Ingram was not only a great painter, he was practised in minor1 accomplishments2, and among them was the art of running away. He had done it several times and had attained3 fluency4. Indeed, so easy had practice made it that it grew to be hardly running so much as walking. He walked away, at last quite leisurely5, from an uncommenting wife to a lady whose affection for him was invariably already so great that there was nothing left for it to do but to decline; and when it had declined, assisted and encouraged in various ways by him, the chief cooling factor being his expressed impatience6 to get to his painting again undisturbed by non-essentials—each lady found it cooling to be called a non-essential—he avoided the part that is sometimes a little difficult, the part in which recriminations are apt to gather like clouds about a sunset, the part that lies round ends, by skilful7 treatment, by a gradual surrounding of her who was now not so much a lover as a patient with an atmosphere of affection for her home. She came by imperceptible degrees to thirst for her home. She came to thirst, and such was his skill that she thirsted healthily, for her husband or her father or whoever it was she had left, for worries, catastrophes8, disgrace—for anything so long as it was so obliging as not to be love. If poorer in other ways she departed at least richer in philosophy, without a trace of jealousy9 of what he might do next, not minding what he did if only she did not have to do it, too, and he, until such time as he again was lured10 from paths of austerity and work by the hope that he had found the one predestined mate, enjoyed the condition in which he was altogether happiest, the freedom of spirit that disdains11 love.
But how different from those comfortable excursions, as straightforward12 and as uneventful to him in their transitory salubrious warming as bread and milk, was this running away! It was distressingly14 different. Almost, except that he had no desire to laugh, ridiculously different. The first step, the process of the actual removal from Kökensee to Berlin, from legality to illicitness15, had in its smoothness been positively16 glib17; and he had supposed that, once alone together, love-making, which was the very marrow18 of running away—else why run?—would follow with a similar glibness19. Nothing, however, seemed less inclined to follow. The only things that did follow were two confused exasperating20 days in which his moods varied21 with every hour, almost at last with everything she said. The capaciousness of her beliefs and acceptances amazed him. They were as capacious as her enthusiasms. She believed so firmly what he had told her over there away in Kökensee, where of course a man had to say things in order to get a beginning made, about the friendly frequent journeyings of other people, she had so heartily22 accepted his assurance that it was absurd and disgraceful in its suggestion of evil-mindedness not to travel frankly23 anywhere with anybody—"Are we not the children of light, you and I?" he had asked her—the things a man says! he thought; but they should not be brought up against him in this manner, clad in an invincible24 armour25 of acceptance—"And shall we be hindered in our free comings and goings by the dingy26 scruples27 of those heavy others, the groping and afraid children of darkness?"—that plainly the idea that she was doing anything even remotely wrong had not occurred to her. The basis of her holiday was this belief in frank companionship. She had no difficulty, he observed, himself infinitely28 fretted29 by this constant closeness to her, in being just a frank companion. She was so carelessly secure in friendship, so empty of any thought beside, that she could and did say things to him which said by any other woman in the same situation would have instantly led to lovemaking. But Ingram, who was fastidious, could no more make love to her, violently begin, robustly30 stand no nonsense, so long as she was steeped in obliviousness31, than he could to a child or a chair. There must be some response, some consciousness. Her obtuseness32 to the real situation was so terribly healthy minded that it was almost a disease; the awful candour of soul of bishops33' daughters and pastors34' wives appalled35 him.
For three days the weather continued heavy, pressing down on his eyes. He did not sleep. He was all nerves. In the morning, a time he had not yet known her in, for at Kökensee they were together only in the afternoons, she produced the effect on him of some one different and in some subtle annoying way strange. Was it because she flickered36 more in the mornings? He could not describe it better than that—she flickered. She always flickered mentally, her thoughts just giving each subject a little lick and then blowing off it to something else, but in the afternoons and evenings the flickering37 was often beautiful, or at those warmer more indulgent hours it seemed so, and in the morning it was not. A man in the morning wants somebody pinned down for a companion, somebody reasonable and fixed38. Nothing but a rather silent reasonableness, and if enunciations are unavoidable brief ones, go well with coffee and with rolls. At breakfast he found he could hardly speak to her so exceedingly then was she on his nerves—her dreadful healthy restedness when he had been tossing all night, her fearful readiness for the new day when he had not even begun to recover from the old one, her regularity39 of enthusiasm, her punctual happiness. And every evening he was in love with her.
He was exasperated40. This being with her among the hills and lakes of Italy that he had thought of as going to be the sweetest time he had known was sheer exasperation41; for even in the evenings when he was in love with her—the condition, indeed, set in at any time from tea onwards, and could on occasion be induced before tea if she happened to say the right things—he was irritably42 in love, and hardly knew whether it would give him more satisfaction to shake her or to kiss her. And annoying and perplexing as her untroubled conscience was it was yet not so annoying and perplexing as her wild joy in Italy. Who would not be galled43 by the discovery that he has become a background? Who would have supposed that she who in Kökensee thought him so wonderful, so clearly realised who he was, who walked with him there in the rye-fields and offered him every sort of incense44 that sweet words could invent, would, let loose in Italy, take the background he had so carefully chosen for his lovemaking and hug it to her heart and be absorbed in it and adore it beyond reason, and that he himself would turn into the background—incredible as it seemed, into just the background of his own background?
When he took her up into the hills, into solitary45 places where the chestnut46 woods went on for miles and no one ever came but charcoal-burners, he was not, as it were, there. When he took her on the lake in a sailing-boat and they hung motionless on the goodwill47 of the wind, he was not there, either. When they rested after a hot climb, deep in some high meadow not yet reached by the ascending48 haymakers, and through the stalks of its bee-haunted flowers, its delicate bending scabious and frail49 ragged-robins, could see little bits of lake far below and the white villages on the mountains opposite, and the whole world was only asking to be made a frame of for love, where, he inquired of himself, in the picture that was in her mind and irradiating her eyes, was he? He had not imagined, so far behind him were his own discoveries of the new, that any one could be so greedily absorbed. Watching her, while she watched everything except him, he decided50 he would take her to Milan. He would try something ugly. Milan this heavy hot weather ought to give her back to him if anything would. They would stay in a street where there were tramcars and noises, and they would frequent museums. They would walk much on pavements, and have their food in English tea-rooms. While the cure was in progress she might be getting herself some decent clothes, for really her clothes were distressing13, and when it was accomplished51, and she was thoroughly52 bored with things, and had come back to being aware of him, he would carry her off to Venice and begin work—work, the best thing in life, the one thing that keeps on yet is never monotonous53, the supreme54 thing always new and joyful55. But he was afraid of Venice. Venice was too beautiful. She would not sit quiet there while he painted her; she would want to go out and look. Impossible to take her there until she had learned to blot56 out everything in the world with his image alone. This blotting57 out, he perceived, would have to be achieved in Milan, and quickly. He was starving for his work. So acute was his hunger to begin the great picture that right underneath58 all his other emotions and wishes and moods was a violent impatience at being kept from it by what his subconsciousness59 alluded60 to with resentful incorrectness as a parcel of women.
It was the evening at Luino that he definitely decided on Milan.
They had walked that day along the wooded paths that lead ultimately across to Ponte Tresa, and she had once again, on returning to Luino and seeing a revolving61 column of picture postcards outside a tobacconist's shop and catching62 sight of some that showed the place of rocks and falling water in which they had eaten their luncheon63, wanted to send one to Robert. She had not said so, but she had hovered64 round the column looking hungry. Picture postcards seemed to have a dreadful fascination65 for her; and as for Ingram, the mere66 sight of them at this point of their journey made him see red. He had instantly observed her hungry hovering67, and had flared68 out into a leaping rebuke69 in which there was more of the angry schoolmaster than the lover. He had felt it himself, and seen, quick as he was to see, a little look of surprised and questioning fear for a moment in her eyes.
"Well, it's because you're always thinking of Robert," he flashed at her in an attempt that caught fire on the way to apologise.
"Not always," she said hesitatingly, with a smile that for the first time was propitiating70; and the accidents of the pavement making him walk for a few yards in front of her she found herself looking at his back, his high thin shoulders and the rims71 of his ears, with a startled feeling of entire strangeness.
A dim thought rose and disappeared again somewhere in the back of her mind, a whisper of a thought, hardly breathed and gone again—"I'm used to Robert."
He took her to Milan next day. That loud and sweltering city was, by its hot dulness, to bore her into awareness72 of him, to toss her by sheer elimination73 of other interests to his breast. Inexorably he kept her on the steamer and turned a deaf ear to her prayers that they might land when it stopped at attractive villages on its journey down the lake. She thought this unreasonable74; for why come at all to these lovely places, come so close that one could almost touch them, and then whisk away and hardly let one look? And she could not help feeling, after he had been short with her about the Borromean Islands, at one of which unfortunately the steamer touched, that it would be both blessed and splendid to travel round here alone—free, able to get out at islands if one wanted to.
"Yes, those are islands," he said, when first they loomed75 on her enraptured76 gaze. "Yes, one can land on them, but we're not going to. Yes, yes, beautiful—but we've got to catch the train."
She began to turn a slightly perplexed77 attention to him. Surely he was different from what he was at Kökensee! And there were the Borromean Islands slipping away, the beautiful islands; there they were being passed, going out of her life; it was unlikely she would ever see them again....
To Ingram on that leaden afternoon the lake looked like a coffin78, and the islands as dull and shabby as three nails in it; to Ingeborg they looked like three little miracles of God. Just as he who for the first time goes abroad would give up Rome if he might stop at Calais, so did Ingeborg hanker after detailed79 exploration of new places she was inexorably whisked away from. The Borromean Islands were beautiful, but if they had been dull she still would have hankered after them. Beautiful or dull they were different from Kökensee; and when the travelled Ingram put his hopes in Milan he did not realise how great on Ingeborg after her strictly80 cloistered81 Kökensee existence was the effect of the merely different. The platform at Arona, the flat fields the train presently lumbered82 across, the factories and suburbs of Milan, the noisy streets throbbing83 heavily with heat that grey and lowering afternoon, the shapes of things, of dull things, of tramcars and cabs and washerwomen, the shop windows, the behaviour and foreign faces of dogs, the behaviour of children, the Italian eyes all turned to her, all staring at her—they fascinated and absorbed her like the development of a vivid dream. Who were these people? What would they all do next? What were they feeling, thinking, saying? Where were they going, what had they had for breakfast, what were the rooms like they had just come out of, what sorts of things did they keep in their cupboards?
"If one of them would lend me a cupboard," she exclaimed to Ingram, "and leave me alone with what it has got inside it, I believe I'd know all Italy by the time I'd done with it. Everything, everything—the desires of its soul and its body, and what it works at and plays at and eats, and what it hopes is going to happen to it after it is dead."
And he had been supposing, from her silence as she walked beside him, that she was finding Milan dull. Hastily he led her away from the streets into an English tea-room and made her sit with her back to the window and gave her rusks.
But though her childhood had been spent among these objects, which were esteemed84 at the Palace because falling just short at the last moment of quite sweetness and quite niceness they discouraged sinful gorging85, they had none of their ancient sobering effect on her there in Milan. She ate them and ate them, and remained as brightly detached from them as before. Their dryness choked out none of her lively interest, their reminiscent flavour did not quiet her, not even when combined, as it presently was, with the sound of church bells floating across the roofs. She might have been in Redchester with those Sunday bells ringing and all the rusks. Sitting opposite to her at the marble-topped table in the deserted86 shop Ingram decided he would give her no meals more amusing than this in Milan. So long as she kept him there she should, except breakfast, have all her meals in that one place: modest meals, meals damping to the spirits and surely in the long run lowering, the most inflaming87 dish provided by the tea-room being—it announced it on its wall—poached eggs.
He kept her there as long as he could, long after the tea was cold, and tried, so deeply upset was he becoming by the delays her curious immaturity88 was causing in the normal development of running away, actually in that place of buns to make love to her. But how difficult it was! He, too, had eaten rusks. He wanted to tell her he adored her, and it reached her across the teapot in the form of comments on the uncertainties90 of her behaviour. He wanted to tell her her body was as delicate as flowers and delightful91 as dawn, and it came out a criticism of the quality—also the quantity—of her enthusiasms. He endeavoured to sing the praise of the inmost core of her, the inexpressible, illuminating92, understanding, and wholly sweet core, and instead he found himself acidly deprecating her clothes.
Ingeborg sat listening with half an ear and eyes bright with longing93 to be out in the streets again. She was fidgeting to get away from the shop, and was sorry he should choose just that moment to smoke so great a number of cigarettes. Even the young lady who guarded the cakes appeared to think the visit for one based only on tea and rusks had lasted long enough, and came and cleared away and inquired in English, it being her native tongue, whether she could not, now, get them anything else.
"The curious admixture in you," said Ingram, starting out with the intention of comparing her to light in the darkness and immediately getting off the rails, "the curious admixture in you of streaks94 of childishness and spasmodic maturity89! You are at one moment so entirely95 impulsive96 and irresponsible, and a moment before you were quite intelligent and reasonable, and a moment afterwards you are splendid in courage and recklessness."
"When was I splendid in courage and recklessness?" she asked, bringing more attention to bear on him.
"When you left your home to come to me. The start off was splendid. Who could dream it would fizzle out into—well, into this?"
"But has it fizzled out? You're not"—she leaned across the table a little anxiously—"you're not scolding me?"
"On the contrary, I'm trying to tell you all you are to me."
"Oh," said Ingeborg.
"Streaks?"
"Oh—a dead invader?"
"I don't, you see, believe in the damning effect of one specific outbreak, nor of one or two—"
"You're not—you're not really scolding me?" she asked, again a little anxiously.
"On the contrary, I'm believing in and clinging to your dear innermost."
"Oh," said Ingeborg.
"I believe these streaks and patches and spots your superficial self has may be good in their ultimate effect, may save us, by interrupting, from those too serene99 spells that dogs'-ear love with usage and carelessness."
She gazed at him, her mouth a little open. He lit yet another cigarette.
"But it's rather like," he said, flinging the match away into a corner whither the young lady followed it and with a pursed reproachfulness trod it out, "it's rather like finding a crock of gold in one's garden and only being able to peep at it sometimes, and having to go away and work very hard for eleven shillings a week."
She went on gazing at him in silence.
"And not even for eleven shillings," said Ingram, reflecting on all he had already endured. "Work very hard for nothing."
She leant across the table again. "I never mean to be tiresome," she said.
"It's always involuntary, my tiresomeness," she said, addressing him earnestly. "Oh, but it's so involuntary—and the dull surfaces I know I have, and the scaly101 imperfections—"
He knocked the ashes off his cigarette with unnecessary vigour102, almost as though they were bits of an annoying relative's body.
"I'm warped103, and encrusted, and blundering," went on Ingeborg, who was always thorough when it came to adjectives.
In his irritable104 state, to have her abjectly105 cheapening herself vexed106 him as much as everything else she had done that day had vexed him. He might, under provocation107, point out her weaknesses, but she must not point them out to him. He wanted to worship her, and she persisted in preventing him. Distressing to have a god who refuses to sit quiet on its pedestal, who insists on skipping off it to show you its shortcomings and beg your pardon. How could he make love to her if she talked like this? It would be like trying to make love to a Prayer-book.
"Is it because it is Sunday," he said, "that you are impelled108 to acknowledge and confess your faults? You make me feel as if a verger had passed by and pushed me into a pew."
"Well, but I am warped and encrusted and blundering," she persisted.
"You are not!" he said irritably. "Haven't I told you you are my star and my miracle?"
"Yes, but—"
"I tell you," he said, determined109 to believe it, "that you are the very bath of my tired spirit."
"How kind you are!" she said. "You're as kind to me as if you were my brother. Sometimes I think you are rather like my brother. I never had a brother, but you're very like, I think, the one I would have had if I had had one." She warmed to the idea. "I feel as if my brother—" she said, preparing to launch into enthusiasm; but he interrupted her by getting up.
"It seems waste," he said, reaching for his hat, "to talk about your brother, as you've never had him. Shall we go?"
She jumped up at once with the air of one released. He himself could not any longer endure the tea-room or he would have stayed in it. Gloomily he went out with her into the streets again and noted110 that if anything she seemed more active and eager than before—thoroughly, indeed, rested and refreshed. Gloomily he realised during the next hour or two that she had an eye for buildings, and that they were always the wrong ones. Gloomily he discovered an odd liking111 in her for anything, however bad, that was wrought112 in iron. He could not get her past some of the iron gates of the palaces. He hated bad gates. Without experience she could not compare and did not select, and her interest was all-embracing, indiscriminating as a child's. He took pains to avoid the Piazza113 del Duomo, but by some accident of a twisting street and a momentary114 inattentiveness he did find himself at last, after much walking as he had thought away from it, all of a sudden facing it. Urging her on by her elbow he hurried her nervously115 across it, hoping she would not see the Cathedral; but the Cathedral being difficult not to see she did see it, and remained, as he had feared she would, rooted.
"Ingeborg," he exclaimed, "if you tell me you like that—"
"Oh, let me look, let me look," she cried, holding his sleeve while he tried to get her away. "It's so funny—it's so different—"
"Ingeborg—" he almost begged; but from its outside to its inside was an inevitable116 step, and that she should gasp117 on first getting in seemed also, after she had done it, inevitable.
Ingram found himself sight-seeing; looking at windows; following her down vaults118; towed by beadles. He rubbed his hand violently over his hair.
"But this is intolerable!" he cried aloud to himself. "I shall go mad—"
And he strode after her and caught her arm just as she was disappearing over the brim of the crypt.
"Ingeborg," he said, his eyes blazing at her in a bright astonishment119, "do you mean to tell me that I shall not reach you, that I'm not going to get ever at you till I paint you?"
She turned in the gloom and looked up at him.
"Oh, I know I'll get you then," he went on excitedly, while the interrupted beadle impatiently rattled120 his keys. "Nothing can hide you away from me then. I don't paint, you see, by myself—"
She stared up at him.
"And all this you're doing, all this waste of running about—have you then forgotten the picture?"
It was as though he had shaken her suddenly awake. She stared at him in a shock of recollection. Why, of course—the picture. Why—incredible, but she had forgotten it. Actually forgotten it in the wild excitement of travelling; actually she had been wanting to linger at each new place, she who had only ten days altogether, she who had come only after all because of the picture, the great picture, the first really great thing that had touched her life. And here she was with him, its waiting creator, dragging him about who held future beauty in his cunning guided hand among all the mixed stuff left as a burden on the generations by the past, curious about the stuff with an uneducated stupid curiosity, wasting time, ridiculously blocking the way to something great, to the greatest of the achievements of a great artist.
She was sobered. She was overcome by the vivid recognition of her cheap enthusiasm.
"Oh," she said, staring up at him, wide awake, entirely ashamed, "how patient you've been with me!"
And as he still held her by the arm, his eyes blazing down at her from the top step of the crypt, she could find no way of expressing her shame and contrition121 except by bending her head and laying her cheek on his hand.
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1
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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disdains
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| 鄙视，轻蔑( disdain的名词复数 ) | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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distressingly
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| adv. 令人苦恼地；悲惨地 | |
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illicitness
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| illicit（违法的）的变形 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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glib
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| adj.圆滑的，油嘴滑舌的 | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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glibness
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| n.花言巧语；口若悬河 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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obliviousness
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obtuseness
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| 感觉迟钝 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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42
irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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43
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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44
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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45
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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46
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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47
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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48
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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49
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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52
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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54
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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55
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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56
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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57
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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58
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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59
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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60
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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62
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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63
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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64
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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65
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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66
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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67
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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propitiating
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的现在分词 ) | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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73
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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74
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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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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76
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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78
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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81
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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83
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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85
gorging
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的现在分词 )；作呕 | |
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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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inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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immaturity
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| n.不成熟；未充分成长；未成熟；粗糙 | |
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89
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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90
uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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92
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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93
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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94
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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99
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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100
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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101
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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102
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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103
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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104
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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105
abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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106
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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107
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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108
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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110
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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111
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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112
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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113
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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114
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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115
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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116
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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117
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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118
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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119
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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120
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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121
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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