"Now I know," thought Peter, seeing Vyvian look, "what villains5 in books are really like. Vyvian is just like one; specially6 about the eyes." He was sitting near Rhoda, playing that sort of patience called calcul, distinguished7 from other patiences by the fact that it comes out; that was why Peter liked it. He had refused to-night to join in the game the others were playing, which was animal grab, though usually he enjoyed it very much. Peter liked games, though he seldom won them. But this evening he played patience by himself and sat by Rhoda and consulted her at crucial moments, and babbled8 of many things and knew whenever Vyvian looked and Rhoda shook. At half-past nine Vyvian stopped talking to Hilary and crossed the room and took the arm-chair on Rhoda's other side.
"Enthralling9 evenings you spend here," he remarked, including in his glance Rhoda's embroidery10, Peter's patience, and the animal grab table, from which cheerfully matter-of-fact farmyard and jungle cries proceeded with spirit.
Rhoda said nothing. Her head was bent11 over her work. The next moment she pricked12 her finger violently, and started. Before she could get her handkerchief out, Vyvian had his, and was enveloping13 her small hand in it.
"Too bad," he said, in a voice so low that the farmyard cries drowned it as far as Peter was concerned. "Poor little finger." He held it and the handkerchief closely in his two hands.
Rhoda, her colour flooding and ebbing14 over her thin face and thin neck down to the insertion yoke15 of her evening blouse, trembled like a captured bird. Her eyes fell from his look; a bold, bad look Peter thought, finding literary terminology16 appropriate.
The next moment the little table on which Peter was playing toppled over onto the floor with a small crash, and all his cards were scattered17 on the carpet.
Rhoda started and looked round, pulling her hand away as if a spell was broken.
"Dear me," said Peter regretfully, "it was just on coming out, too. I shan't try again to-night; it's not my night, obviously." He was picking up the cards. Rhoda watched him silently.
"Do you know calcul, Mr. Vyvian?" Peter enquired18, collecting scattered portions of the pack from under the arm-chair.
Mr. Vyvian stared at Peter's back, which was the part of him most visible at the moment.
"Would you like to learn it?" said Peter politely. "Are you fond of patience?"
"I can't say I am," said Mr. Vyvian.
"Oh! Then you would like calcul. People who are really fond of other patiences don't; they despise it because it comes out. I don't like any other sort of patience; I'm not clever enough; so I like this. Let me teach you, may I?"
Vyvian got up.
"Thanks; you're quite too kind. On the whole, I think I can conduct my life without any form of patience, even one which comes out."
"You have a turn, then, Miss Johnson," said Peter, arranging the cards. "Perhaps it'll come out for you, though it won't for me to-night."
"Since you are all so profitably occupied," said Vyvian, "I think I will say good night."
Peter said, "Oh, must you?... Good night, then. We play calcul most nights, so you can learn it some other time if you'd like to."
"A delightful20 prospect," Vyvian murmured, his glance again comprehensively wandering round the room. "A happy family party you seem here.... Good night." He bent over Rhoda with his ironic22 politeness.
"I was going to ask you if you would come out with me to-morrow evening to a theatre.... But since your evenings seem to be so pleasantly filled otherwise...."
She looked up at him a moment, wavered, met his dark eyes, was caught by the old domination, and swept off her feet as of old.
"Oh, ... I should like to come...." She was a little breathless.
"Good! I will call for you then, at seven, and we will dine together. Au revoir."
"He swept her a mocking bow and was gone," Peter murmured to himself.
Then he looked at Rhoda, and found her eyes upon his face, wide, frightened, bewildered, and knew in a flash that she had never meant to consent to go out with Vyvian, that she had been caught by the old power he had over her and swept off her feet. That knowledge gave him confidence, and he could say, "You don't want to go, do you? Let me go after him and tell him."
"Oh," she pressed her hands together in front of her. "But I must go—I said I would."
Peter was on his feet and out of the door in a second. He saw Vyvian in the passage downstairs, putting on his coat. He spoke23 from half-way down the stairs:
"Oh, Miss Johnson asks me to say she is sorry she can't go with you to-morrow night after all; she finds she has another engagement."
Vyvian turned and looked up at him, a slight smile lifting his lip.
"Really?" was all he said. "All the same, I think I will call at seven and try to persuade her to change her mind again. Good night."
As plainly as possible he had said to Peter, "I believe you to be lying." Peter had no particular objection to his believing that; he was not proud; but he did object to his calling at seven and trying to persuade Rhoda to change her mind again, for he believed that that would be a task easy of achievement.
He went back into the sitting-room. Rhoda was sitting still, her hands twisted together on the green serge on her lap. Peter sat down by her and said, "Will you come out with me instead to-morrow evening?" and she looked at him, her teeth clenched24 over her lower lip as if to steady it, and said after a moment, forlornly, "If you like."
It was so much less exciting than going with Vyvian would have been, that Peter felt compunction.
"You shall choose the play," he said. "'Peter Pan,' do you think? Or something funny—'The Sins of Society,' or something?"
Rhoda whispered "Anything," nearly on the edge of tears. A vividness had flashed again into her grey life, and she was trying to quench25 it. She had heroically, though as an afterthought, flung an extinguishing douche of water at it; but now that she had done so she was melting into unheroic self-pity.
"I want to go to bed," she said shakily, and did so, feeling for her pocket-handkerchief as she crossed the room.
At a quarter to seven the next evening Peter looked for Rhoda, thinking it well that they should be out of the house by seven o'clock, but couldn't find her, till Miss Clegson said she had met her "going into church" as she herself came out. Peter went to the church to find her. Rhoda didn't as a rule frequent churches, not believing in the creeds26 they taught; but even to the unbelieving a church is often a refuge.
Peter, coming into the great dim place out of the wet fog, found it again, as he had long since known it to be, a refuge from fogs and other ills of living. Far up, the seven lamps that never go out burned dimly through the blurred27 air. It was a gaudy28 place, no doubt; over-decorated; a church for the poor, who love gaudiness29. Perhaps Peter too loved gaudiness. Anyhow, he loved this place and its seven lamps and its shrines30 and statued saints.
Surely, whatever one believed of the mysterious world and of all the other mysterious worlds that might be floating behind the veils, surely here was a very present help in trouble, a luminous32 brightness shining in a fog-choked world.
Peter, sitting by the door, sank into a great peace. Half-way up the church he saw Rhoda sitting very still. She too was looking up the church towards the lamps and the altar beyond them.
Presently a cassocked sacristan came and lit the vesper lights, for evensong was to be at seven, and the altar blazed out, an unearthly brilliance33 in the dim place. The low murmur21 of voices (a patient priest had been hearing confessions34 for an hour) ceased, and people began coming in one by one for service. Rhoda shivered a little, and got up and came down the church. Peter joined her at the door, and they passed shivering into the fog together.
"It's time we went, isn't it," she said apathetically36.
Then she added, inconsequently, "The church seems the only place where one can find a bit of peace. I can't think why, when probably it's all a fairy-tale."
"I suppose that's why," said Peter. "Fairyland is the most peaceful country there is."
"You can't get peace out of what's not true," Rhoda insisted querulously.
"Oh, I don't know.... Besides, fairy-tales aren't necessarily untrue, do you think? I don't mean that, when I call what churches teach a fairy-tale. I mean it's beautiful and romantic and full of light and colour and wonderful things happening. And it's probably the truer for that."
"I don't know. I never do know exactly what I believe. I can't think how anyone does. But yes, I think I like to believe in those things; they're too beautiful not to be true."
"It's the ugly things that are true," she said, coughing in the fog.
"Why, yes, the ugly things and the beautiful; God and the devil, if one puts it like that. Oh, yes, I believe very much in the devil; I can't believe that any street of houses could look quite like this without the help of someone utterly38 given over to evil thinking. We aren't, you see; none of us are ugly enough in our minds to have thought out some of the things one sees; so there must be a devil."
Rhoda was silent. He thought she was crying. He said gently, "I say, would you like to come out to-night, or would you rather be quiet at home?" It would be safe to return home by half-past seven, he thought.
A tall figure passed by them in the narrow alley, looming40 through the fog. Rhoda started, and shrank back against the brick wall, clutching Peter's arm. The next moment the figure passed into the circle of light thrown down by a high lamp that glimmered41 over a Robbia-esque plaque42 shrine31 let into the wall, and they saw that it was a cassocked priest from the clergy-house going into church. Rhoda let out her breath faintly in a sigh, and her fingers fell from Peter's coat-sleeve.
"Oh," she whispered, "I'm frightened.... Let's stay close to the church; just outside the door, where we can see the light and hear the music. I don't want to go out into the streets to-night, Peter, I want to stay here. I'm ... so frightened."
"Come inside," suggested Peter, as they turned back to the church. "It would be warmer."
But she shook her head. "No. I'd rather be outside. I don't belong in there."
Peter said, "Why not?" and she told him, "Because for me it's the ugly things that are true."
So together they stood in the porch, outside the great oak door, and heard the sound of singing stealing out, fog-softened, and smelt43 the smell of incense44 (it was the festal service of some saint) that pierced the thick air with its pungent45 sweetness.
They sat down on the seat in the porch, and Rhoda shivered, not with cold, and Peter waited by her very patiently, knowing that she needed him as she had never needed him before.
She told him so. "You don't mind staying, Peter? I feel safer with you than with anyone else.... You see, I'm afraid.... Oh, I can't tell you how it is I feel. When he looks at me it's as if he was drawing me and dragging me, and I feel I must get up and follow him wherever he goes. It's always been like that, since first I met him, more than a year ago. He made me care; he made me worship the ground he walked on; if he'd thrown me down and kicked me, I'd have let him. But he never cared himself; I know that now. I've known it a long time. And I've vowed46 to myself, and I vowed to mother when she lay dying, that I wouldn't let him have anything more to do with me. He frightens me, because he can twist me round his finger and make me care so ... and it hurts.... And he's just playing; he'll never really care. But for all I know that, I know he can get me whenever he wants me. And he's come back again to amuse himself seeing me worship him ... and he'll make me follow him about, and all the time he'll be thinking me a little fool, and I shall know it ... but I can't help it, Peter, I can't help it.... I've nothing to hold on to, to save me. If I could be religious, if I could pray, like the people in there ... but he says there's nothing in that; he's made me believe like him, and I sometimes think he only believes in himself, and that's why I can only believe in him too. So I've got nothing in the world to hold on to, and I shall be carried away and drowned...."
She was crying with strangled sobbings, her face in her thin hands.
Peter's arm was put gently about her shoulders, comforting her.
"No, you won't, Rhoda. Rhoda dear, you won't be carried away, because I shall be here, holding you. Is that any help at all?"
He felt her relax beneath his arm and lean back against him; he heard her whisper, "Yes; oh, yes. If I can hold onto you, Peter, I shall feel safe."
"Hold on, then," said Peter, "as tight as you like."
She looked up at him with wet eyes and he felt the claim and the appeal of her piercing straight into his heart.
"I could care ..." she whispered. "Are you sure, Peter?"
His arm tightened47 about her. He hadn't meant precisely48 what she had understood him to mean; at least, he hadn't translated his purpose to help her to the uttermost into a specified49 relation, as she was doing; but if the purpose, to be fulfilled, had to be so translated, he was ready for that too. So he said, "Quite sure, Rhoda. I want to be the most to you that you'll let me be," and her face was hidden against his coat, and her tension relaxed utterly, and she murmured, "Oh, I can be safe like that."
So they sat in silence together, between the lit sanctuary50 and the desolate51 night, and heard, as from a long way off, the sound of chanting:—
"Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace: according to thy word;
"For mine eyes have seen ..."
Later on, Rhoda said, quiet and happy now, "I've thought you cared, Peter, for some time. And last night, when I saw you hated Guy to be near me, I felt sure. But I feel I've so little to give you. So much of me is burnt away and spoilt. But it'll come back, Peter, I think, if you love me. I do love you, very much; you've been such a dear to me always, from the very first night at the Palazzo, when you spoke to me and smiled. Only I couldn't think of anyone but Guy then. But lately I've been thinking, 'Peter's worth a hundred Guys, and if only I could care for him, I should feel safe.' And I do care, ever so much; and if it's a different sort of caring from what I've felt for Guy, it's a better sort. That's a bad, black sort, that hurts; I never want any more of that. Caring for you will keep me from that, Peter."
"It's dear of you to care for me at all," said Peter. "And we won't let Guy come near us, now or ever."
"You hate him, don't you?" said Rhoda. "I know you do."
"Oh, well, I don't know that it's as bad as all that. He's more funny than anything else, it seems to me. He might have walked straight out of a novel; he does all the things they do in books, you know, and that one never thinks people really do outside them. He sneers52 insolently53. I watch him sometimes, to see how it's done. He curls his upper lip, too, when he's feeling contemptuous; that's another nice trick that I should like to acquire. Oh, he's quite an interesting study really. You've taken him wrong, you know. You've taken him seriously. He's not meant for that."
"Oh," said Rhoda, vaguely54 uncomprehending. "You are a funny boy, Peter. You do talk so.... I never know if you mean half you say."
"About two-thirds, I think," said Peter. "The rest is lies. We all lie in my family, and not well either, because we're rather weak in the intellect.... Now do you feel like supper, because I do? Let's come home and have it, shall we?"
They went home through the fog, Rhoda clinging to Peter's arm as to an anchor in a sweeping55 sea. A great peace and security possessed56 her; she no longer started at the tall figures that loomed57 by.
They let themselves into 51 Brook58 Street, and blinked at one another in the lamp-lit, linoleumed59 little hall. Rhoda looked at herself in the glass, and said, "What a fright I am!" seeing her tear-stained countenance60 and straggling fog-wet locks. The dinner-bell rang, and she ran upstairs to tidy herself. Peter and she came into the dining-room together, during the soup.
"Let's tell them at once, Peter," whispered Rhoda; so Peter obediently said, as he sat down by Peggy, "Rhoda and I have just settled to marry."
"Marry?" Hilary queried, from the end of the table. "Marry whom?" And Rhoda, blushing, laughed for the first time for some days.
Peggy said, "Don't be silly, Hilary. Each other, of course, the darlings mean. Well, well, and to think I never guessed that all this time!"
"Oh," said Miss Clegson, "I did, Mrs. Margerison; I had a very shrewd suspicion, I assure you. And this evening, when Mr. Peter asked me where Miss Johnson was gone, and I told him into church, and he followed her straight away, I said to myself, 'Well, that looks like something we all know about very well!' I didn't say it to anyone else; I wouldn't breathe a word till all was settled; I knew you asked me in confidence, Mr. Peter; but I thought the more. I was always one to see things; they used to tell me I could see through a stone wall. Well, I'm sure I offer my congratulations to both of you."
"And I too, with all my heart," said Miss Matthews, the lady who did not attend ritualistic churches. "Do I understand that the happy arrangement was made in church, Miss Johnson? I gather from Miss Clegson that Mr. Peter followed you there."
"Oh, not inside, Miss Matthews," said Rhoda, blushing again, and looking rather pretty. "In the porch, we were."
Miss Matthews sniffed61 faintly. Such goings-on might, she conveyed, be expected in the porch of St. Austin's, with all that incense coming through the door, and all that confessing going on inside.
"Well," said Mr. Bridger, "we ought to have some champagne62 to drink success to the happy event. Short of that, let us fill the festive63 bumpers64 with the flowing lemonade. Pass the jug65 down. Here's to you, Miss Rhoda; here's to you, Mr. Peter Margerison. May you both be as happy as you deserve. No one will want me to wish you anything better than that, I'm sure."
"Here's luck, you dears," said Peggy, drinking. Engagements in general delighted her, and Peter's in particular. And poor little Rhoda was looking so bright and happy at last. Peggy wouldn't have taken it upon herself to call it a remarkably66 suitable alliance had she been asked; but then she hadn't been asked, and Peter was such a sweet-natured, loving, lovable dear that he would get on with anyone, and Rhoda, though sometimes a silly and sometimes fractious, was a dear little girl too. The two facts that would have occurred to some sisters-in-law, that they had extremely few pennies between them, and that Rhoda wasn't precisely of Peter's gentle extraction, didn't bother Peggy at all.
They occurred, however, to Hilary. It occurred to him that Peter would now require all his slender earnings67 for himself and wife, which was awkward; also that Peter really needn't have looked down to the lower middle classes for a wife. Hilary believed in gentle birth; through all his vicissitudes68 a pathetic pride of breeding clung to him. One might be down at heels; one might be reduced to sordid69 means of livelihood70, even to shady schemes for enlarging one's income; but once a gentleman always so, and one was not to be ranked with the bounders, the Vyvians, the wealthy Leslies even.
Hilary looked resigned and weary. Why should Peter want to marry a commonplace and penniless little nobody, and not so very pretty either, though she looked nice and bright when she was animated71, as now.
"Well," he said, "when is it to be?"
Peter looked across at Rhoda.
"I should hope very soon," he said. It was obviously safer, and safety was the object, to have it very soon.
"How soon can one get married? There have to be banns and so on, don't there? The third time of asking—that brings it to the eighteenth of December. What about the nineteenth, Rhoda? That's a Monday."
"Well," said Peter, blind to the unusualness of such a discussion at the dinner-table, "the sooner the better, don't you think? There's nothing to wait for. I don't suppose we shall ever have more money to do it on than we have now. I know of a man who waited years and years because he thought he hadn't got quite enough, and he got a little more each year, and at the end of six years he thought to double his fortune by putting it all on a winner, because he was getting so impatient. And the horse came in last. So the girl broke it off and married someone else, and the man's heart broke and he took to drink."
"Well—so let's be married on December the nineteenth."
"I'm sure," said Rhoda, "we're quite embarrassing everybody, being so public. Let's settle it afterwards, Peter, when we're alone."
But she too meant to have it as soon as might be after the third time of asking; it was safer, much safer, so.
"Well," said Miss Clegson, as the ladies rose from the table, "now we're going to carry Miss Johnson away to tell us all about it; and we'll leave Mr. Peter to tell you gentlemen his secrets. And after that we'll have a good round game; but two of the present company can be left out if they like better to sit in the window-seat!"
But when the other gentlemen repaired to the drawing-room for the good round game, Peter stayed behind, with Hilary. He didn't want to talk or be talked to, only to stay where he was and not to have to sit in the window-seat.
"The insufferable vulgarity of this class of person on this subject is really the limit," Hilary remarked plaintively75, as if it had jarred him beyond endurance.
"They're awfully kind, aren't they," said Peter, who looked tired. Then he laughed to himself. Hilary looked at him enquiringly.
"I suppose you know your own business, Peter. But I must confess I am surprised. I had literally76 no idea you had such a step in mind."
"I hadn't any idea either," Peter admitted frankly77. "I thought of it quite suddenly. But I think it is a good plan, you know. Of course," he added, wording what he read in Hilary's face, "I know my life will cost me more. But I think it is worth while."
"It's quite entirely78 your own business," Hilary said again, throwing responsibility from him with a gesture of the hands. Then he leant back and shut his eyes.
Peter looked at him as he lay in the arm-chair and smoked; his eyes rested on the jaded79, still beautiful face, the dark lock of hair falling a little over the tired forehead, the brown velvet80 smoking coat and large red silk tie. He knew that he had hurt and puzzled Hilary. And he knew that Hilary wouldn't understand if he were to explain what he couldn't ever explain. At the most he would say, "It is Peter all over," and shrug81 his shoulders at Peter and Peter's vagaries82.
A great desire to smooth Hilary's difficult road, as far as might be, caught and held Peter. Poor old Hilary! He was so frightfully tired of life and its struggles; tired of being a Have-Not.
To help the other Have-Nots, to put pleasant things into their hands as far as might be, seemed to Peter at this moment the thing for which one existed. It is obviously the business of the Have-Nots to do that for one another; for the Haves do not know or understand. It is the Have-Nots who must give and give and give, with emptying hands; for from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.
Peter went upstairs to the drawing-room to play animal grab.
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1
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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terminology
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| n.术语；专有名词 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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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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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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gaudiness
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| n.华美，俗丽的美 | |
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shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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apathetically
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| adv.不露感情地；无动于衷地；不感兴趣地；冷淡地 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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41
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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50
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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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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52
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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linoleumed
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| Linoleumed | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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bumpers
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| （汽车上的）保险杠，缓冲器( bumper的名词复数 ) | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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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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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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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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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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81
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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82
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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