The two Richards walked through the park towards the priory, Jeffray laughingly explaining how he had come by a broken head, and pointing out the many beauties of the place as they went. There were the cedars1 his father had planted, already lusty and handsome trees. Pine and beech2 woods spread romantic and mysterious gloom upon the slopes. Here were gnarled and dying oaks that still lived on, torn and shattered, after the storms of centuries. There on a green knoll3 stood the holy thorn that was said to have sprung from the bones of some old saint, and had flowered in popish days at Christmas. A myriad4 rushes streaked5 the grass-land where mole-hills studded the dew-silvered grass with brown. When they came in sight of the old house lying in the hollow, lapped in the purple gloom of the woods, its chimneys towering to the blue, its fish-ponds glimmering7 in the sun, Wilson stopped and laid a hand on Jeffray’s shoulder.
“By Heaven, this is splendid!” he said. “See the purple, the green, the blue, the brave bronze! See the silver showers of light on the old trees! The toning of the moss8 and lichen9 on those walls is enough to make an impotent mortal weep!”
Jeffray’s face kindled10. He loved the old place, and was glad to hear so blunt a critic as Richard Wilson wax eloquent11 over the home of his fathers.
“You must stay with me, Dick,” he said, warmly. “Can you leave your portrait-painting in town?”
“I have given up the flattering of fools,” quoth the painter, almost with a snarl12; “and in turn the fools are giving me up. See here, Richard, this is how the gay world treats its servant.”
He turned up the tails of his shabby coat, and smiled with a species of rueful bitterness.
“English gentlemen like to behold13 their own smug faces, sir,” he added, “better than waving woods and smiling plains.”
Before introducing Wilson to the Lady Letitia in the afternoon, Richard delicately assisted the painter in making his toilet, lending him a frilled shirt, and a green waistcoat that was much too tight for him, and providing him with a pair of Peter Gladden’s buckled14 shoes.
“My aunt is something of a great lady, Dick,” he said, with an apologetic twinkle; “she loves to see a man’s buttons and cravat15 in order. I am always being scolded for slovenliness16 and lack of distinction, so to appease17 her taste I take more trouble with my dress.”
The painter, who was worming his huge feet into the butler’s shoes, grimaced18 at Jeffray, and ran the professional eye over the black-coated figure.
“You have not grown fatter, Richard,” he said. “I could still make an Apollo of you in the nude19, as I did that day when you bathed at Baiæ. What a graceful20 trunk, sir!—what a hand and foot! Don’t blush, lad, your lines are splendid, so far as they go, though, on my honor, you are reading too much, to judge by your shoulders. I’ll wager21 you have set the country nymphs a-simpering, the dear Phœbes. Deuce take these shoes! Is my wig22 on straight?”
“Perfectly,” said Jeffray, with a smile.
Wilson expanded his chest, turned out his right foot and knee, put his hand over his heart, and bowed.
“How’s that, Richard?” he asked, gravely.
“Worthy of St. James’s.”
“My professional bow, Richard. I detest23 it, sir—detest it! The money-getting tricks are not part of my art. I leave them to Mr. Joshua, who could flatter the moon into a trance, as his namesake did in Canaan, and talk the sun into believing that his complexion24 was not fiery25. Now, sir, lead on.”
Meanwhile, the Lady Letitia had heard strange and distorted accounts of the person and profession of her nephew’s visitor. Peter Gladden had unpacked26 Mr. Wilson’s knapsack and red bundle, and had discovered besides canvas, brushes, and paints, a tooth-brush, a few handkerchiefs, a razor, a soiled shirt, two night-caps, a piece of flannel27, and a prayer-book. It was all over the house and into Aunt Letitia’s ears in half an hour that this eccentric person had borrowed Mr. Jeffray’s waistcoat and a pair of Peter Gladden’s shoes. The dowager’s pride bristled28, despite the saintly emotions of the morning. A common painter fellow, a mere29 vulgar artist, whose name she did not even know, received as a guest at Rodenham Priory! What could Richard be thinking of, by associating with such a low and uncultured creature! Why, he would be for entertaining next that awful author fellow, Mr. Johnson, a man who spilled soup down his waistcoat, sneezed over the table, and was so bold as to contradict a lady flatly.
Hence, the Lady Letitia’s reception of Mr. Richard Wilson in the parlor30 that afternoon, was not calculated to put that gentleman at his ease. The dowager was polite, portentously31 and oppressively polite, “to please poor Richard,” as she would have phrased it. Her eyes searched Mr. Wilson from wig to buckles32, started at his wrinkled and complaining waistcoat, and recognized Peter Gladden’s shoes. She deigned33 to listen to the painter’s stumbling platitudes34 about the weather, and then discovered suddenly that she was afflicted35 with deafness and a sick headache, and declared that she would go and rest in her bedroom until dinner.
When the Lady Letitia had sailed out of the room, Wilson stood and stared pathetically at Jeffray.
“There, sir,” he exclaimed, with tragic36 emphasis, “you see, my poor face always frightens them away, and I fall over my own tongue as well as over my feet. Nature did not breed me for a courtier, Jeffray. Damn it, I can’t flatter the fools in the gallant37 style. Beg pardon, Richard, I was not referring to your august and noble relative.”
“Come and see the garden, Dick.”
“Do you keep peacocks there, sir?”
“Peacocks, Dick! Why, peacocks?”
A mysterious change had fallen upon the Lady Letitia’s temper by dinner-time, a change that betrayed itself in her attitude towards Richard Wilson. She was peculiarly gracious and urbane39, and no one could be more gracious than the Lady Letitia when she so chose. The painter, astonished at his sudden acceptance into favor, found himself talking to the dowager with an ease and a fervor40 that made him fancy for the moment that Jeffray’s wine had got into his noddle. Aunt Letitia beamed and sparkled, crowed and chuckled41 at Dick’s jokes, and seemed wholly to have abandoned the air of hauteur42 that had repulsed43 Wilson in the afternoon. Jeffray himself was thoroughly44 mystified as to the miracle. He could only conclude that the dear old lady had spoken the truth when she had complained of a headache, and that it was not the painter’s shabby clothes or his rough and unfashionable face that had shocked her aristocratic susceptibilities.
Aunt Letitia had been spending the afternoon gossiping with her maid, and that trusted servant had let fall Mr. Richard Wilson’s name into her mistress’s pensive46 ear. The four syllables47 had suddenly struck some rusty48 note of by-gone scandal in the dowager’s brain. “Wilson! Wilson! Yes, to be sure, there used to be a painter fellow in town of that name. She had not heard him spoken of lately, though some of the gentry49 had sat to him for their portraits years ago. Wait! Could this be the Mr. Richard Wilson concerning whom a merry tale had been spun50 one season in the fashionable seats? Sir Peter Hardacre had had a house in town seven years or so ago, before economy had been forced like a bolus down the poor baronet’s throat.” The Lady Letitia had knitted her brows over these curious and interesting reminiscences. She had determined51 to discover more about Mr. Richard Wilson and his past that evening. Hence her amazing and gracious affability to that honest but slovenly52 individual, an affability that made Mr. Wilson expand his chest, set his shabby wig straight, and imagine that there was yet hope for him in the world of Mammon.
“You have been long abroad, sir, I believe?” said the dowager, sweetly, after drawing the painter into a discussion on Italian art.
“Years, madam, years.”
“You painted many clever portraits in town some seasons ago.”
“I was honored at one time, madam,” he said, stroking his broad chin, “by the presence of certain of the beauties of the fashionable world in my studio. Yes, madam, I painted Sir Toby Gilhooly and his lovely daughters; Mr. Walsh, the poet; Admiral Timberbuck, and many others, madam.”
The Lady Letitia twinkled, and exhaled54 perfumes. Her nephew was engaged at the other end of the table in a scholarly debate on Roman architecture with Dr. Sugg. The lad had desisted from fathering Richard Wilson, and was delighted to see that his aunt showed the poor fellow so much favor.
“Did you ever paint Sir Peter Hardacre, Mr. Wilson?” asked the old lady, innocent as a paschal lamb.
“Sir Peter Hardacre, madam?”
“Yes, sir. I thought I remembered seeing the picture—”
Richard Wilson adjusted his wig, and drank down a glass of wine.
“I believe I did, madam—I believe I did,” he said.
“Dear Sir Peter; he must have made such an aristocratic study! I think I must really ask you to honor me with a sitting, Mr. Wilson.”
The painter blinked, and then bowed low across the table. He appeared glad in measure to escape the subject, nor was his discomfort56 lost upon the Lady Letitia.
“I shall be proud, madam, proud,” he said; “the honor is on my side, madam. I shall be proud to paint Richard Jeffray’s grandmother—pardon me, madam—aunt, I mean. Upon my word, madam, you look extraordinarily57 young to have so old a nephew.”
Aunt Letitia, not in the least disturbed by the painter’s slip, received his clumsy apologies and awkward apings of flattery with infinite good humor.
“La, Mr. Wilson,” she said, frankly58, “I am an old woman, and, thank God, I know it. I think it is a pitiful sight, sir, to see an old woman frittering away the solemn and awful years of age in folly59, when she should be preparing herself to meet her Maker60.”
“Upon my soul, madam,” said the painter, much relieved, “your wisdom is as admirable as—ahem—as—as your distinguished61 and aristocratic person. Ahem. I shall be proud, madam, to put my poor powers at your service.”
“What a blundering and honest fool it is,” thought the Lady Letitia. “Yes, it is the very fellow who painted old Sir Peter, and made love to the daughter. Or was it Miss Jilian who made love to him? Egad, dear nephew, there is no need for your old aunt to play the scandal-monger, if this good ass6 can be got to bray62. Mr. Wilson must be made welcome here, and the secret coaxed63 out of his ugly mouth.” And thus the Lady Letitia continued to beam upon the painter with all the waning64 sunshine of her November years. She made him draw droll65 sketches66 for her in the parlor after dinner, laughed at his whimsies67, promised to send her dear friends Lady Boodle and Miss FitzNoodle to be painted by Wilson when he returned to town. When Peter Gladden set the card-table in order, the dowager insisted that Richard Wilson should be her partner, and that Richard should challenge them with Dr. Sugg. And though poor Dick managed his cards disgracefully, trumped68 the Lady Letitia’s tricks, bungled69 the returns and lost her money, she continued to beam on him with undiminished brightness, and to encourage the good oaf with all the sweetness she could compel.
“Yes, Richard, mon cher,” she said to her nephew, as she bade him good-night, “my headache has left me; I felt quite vaporish this afternoon. Your friend is a dear creature, so droll and refreshing70; not polished, of course, but quite charming. I have fallen in love with the dear bear, Richard. It is so delightful71 to talk to a man of sense and humor, even though he may smell—faintly, of the soil.”
Bess had wandered back from Beacon72 Rock through her well-loved woods that morning, thinking more of Richard Jeffray than was good for a woman’s heart. There was a charm about Bess that no mortal could gainsay73. She looked fit for carrying a milking-pail over meadows golden with cowslips, for playing the Miss Prue gathering74 rosemary and thyme in some red-walled garden, or walking in brocade and lace amid the close-clipped yews75, statues, and terrace ways of some stately manor76. Despite her strength and her brilliant vitality77 she was no hoyden78, and even in her wild beauty seemed to suggest the subtle delicacy79 of high birth. Richard himself had been puzzled by her quaint80 stateliness, such stateliness as a child might have inherited from a noble mother and treasured unconsciously as she grew to womanhood.
The thoughts uppermost in Bess’s mind that morning dealt with the worldly gulf81 between Jeffray and herself. The girl had been content hitherto with the forest life, content to accept old Ursula as her foster-mother and the rest of them as her kinsfolk. She had grown up with Dan and David, and the forest children, ignorant as they were of the great world beyond the shadows of Pevensel. Yet beyond the forest life a dim and forgotten past seemed to rise up in the blue distance of the mind. A few strange incidents, which she had never been able to explain, still lived on like relics82 of a vanished age. She had prattled83 of them to old Ursula as a child, and had been laughed at and chided for her pains. The old woman had always told her that Rachel, her mother, Ursula’s younger sister, had run away from the hamlet before Bess was born, and that when her mother had died—“down in the west”—a peddler man had brought Bess back to the Grimshaws of Pevensel. Ursula had always shed a species of reticent84 mystery over the past, and had waxed dour85 if Bess had pressed her questions too boldly or too far.
The girl had been content these years to let these vague memories glide86 away into oblivion. Now and again they would rise up to haunt her with strange vividness, frail87 ghostly images of other days. How was it that she often saw a negro man with black, woolly hair in her dreams, she who had never seen such a man in Pevensel? Then there was that memory of her falling and cutting her bare knee upon a stone, and of a tall lady with bright eyes and a brooch with green stones at her throat running to catch her in her arms. Vaguely88, too, she believed that she had once been in a great ship at sea. There were incidents that lived more vividly89 than the rest in her mind; one, the memory of her standing90 at night on the deck of a ship with the dark sails flapping above and rough men swearing and quarrelling about her; she had seen blows given, heard a wild cry and the plash of a body thrown over the bulwarks91 into the sea. Then again she remembered being taken in a boat by night to land; the same rough men were with her; she could still recall one who wore a great pig-tail and had a black patch over one eye and a cloven lip. They had come with her to the shore and taken her into the woods, carrying bales that had seemed wondrous92 heavy. Thence they had disappeared, and the life in Pevensel had begun, its very beginnings dim as the mysterious past.
These memories came back with strange vividness to her mind that morning after her parting with Jeffray on the heath. For the first time in her life she found herself wondering whether old Ursula had told her the truth. Could she have dreamed these mind pictures that still clung to her? Were these memories but the dim and fantastic fancies of childhood, mere myths begotten93 of a child’s brain. She puzzled over them earnestly as she walked through the woods that morning, and promised herself that she would tell them to Richard Jeffray when they should meet again.
Old Ursula sat up after Bess had gone to bed that night, huddled94 snugly95 in the ingle-nook with her black cat at her side. The pewter glistened96 on the shelves as the handful of sticks that the dame97 had thrown on the sulky fire kindled and broke into busy flame. Bess had been in bed half an hour or more, and was lying with her black hair loose upon the pillow, thinking of Richard Jeffray and her adventure with him. She had primed the pistols from the powder-horn kept in the kitchen-press, and had hidden them away in the cupboard in her bedroom, meaning to carry one whenever she went abroad in the woods. Bess had fallen asleep, when old Ursula, dozing98 in the ingle-nook, was awakened99 by a knocking at the cottage door. She started up, hobbled across the kitchen, and let Isaac Grimshaw in.
The old man sat himself down on the settle before the fire, drew out a short pipe and a tobacco-box, and began to smoke. He looked at Ursula with his shrewd, calculating eyes, jerked his thumb over his shoulder, and smiled.
“The wench is above, eh?”
“This hour or more.”
“Dame, I have much to gossip over with ye about our Bess. She is a dangerous wench and needs a master. There’ll be no peace with us, dame, till the girl is stalled.”
Isaac, kindling100 to his subject, began to talk to the old woman, significantly, about betrothing101 the girl to Dan without delay. He had much to put forward in justification102 of the measure. Bess’s beauty had become an apple of discord103 in the hamlet; all the young men wanted her, and Black Dan would put up with no rival. Isaac spoke45 mysteriously of the need for good-fellowship among the forest-folk; there must be no mating of Bess to a bachelor outside the hamlet; she was one of them and with them she must remain. Old Ursula looked surly and displeased104 during the patriarch’s harangue105. The match was little to her liking106, and she distrusted Dan’s ability to make marriage bearable to such a woman as Bess.
“I may as well tell ye, Isaac,” she said, sourly, “that the wench does not care a brass107 button for your Dan.”
“Who does she fancy then, dame, eh?”
“I thought once she was for liking young David. She is a powerful-tempered wench is Bess, and she don’t like being driven.”
“Odd’s my life,” he said, “the wench must be taught her place. My Dan’s the first man in the forest, eh? What better lad does the wench look for? I’ll wager that we will soon persuade her.”
“You be careful of Bess,” quoth the old woman, solemnly.
“Careful, dame! That’s the very text I’m preaching on. How much does the wench remember, eh? Deuce take me, sister, we have reared her here, and here she must remain. And Dan will be breaking all the youths’ heads unless he has her, and have her he shall.”
Isaac laid down his pipe and, leaning forward with his hands spread to the fire, began to speak further to the old woman in his grim and didactic way. There was an expression of almost ferocious109 earnestness on his thin and clever face, and it was difficult to believe that an old man could be possessed110 of so much fire and vigor111. Isaac had ruled the hamlet these forty years; his will had been law unto them all. Old Ursula’s one feeling was known to the patriarch well enough. He played upon it that night as she sat in the ingle-nook and listened. The dame kept a stockingful of guineas hid under the floor in one of the upper rooms. She would often go up secretly and play with the pretty golden pieces, counting and recounting them, letting them fall and jingle112 in her lap.
“A hundred gold guineas, dame,” said Isaac at the end of his persuading. “I’ll bring them to you on the betrothal113 day. Why, look you, the wench will be spry and gay enough when she is mated. Unbroken fillies are always wild.”
Ursula nodded over the fire, stroked the black cat reflectively, and watched Isaac’s face with her greedy eyes.
“You take your oath on it?” she asked.
The patriarch grinned, and drew a leather pouch114 from the tail-pocket of his coat. He jingled115 it and tossed it into his sister’s lap.
“There are twenty,” he said, curtly116; “keep them, dame, as a proof of the bargain. I’ll give you the rest when the gold piece is broken.”
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1
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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slovenliness
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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portentously
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32
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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48
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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52
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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53
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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54
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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55
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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56
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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57
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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58
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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60
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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61
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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62
bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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63
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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64
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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65
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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66
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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67
whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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68
trumped
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| v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去分词 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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69
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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70
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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72
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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73
gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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74
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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75
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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76
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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77
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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78
hoyden
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| n.野丫头，淘气姑娘 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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80
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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81
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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82
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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83
prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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84
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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85
dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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86
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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87
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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90
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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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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93
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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94
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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96
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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98
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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99
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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100
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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101
betrothing
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| v.将某人许配给，订婚( betroth的现在分词 ) | |
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102
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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103
discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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104
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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105
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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106
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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107
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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108
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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109
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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110
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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111
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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112
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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113
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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114
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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115
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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116
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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