropped tears, like some leaden water god in the middle of a fountain.
Vane turned hot and cold by turns, with joy and shame. Pomander's genius came to the aid of their embarrassment92.
“Follow my lead,” whispered he. “What! Mrs. Woffington here!” cried he; then he advanced business-like to Triplet. “We are aware, sir, of your various talents, and are come to make a demand on them. I, sir, am the unfortunate possessor of frescoes93; time has impaired94 their indelicacy, no man can restore it as you can.”
“Augh! sir! sir!” said the gratified goose.
“My Cupid's bows are walking-sticks, and my Venus's noses are snubbed. You must set all that straight on your own terms, Mr. Triplet.”
“In a single morning all shall bloom again, sir! Whom would you wish them to resemble in feature? I have lately been praised for my skill in portraiture95.” (Glancing at Mrs. Woffington.)
“Oh!” said Pomander, carelessly, “you need not go far for Venuses and Cupids, I suppose?”
“I see, sir; my wife and children. Thank you, sir; thank you.”
Pomander stared; Mrs. Woffington laughed.
Now it was Vane's turn.
“Let me have a copy of verses from your pen. I shall have five pounds at your disposal for them.”
“The world has found me out!” thought Triplet, blinded by his vanity.—
“The subject, sir?”
“No matter,” said Vane—“no matter.”
“Oh, of course it does not matter to me,” said Triplet, with some hauteur96, and assuming poetic97 omnipotence98. “Only, when one knows the subject, one can sometimes make the verses apply better.”
“Write then, since you are so confident, upon Mrs. Woffington.”
“Ah! that is a subject! They shall be ready in an hour!” cried Trip, in whose imagination Parnassus was a raised counter. He had in a teacup some lines on Venus and Mars which he could not but feel would fit Thalia and Croesus, or Genius and Envy, equally well. “In one hour, sir,” said Triplet, “the article shall be executed, and delivered at your house.”
Mrs. Woffington called Vane to her, with an engaging smile. A month ago he would have hoped she would not have penetrated99 him and Sir Charles; but he knew her better now. He came trembling.
“Look me in the face, Mr. Vane,” said she, gently, but firmly.
“I cannot!” said he. “How can I ever look you in the face again?”
“Ah! you disarm100 me! But I must strike you, or this will never end. Did I not promise that, when you had earned my if esteem101, I would tell you—what no mortal knows—Ernest, my whole story? I delay the confession102. It will cost me so many blushes, so many tears! And yet I hope, if you knew all, you would pity and forgive me. Meantime, did I ever tell you a falsehood?”
“Oh no!”
“Why doubt me then, when I tell you that I hold all your sex cheap but you? Why suspect me of Heaven knows what, at the dictation of a heartless, brainless fop—on the word of a known liar103, like the world?”
Black lightning flashed from her glorious eyes as she administered this royal rebuke104. Vane felt what a poor creature he was, and his face showed such burning shame and contrition105, that he obtained his pardon without speaking.
“There,” said she, kindly106, “do not let us torment107 one another. I forgive you. Let me make you happy, Ernest. Is that a great favor to ask? I can make you happier than your brightest dream of happiness, if you will let yourself be happy.”
They rejoined the others; but Vane turned his back on Pomander, and would not look at him.
“Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Woffington gayly; for she scorned to admit the fine gentleman to the rank of a permanent enemy, “you will be of our party, I trust, at dinner?”
“Why, no, madam; I fear I cannot give myself that pleasure to-day.” Sir Charles did not choose to swell108 the triumph. “Mr. Vane, good day!” said he, rather dryly. “Mr. Triplet—madam—your most obedient!” and, self-possessed at top, but at bottom crestfallen109, he bowed himself away.
Sir Charles, however, on descending110 the stair and gaining the street, caught sight of a horseman, riding uncertainly about, and making his horse curvet, to attract attention.
He soon recognized one of his own horses, and upon it the servant he had left behind to dog that poor innocent country lady. The servant sprang off his horse and touched his hat. He informed his master that he had kept with the carriage until ten o'clock this morning, when he had ridden away from it at Barnet, having duly pumped the servants as opportunity offered.
“Who is she?” cried Sir Charles.
“His name? Whither goes she in town?”
“Her name is Mrs. Vane, Sir Charles. She is going to her husband.”
“Curious!” cried Sir Charles. “I wish she had no husband. No! I wish she came from Shropshire,” and he chuckled112 at the notion.
“If you please, Sir Charles,” said the man, “is not Willoughby in Cheshire?”
“No,” cried his master; “it is in Shropshire. What! eh! Five guineas for you if that lady comes from Willoughby in Shropshire.
“That is where she comes from then, Sir Charles, and she is going to Bloomsbury Square.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Not more than twelve months, Sir Charles.”
Pomander gave the man ten guineas instead of five on the spot.
Reader, it was too true! Mr. Vane—the good, the decent, the churchgoer—Mr. Vane, whom Mrs. Woffington had selected to improve her morals—Mr. Vane was a married man!
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1
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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4
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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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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9
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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peevishly
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| adv．暴躁地 | |
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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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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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28
hitches
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| 暂时的困难或问题( hitch的名词复数 )； 意外障碍； 急拉； 绳套 | |
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invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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31
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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34
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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35
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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36
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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37
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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38
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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40
conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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41
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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42
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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43
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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44
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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45
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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46
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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48
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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49
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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51
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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58
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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59
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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somber
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| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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enchantments
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| n.魅力( enchantment的名词复数 )；迷人之处；施魔法；着魔 | |
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pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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fiddled
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| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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71
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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76
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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80
motes
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| n.尘埃( mote的名词复数 )；斑点 | |
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81
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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82
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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83
worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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84
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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85
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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86
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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87
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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88
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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89
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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90
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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91
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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92
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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96
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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97
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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99
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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100
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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101
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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102
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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103
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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104
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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105
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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106
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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107
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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108
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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109
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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110
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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111
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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112
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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