“Is Signor Carella in?” the young lady asked. It was no business of Perfetta’s to be shocked, and the style of the visitor seemed to demand the reception-room. Accordingly she opened its shutters2, dusted a round patch on one of the horsehair chairs, and bade the lady do herself the inconvenience of sitting down. Then she ran into Monteriano and shouted up and down its streets until such time as her young master should hear her.
The reception-room was sacred to the dead wife. Her shiny portrait hung upon the wall—similar, doubtless, in all respects to the one which would be pasted on her tombstone. A little piece of black drapery had been tacked3 above the frame to lend a dignity to woe4. But two of the tacks5 had fallen out, and the effect was now rakish, as of a drunkard’s bonnet6. A coon song lay open on the piano, and of the two tables one supported Baedeker’s “Central Italy,” the other Harriet’s inlaid box. And over everything there lay a deposit of heavy white dust, which was only blown off one moment to thicken on another. It is well to be remembered with love. It is not so very dreadful to be forgotten entirely7. But if we shall resent anything on earth at all, we shall resent the consecration8 of a deserted9 room.
Miss Abbott did not sit down, partly because the antimacassars might harbour fleas10, partly because she had suddenly felt faint, and was glad to cling on to the funnel11 of the stove. She struggled with herself, for she had need to be very calm; only if she was very calm might her behaviour be justified12. She had broken faith with Philip and Harriet: she was going to try for the baby before they did. If she failed she could scarcely look them in the face again.
“Harriet and her brother,” she reasoned, “don’t realize what is before them. She would bluster13 and be rude; he would be pleasant and take it as a joke. Both of them—even if they offered money—would fail. But I begin to understand the man’s nature; he does not love the child, but he will be touchy14 about it—and that is quite as bad for us. He’s charming, but he’s no fool; he conquered me last year; he conquered Mr. Herriton yesterday, and if I am not careful he will conquer us all today, and the baby will grow up in Monteriano. He is terribly strong; Lilia found that out, but only I remember it now.”
This attempt, and this justification15 of it, were the results of the long and restless night. Miss Abbott had come to believe that she alone could do battle with Gino, because she alone understood him; and she had put this, as nicely as she could, in a note which she had left for Philip. It distressed16 her to write such a note, partly because her education inclined her to reverence17 the male, partly because she had got to like Philip a good deal after their last strange interview. His pettiness would be dispersed18, and as for his “unconventionality,” which was so much gossiped about at Sawston, she began to see that it did not differ greatly from certain familiar notions of her own. If only he would forgive her for what she was doing now, there might perhaps be before them a long and profitable friendship. But she must succeed. No one would forgive her if she did not succeed. She prepared to do battle with the powers of evil.
The voice of her adversary19 was heard at last, singing fearlessly from his expanded lungs, like a professional. Herein he differed from Englishmen, who always have a little feeling against music, and sing only from the throat, apologetically. He padded upstairs, and looked in at the open door of the reception-room without seeing her. Her heart leapt and her throat was dry when he turned away and passed, still singing, into the room opposite. It is alarming not to be seen.
He had left the door of this room open, and she could see into it, right across the landing. It was in a shocking mess. Food, bedclothes, patent-leather boots, dirty plates, and knives lay strewn over a large table and on the floor. But it was the mess that comes of life, not of desolation. It was preferable to the charnel-chamber in which she was standing20 now, and the light in it was soft and large, as from some gracious, noble opening.
He stopped singing, and cried “Where is Perfetta?”
His back was turned, and he was lighting21 a cigar. He was not speaking to Miss Abbott. He could not even be expecting her. The vista22 of the landing and the two open doors made him both remote and significant, like an actor on the stage, intimate and unapproachable at the same time. She could no more call out to him than if he was Hamlet.
“You know!” he continued, “but you will not tell me. Exactly like you.” He reclined on the table and blew a fat smoke-ring. “And why won’t you tell me the numbers? I have dreamt of a red hen—that is two hundred and five, and a friend unexpected—he means eighty-two. But I try for the Terno this week. So tell me another number.”
Miss Abbott did not know of the Tombola. His speech terrified her. She felt those subtle restrictions23 which come upon us in fatigue24. Had she slept well she would have greeted him as soon as she saw him. Now it was impossible. He had got into another world.
She watched his smoke-ring. The air had carried it slowly away from him, and brought it out intact upon the landing.
“Two hundred and five—eighty-two. In any case I shall put them on Bari, not on Florence. I cannot tell you why; I have a feeling this week for Bari.” Again she tried to speak. But the ring mesmerized25 her. It had become vast and elliptical, and floated in at the reception-room door.
“Ah! you don’t care if you get the profits. You won’t even say ‘Thank you, Gino.’ Say it, or I’ll drop hot, red-hot ashes on you. ‘Thank you, Gino—‘”
The ring had extended its pale blue coils towards her. She lost self-control. It enveloped26 her. As if it was a breath from the pit, she screamed.
There he was, wanting to know what had frightened her, how she had got here, why she had never spoken. He made her sit down. He brought her wine, which she refused. She had not one word to say to him.
“What is it?” he repeated. “What has frightened you?”
He, too, was frightened, and perspiration27 came starting through the tan. For it is a serious thing to have been watched. We all radiate something curiously28 intimate when we believe ourselves to be alone.
“Business—” she said at last.
“Business with me?”
“Most important business.” She was lying, white and limp, in the dusty chair.
“Before business you must get well; this is the best wine.”
She refused it feebly. He poured out a glass. She drank it. As she did so she became self-conscious. However important the business, it was not proper of her to have called on him, or to accept his hospitality.
“Perhaps you are engaged,” she said. “And as I am not very well—”
“You are not well enough to go back. And I am not engaged.”
“Ah, now I understand,” he exclaimed. “Now I see what frightened you. But why did you never speak?” And taking her into the room where he lived, he pointed30 to—the baby.
She had thought so much about this baby, of its welfare, its soul, its morals, its probable defects. But, like most unmarried people, she had only thought of it as a word—just as the healthy man only thinks of the word death, not of death itself. The real thing, lying asleep on a dirty rug, disconcerted her. It did not stand for a principle any longer. It was so much flesh and blood, so many inches and ounces of life—a glorious, unquestionable fact, which a man and another woman had given to the world. You could talk to it; in time it would answer you; in time it would not answer you unless it chose, but would secrete31, within the compass of its body, thoughts and wonderful passions of its own. And this was the machine on which she and Mrs. Herriton and Philip and Harriet had for the last month been exercising their various ideals—had determined32 that in time it should move this way or that way, should accomplish this and not that. It was to be Low Church, it was to be high-principled, it was to be tactful, gentlemanly, artistic—excellent things all. Yet now that she saw this baby, lying asleep on a dirty rug, she had a great disposition33 not to dictate34 one of them, and to exert no more influence than there may be in a kiss or in the vaguest of the heartfelt prayers.
But she had practised self-discipline, and her thoughts and actions were not yet to correspond. To recover her self-esteem she tried to imagine that she was in her district, and to behave accordingly.
“What a fine child, Signor Carella. And how nice of you to talk to it. Though I see that the ungrateful little fellow is asleep! Seven months? No, eight; of course eight. Still, he is a remarkably35 fine child for his age.”
Italian is a bad medium for condescension36. The patronizing words came out gracious and sincere, and he smiled with pleasure.
“You must not stand. Let us sit on the loggia, where it is cool. I am afraid the room is very untidy,” he added, with the air of a hostess who apologizes for a stray thread on the drawing-room carpet. Miss Abbott picked her way to the chair. He sat near her, astride the parapet, with one foot in the loggia and the other dangling37 into the view. His face was in profile, and its beautiful contours drove artfully against the misty38 green of the opposing hills. “Posing!” said Miss Abbott to herself. “A born artist’s model.”
“Mr. Herriton called yesterday,” she began, “but you were out.”
He started an elaborate and graceful39 explanation. He had gone for the day to Poggibonsi. Why had the Herritons not written to him, so that he could have received them properly? Poggibonsi would have done any day; not but what his business there was fairly important. What did she suppose that it was?
Naturally she was not greatly interested. She had not come from Sawston to guess why he had been to Poggibonsi. She answered politely that she had no idea, and returned to her mission.
“But guess!” he persisted, clapping the balustrade between his hands.
She suggested, with gentle sarcasm40, that perhaps he had gone to Poggibonsi to find something to do.
He intimated that it was not as important as all that. Something to do—an almost hopeless quest! “E manca questo!” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger41 together, to indicate that he had no money. Then he sighed, and blew another smoke-ring. Miss Abbott took heart and turned diplomatic.
“This house,” she said, “is a large house.”
“Exactly,” was his gloomy reply. “And when my poor wife died—” He got up, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception-room door, which he closed reverently42. Then he shut the door of the living-room with his foot, returned briskly to his seat, and continued his sentence. “When my poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live here. My father wished to give up his practice at Empoli; my mother and sisters and two aunts were also willing. But it was impossible. They have their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was content with them. But now I am a man. I have my own ways. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were beginning to get on her nerves. She remembered, though, that she was not here to sympathize with Gino—at all events, not to show that she sympathized. She also reminded herself that he was not worthy44 of sympathy. “It is a large house,” she repeated.
“Immense; and the taxes! But it will be better when—Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi—why it was that I was out when he called.”
“I cannot guess, Signor Carella. I am here on business.”
“But try.”
“I cannot; I hardly know you.”
“But we are old friends,” he said, “and your approval will be grateful to me. You gave it me once before. Will you give it now?”
“I have not come as a friend this time,” she answered stiffly. “I am not likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do.”
“Oh, Signorina!” He laughed, as if he found her piquant45 and amusing. “Surely you approve of marriage?”
“Where there is love,” said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling.
“Where there is love,” said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he smiled on her, expecting congratulations.
“Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?”
He nodded.
“I forbid you, then!”
“I forbid you!” repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words.
“But why?” He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant48, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy.
“You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?”
“And I suppose you will say that you love her.”
“I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife—” He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else.
Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed50; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically52 from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug.
Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. “So you do not advise me?” he said dolefully. “But why should it be a failure?”
Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still—a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. “How can it succeed,” she said solemnly, “where there is no love?”
“But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that.”
“Indeed.”
“Passionately53.” He laid his hand upon his own heart.
“Then God help her!”
He stamped impatiently. “Whatever I say displeases54 you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented55? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well.”
“Her duty!” cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable.
“Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her.”
“To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper56, your slave, you—” The words she would like to have said were too violent for her.
“To look after the baby, certainly,” said he.
“The baby—?” She had forgotten it.
“It is an English marriage,” he said proudly. “I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?”
“No,” said Miss Abbott, utterly57 bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. “It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby—”
Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. “I don’t mean that,” she added quickly.
“I know,” was his courteous58 response. “Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly59 you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips.”
“You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man.”
“Not at all suitable,” said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory62 impressions. She longed for Harriet’s burly obtuseness63 or for the soulless diplomacy64 of Mrs. Herriton.
“Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example—”
“Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!”
“England, then—”
He laughed.
“He has a grandmother there, you know—Mrs. Theobald.”
“He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us,” he added.
“How?”
“They would separate our thoughts.”
She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements66. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed67. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion68, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue69 left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong.
Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. “Wake up!” he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach.
“He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also—”
“But ought you to treat him like that?”
He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing46, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man—if it comes to him at all—stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality71. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said “father-son,” she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle72, and smiled mechanically.
The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy.
“This woman will do exactly what I tell her. She is fond of children. She is clean; she has a pleasant voice. She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment. But she is what I require.”
The baby gave a piercing yell.
“Oh, do take care!” begged Miss Abbott. “You are squeezing it.”
“It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. He thinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right.”
“Wash him!” she cried. “You? Here?” The homely73 piece of news seemed to shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate approaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemy nor made him angry, nor interfered74 with the least detail of his domestic life.
“I had gone to the Farmacia,” he continued, “and was sitting there comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated water an hour ago—over there, look, covered with a cushion. I came away at once, for really he must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it off no longer.”
“I have wasted your time,” she said feebly.
He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenware75 bowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth76. Then he fetched the hot water, which was in a copper77 pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to unwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go.
“But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk.”
“I have nothing more to say,” said Miss Abbott. All she could do now was to find Philip, confess her miserable78 defeat, and bid him go in her stead and prosper79 better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, without apologies or tears.
“Oh, but stop a moment!” he cried. “You have not seen him yet.”
“I have seen as much as I want, thank you.”
The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands a little kicking image of bronze.
“Take him!”
She would not touch the child.
“I must go at once,” she cried; for the tears—the wrong tears—were hurrying to her eyes.
“Who would have believed his mother was blonde? For he is brown all over—brown every inch of him. Ah, but how beautiful he is! And he is mine; mine for ever. Even if he hates me he will be mine. He cannot help it; he is made out of me; I am his father.”
It was too late to go. She could not tell why, but it was too late. She turned away her head when Gino lifted his son to his lips. This was something too remote from the prettiness of the nursery. The man was majestic51; he was a part of Nature; in no ordinary love scene could he ever be so great. For a wonderful physical tie binds80 the parents to the children; and—by some sad, strange irony—it does not bind81 us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not with gratitude82 but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos83 and much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy. Gino passionately embracing, Miss Abbott reverently averting84 her eyes—both of them had parents whom they did not love so very much.
He gave her his son without speaking, and they knelt side by side, tucking up their sleeves. The child had stopped crying, and his arms and legs were agitated86 by some overpowering joy. Miss Abbott had a woman’s pleasure in cleaning anything—more especially when the thing was human. She understood little babies from long experience in a district, and Gino soon ceased to give her directions, and only gave her thanks.
“It is very kind of you,” he murmured, “especially in your beautiful dress. He is nearly clean already. Why, I take the whole morning! There is so much more of a baby than one expects. And Perfetta washes him just as she washes clothes. Then he screams for hours. My wife is to have a light hand. Ah, how he kicks! Has he splashed you? I am very sorry.”
“Certainly! certainly!” He strode in a knowing way to a cupboard. But he had no idea where the soft towel was. Generally he dabbed88 the baby on the first dry thing he found.
“And if you had any powder.”
She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief. He put a chair for her on the loggia, which faced westward90, and was still pleasant and cool. There she sat, with twenty miles of view behind her, and he placed the dripping baby on her knee. It shone now with health and beauty: it seemed to reflect light, like a copper vessel91. Just such a baby Bellini sets languid on his mother’s lap, or Signorelli flings wriggling92 on pavements of marble, or Lorenzo di Credi, more reverent43 but less divine, lays carefully among flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. For a time Gino contemplated93 them standing. Then, to get a better view, he knelt by the side of the chair, with his hands clasped before him.
So they were when Philip entered, and saw, to all intents and purposes, the Virgin94 and Child, with Donor95.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in such cheerful trim.
She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed the baby to his father.
“No, do stop!” whispered Philip. “I got your note. I’m not offended; you’re quite right. I really want you; I could never have done it alone.”
No words came from her, but she raised her hands to her mouth, like one who is in sudden agony.
“Signorina, do stop a little—after all your kindness.”
She burst into tears.
“What is it?” said Philip kindly.
She tried to speak, and then went away weeping bitterly.
The two men stared at each other. By a common impulse they ran on to the loggia. They were just in time to see Miss Abbott disappear among the trees.
“What is it?” asked Philip again. There was no answer, and somehow he did not want an answer. Some strange thing had happened which he could not presume to understand. He would find out from Miss Abbott, if ever he found out at all.
“Well, your business,” said Gino, after a puzzled sigh.
“Our business—Miss Abbott has told you of that.”
“No.”
“But surely—”
“She came for business. But she forgot about it; so did I.”
Perfetta, who had a genius for missing people, now returned, loudly complaining of the size of Monteriano and the intricacies of its streets. Gino told her to watch the baby. Then he offered Philip a cigar, and they proceeded to the business.
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1
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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tacked
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| 用平头钉钉( tack的过去式和过去分词 )； 附加，增补； 帆船抢风行驶，用粗线脚缝 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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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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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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adversary
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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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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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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displeases
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| 冒犯，使生气，使不愉快( displease的第三人称单数 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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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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refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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