It is the green-eyed monster who doth mock
The meat it feeds on."
—Othello.
Next day at luncheon2 Mr. Amherst, having carefully mapped out one of his agreeable little surprises, and having selected a moment when every one is present, says to her, with a wicked gleam of anticipative amusement in his cunning old eyes:
"Sir Penthony is in England."
Although she has neither hint nor warning of what is coming, Lady Stafford is a match for him. Mr. Potts's intelligence of the evening before stands her now in good stead.
"Indeed!" she says, without betraying any former knowledge, turning eyes of the calmest upon him; "you surprise me. Tired so soon of Egyptian sphinxes! I always knew he had no taste. I hope he is quite well. I suppose you heard from him?"
"Yes. He is well, but evidently pines for home quarters and old friends. Thinking you would like to see him after so long a separation, I have invited him here. You—you don't object?"
"I?" says her ladyship, promptly4, reddening, but laughing too very successfully. "Now, why should I object? On the contrary, I shall be charmed; he will be quite an acquisition. If I remember rightly,"—with a little affected5 drooping6 of the lids,—"he is a very handsome man, and, I hear, amusing."
Mr. Amherst, foiled in his amiable7 intention of drawing confusion on the head of somebody, subsides9 into a grunt10 and his easy-chair. To have gone to all this trouble for nothing, to have invited secretly this man, who interests him not at all, in hopes of a little excitement, and to have those hopes frustrated11, disgusts him.
Yet, after all, there will, there must be some amusement in store for him, in watching the meeting between this strange pair. He at least may not prove as cool and indifferent as his pretty wife.
"He will be here to dinner to-day," he says, grumpishly, knowing that all around him are inwardly rejoicing at his defeat.
This is a thunder-bolt, though he is too much disheartened by his first defeat to notice it. Lady Stafford grows several shades paler, and—luncheon being at an end—rises hurriedly. Going toward the door, she glances back, and draws Molly by a look to her side.
"Come with me," she says; "I must speak to some one, and to you before any of the others."
When they have reached Cecil's pretty sitting-room12, off which her bedroom opens, the first thing her ladyship does is to subside8 into a seat and laugh a little.
"It is like a play," she says, "the idea of his coming down here, to find me before him. It will be a surprise; for I would swear that horrible old man never told him of my being in the house, or he would not have come. Am I talking Greek to you, Molly? You know my story, surely?"
"I have heard something of it—not much—from Mr. Luttrell," says Molly, truthfully.
"It is a curious one, is it not? and one not easily matched. It all came of that horrible will. Could there be anything more stupid than for an old man to depart this life and leave behind him a document binding13 two young people in such a way as makes it 'do or die' with them? I had never seen my cousin in all my life, and he had never seen me; yet we were compelled at a moment's notice to marry each other or forfeit14 a dazzling fortune."
"Why could you not divide it?"
"Because the lawyers said we couldn't. Lawyers are always aggressive. My great-uncle had particularly declared it should not be divided. It was to be all or none, and whichever of us refused to marry the other got nothing. And there was so much!" says her ladyship, with an expressive15 sigh.
"It was a hard case," Molly says, with deep sympathy.
"It was. Yet, as I managed it, it wasn't half so bad. Now, I dare say many women would have gone into violent hysterics, would have driven their relations to the verge16 of despair and the shivering bridegroom to the brink17 of delirious18 joy, and then given in,—married the man, lived with him, and been miserable19 ever after. But not I."
Here she pauses, charmed at her own superior wisdom, and, leaning back in her chair, with a contented20 smile, puts the tips of her fingers together daintily.
"Well, and you?" says Molly, feeling intensely interested.
"I? I just reviewed the case calmly. I saw it was a great deal of money,—too much to hesitate about,—too much also to make it likely a man would dream of resigning it for the sake of a woman more or less. So I wrote to my cousin explaining that, as we had never known each other, there could be very little love lost between us, and that I saw no necessity why we ever should know each other,—and that I was quite willing to marry him, and take a third of the money, if he would allow me to be as little to him in the future as I was in the present, by drawing up a formal deed of separation, to be put in force at the church-door, or the door of any room where the marriage ceremony should be performed."
"Well?"
"Well, I don't know how it would have been but that, to aid my request, I inclosed a photograph of our parlormaid (one of the ugliest women it has ever been my misfortune to see), got up in her best black silk, minus the cap, and with a flaming gold chain round her neck,—you know the sort of thing,—and I never said who it was."
"Oh, Cecil, how could you?"
"How couldn't I? you mean. And, after all, my crime was of the passive order; I merely sent the picture, without saying anything. How could I help it if he mistook me for Mary Jane? Besides, I was fighting for dear life, and all is fair in love and war. I could not put up with the whims22 and caprices of a man to whom I was indifferent."
"Did you know he had whims and caprices?"
"Molly," says Lady Stafford, slowly, with a fine show of pity, "you are disgracefully young: cure yourself, my dear, as fast as ever you can, and as a first lesson take this to heart: if ever there was a mortal man born upon this earth without caprices it must have been in the year one, because no one that I have met knows anything about him."
"Well, for the matter of that," says Molly, laughing, "I don't suppose I should like a perfect man, even if I did chance to meet him. By all accounts they are stilted23, disagreeable people, with a talent for making everybody else seem small. But go on with your story. What was his reply?"
"He agreed cordially to all my suggestions, named a very handsome sum as my portion, swore by all that was honorable he would never interfere25 with me in any way, was evidently ready to promise anything, and—sent me back my parlor-maid. Was not that insulting?"
"But when he came to marry you he must have seen you?"
"Scarcely. I decided26 on having the wedding in our drawing-room, and wrote again to say it would greatly convenience my cousin and myself (I lived with an old cousin) if he would not come down until the very morning of the wedding. Need I say he grasped at this proposition also? I was dressed and ready for my wedding by the time he arrived, and shook hands with him with my veil down. You may be sure I had secured a very thick one."
"Do you mean to tell me," says Molly, rising in her excitement, "that he never asked you to raise your veil?"
"Never, my dear. I assure you the 'best man' he brought down with him was by far the more curious of the two. But then, you must remember, Sir Penthony had seen my picture." Here Cecil goes off into a hearty27 burst of laughter. "If you had seen that maid once, my dear, you would not have been ambitious of a second view."
"Still I never heard of anything so cold, so unnatural," says Miss Massereene, in high disgust. "I declare I would have broken off with him then and there, had it been me."
"Not if you lived with my cousin Amelia, feeling yourself a dependent on her bounty28. She was a startling instance of how a woman can worry and torment29. The very thought of her makes my heart sore in my body and chills my blood to this day. I rejoice to say she is no more."
"Well, you got married?"
"Yes, in Amelia's drawing-room. I had a little gold band put on my third finger, I had a cold shake-hands from my husband, a sympathetic one from his groomsman, and then found myself once more alone, with a title and plenty of money, and—that's all."
"What was his friend's name?"
"Talbot Lowry. He lives about three miles from here, and"—with an airy laugh—"is rather too fond of me."
"What a strange story!" says Molly, regarding her wistfully. "Do you never wish you had married some one you loved?"
"I never do," gayly. "Don't look to me for sentiment, Molly, because I am utterly30 devoid31 of it. I know I suffer in your estimation by this confession32, but it is the simple truth. I don't wish for anything. And yet"—pausing suddenly—"I do. I have been wishing for something ever since that old person down-stairs tried to take me back this morning, and failed so egregiously33."
"And your wish is——"
"That I could make my husband fall madly in love with me. Oh, Molly, what a revenge that would be! And why should he not, indeed?" Going over to a glass and gazing earnestly at herself. "I am pretty,—very pretty, I think. Speak, Molly, and encourage me."
"You know you are lovely," says Molly, in such good faith that Cecil kisses her on the spot. "But what if you should fall in love with him?"
"Perhaps I have done so long ago," her ladyship replies, in a tone impossible to translate, being still intent on the contemplation of her many charms. Then, quickly, "No, no, Molly, I am fire-proof."
"Yet any day you may meet some one to whom you must give your love."
"Not a bit of it. I should despise myself forever if I once found myself letting my pulse beat half a second faster for one man than for another."
"Do you mean to tell me you have never loved?"
"Never, never, never. And, indeed, to give myself due credit, I believe the fact that I have a husband somewhere would utterly prevent anything of the sort."
"That is a good thing, if the idea lasts. But won't you feel awkward in meeting him this evening?"
"I? No, but I dare say he will; and I hope so too," says her ladyship, maliciously34. "For three long years he has never been to see whether I were well or ill—or pining for him," laughing. "And yet, Molly, I do feel nervous, awfully35, ridiculously nervous, at the bare idea of our so soon coming face to face.
"Is he handsome?"
"Ye—es, pretty well. Lanky36 sort of man, with a good deal of nose, you know, and very little whisker. On my word, now I think of it, I don't think he had any at all."
"Nose?"
"No, whisker. He was clean-shaven, all but the moustache. I suppose you know he was in Ted3's regiment37 for some time?"
"So he told me."
"I wonder what he hasn't told you? Shall I confess, Molly, that I know your secret, and that it was I chose that diamond ring upon your finger? There, do not grudge38 me your confidence; I have given you mine and anything I have heard is safe with me. Oh, what a lovely blush, and what a shame to waste such a charming bit of color upon me! Keep it for dessert."
"How will Sir Penthony like Mr. Lowry's close proximity39?" Molly asks, presently, when she has confessed a few interesting little facts to her friend.
"I hope he won't like it. If I thought I could make him jealous I would flirt40 with poor Talbot under his nose," says Cecil, with eloquent41 vulgarity. "I feel spitefully toward him somehow, although our separation was my own contrivance."
"Have you a headache, dear?" Seeing her put her hand to her head.
"A slight one,—I suppose from the nerves. I think I will lie down for an hour or two before commencing the important task of arming for conquest. And—are you going out, Molly? Will you gather me a few fresh flowers—anything white—for my hair and the bosom42 of my dress?"
"I will," says Molly, and, having made her comfortable with pillows and perfumes, leaves her to her siesta43.
"Anything white." Molly travels the gardens up and down in search of all there is of the loveliest. Little rosebuds44, fresh though late, and dainty bells, with sweet-scented geraniums and drooping heaths,—a pure and innocent bouquet45.
Yet surely it lacks something,—a little fleck46 of green, to throw out its virgin47 fairness. Above, high over her head, a creeping rosebush grows, bedecked with palest, juiciest leaves.
Reaching up her hand to gather one of the taller branches, a mote48, a bit of bark—some hateful thing—falls into Molly's right eye. Instant agony is the result. Tears stream from the offended pupil; the other eye joins in the general tribulation49; and Molly, standing50 in the centre of the grass-plot, with her handkerchief pressed frantically51 to her face, and her lithe52 body swaying slightly to and fro through force of pain, looks the very personification of woe53.
So thinks Philip Shadwell as, coming round the corner, he unperceived approaches.
"What is it?" he asks, trying to see her face, his tones absolutely trembling from agitation54 on her behalf. "Molly, you are in trouble. Can I do anything for you?"
"You can," replies Miss Massereene, in a lugubrious55 voice; though, in spite of her pain, she can with difficulty repress an inclination56 to laugh, so dismal57 is his manner. "Oh! you can."
"Tell me what. There is nothing—Speak, Molly."
"Well, I'm not exactly weeping," says Miss Massereene, slowly withdrawing one hand from her face, so as to let the best eye rest upon him; "it is hardly mental anguish58 I'm enduring. But if you can get this awful thing that is in my eye out of it I shall be intensely grateful."
"Is that all?" asks Philip, much relieved.
"And plenty, too, I think. Here, do try if you can see anything."
"Poor eye!"—pathetically—"how inflamed59 it is! Let me see—there—don't blink—I won't be able to get at it if you do. Now, turn your eye to the right. No. Now to the left. Yes, there is," excitedly. "No, it isn't," disappointedly. "Now let me look below; it must be there."
Just at this delicate moment who should turn the corner but Luttrell! Oh, those unlucky corners that will occur in life, bringing people upon the scene, without a word of warning, at the very time when they are least wanted!
Luttrell, coming briskly onward60 in search of his ladylove, sees, marks, and comes to a dead stop. And this is what he sees.
Molly in Philip's—well, if not exactly in his embrace, something very near it; Philip looking with wild anxiety into the very depths of Molly's lovely eyes, while the lovely eyes look back at Philip full of deep entreaty61. Tableau62!
It is too much. Luttrell, stung cruelly, turns as if to withdraw, but after a step or two finds himself unable to carry out the dignified63 intention, and pauses irresolutely64. His back being turned, however, he is not in at the closing act, when Philip produces triumphantly65 on the tip of his finger such a mere21 atom of matter as makes one wonder how it could ever have caused so much annoyance66.
"Are you better now?" he asks, anxiously, yet with pardonable pride.
"I—am—thank you." Blinking thoughtfully, as though not yet assured of the relief. "I am so much obliged to you. And—yes, I am better. Quite well, I think. What should I have done without you?"
"Ah, that I could believe myself necessary to you at any time!" Philip is beginning, with fluent sentimentality, when, catching67 sight of Tedcastle, he stops abruptly68. "Here is Luttrell," he says, in an injured tone, and seeing no further prospect69 of a tête-à-tête, takes his departure.
Molly is still petting her wounded member when Luttrell reaches her side.
"No," replies Molly, indignant at his tone,—so unlike Shadwell's. "Why should you think so?"
"Why? Because your eyes are red; and certainly as I came up, Shadwell appeared to be doing his utmost to console you."
"Anything the matter with you, Teddy?" asks Miss Massereene, with suspicious sweetness. "You seem put out."
"Yes,"—sternly,—"and with cause. I do not relish71 coming upon you suddenly and finding you in Shadwell's arms."
"Where?"
"Well, if not exactly in his arms, very nearly there," says Tedcastle, vehemently72.
"You are forgetting yourself." Coldly. "If you are jealous of Philip, say so, but do not disgrace yourself by using coarse language. There was a bit of bark in my eyes. I suppose you think it would have been better for me to endure torments73 than allow Philip—who was very kind—to take it out? If you do, I differ from you."
"I am not speaking alone of this particular instance in which you seem to favor Shadwell," says the young man, moodily74, his eyes fixed75 upon the sward beneath him. "Every day it grows more palpable. You scarcely care to hide your sentiments now."
"You mean"—impatiently—"you would wish me to speak to no one except you. You don't take into account how slow this would be for me." She says this cruelly. "I care no more for Philip than I do for any other man."
"Just so. I am the other man, no doubt. I have never been blind to the fact that you do not care for me. Why take the trouble of acting76 a part any longer?"
"'Acting a part'! Nonsense!" says Molly. "I always think that the most absurd phrase in the world. Who does not act a part? The thing is to act a good one."
"Is yours a good part?" Bitterly.
"You are the best judge of that," returns she, haughtily77. "If you do not think so, why keep to our engagement? If you wish to break it, you need fear no opposition78 from me." So saying, she sweeps past him and enters the house.
Yet in spite of her anger and offended pride, her eyes are wet and her hands trembling as she reaches Cecil's room and lays the snow-white flowers upon her table.
Cecil is still lying comfortably ensconced among her pillows, but has sufficient wakefulness about her to notice Molly's agitation.
"You have been quarreling, ma belle," she says, raising herself on her elbow; "don't deny it. Was it with Marcia or Tedcastle?"
"Tedcastle," Molly replies, laughing against her will at the other's shrewdness, and in consequence wiping away a few tears directly afterward79. "It is nothing; but he is really intolerably jealous, and I can't and won't put up with it."
"Oh, that some one was jealous about me!" says Cecil, with a prolonged sigh. "Go on."
"It was nothing, I tell you. All because Philip kindly80 picked a little bit of dust out of my eye."
"How good of Philip! considering all the dust you have thrown into his of late. And Ted objected?"
"Yes, and was very rude into the bargain. I wouldn't have believed it of him."
"Well, you know yourself you have been going on anyhow with Philip during the past few days."
"Oh, Cecil, how can you say so? Am I to turn my back on him when he comes to speak to me? And even supposing I had flirted81 egregiously with him (which is not the case), is that a reason why one is to be scolded and abused and have all sorts of the most dreadful things said to one?" (I leave my readers to deplore82 the glaring exaggeration of this speech.) "He looked, too, as if he could have eaten me then and there. I know this, I shan't forgive him in a hurry."
"Poor Ted! I expect he doesn't have much of a time with you," says Cecil, shaking her head.
"Are you laughing at me?" cries Molly, wrathfully. "Then make ready for death." And, taking the smaller Cecil in her arms, she most unkindly lifts her from among her cozy83 cushions and deposits her upon the floor. "There! Now will you repent84? But come, Cecil, get up, and prepare for your husband's reception. I will be your maid to-night, if you will let me. What will you wear?"
"Pale blue. It suits me best. See, that is my dress." Pointing to a light-blue silk, trimmed with white lace, that lies upon the bed. "Will you really help me to dress? But you cannot do my hair?"
"Try me."
She does try, and proves so highly satisfactory that Cecil is tempted85 to offer splendid wages if she will consent to come and live with her.
The hair is a marvel86 of artistic87 softness. Every fresh jewel lends a grace; and when at length Cecil is attired88 in her blue gown, she is all that any one could possibly desire.
"Now, honestly, how do I look?" she asks, turning round to face Molly. "Anything like a housemaid?" With a faint laugh that has something tremulous about it.
"I never saw you half so charming," Molly answers, deliberately89. "Oh, Cecil! what will he say when he finds out—when he discovers how you have deceived him?"
"Anything he likes, my dear!" exclaims Cecil, gayly giving a last touch to the little soft fair locks near her temples. "He ought to be pleased. It would be a different thing altogether, and a real grievance90, if, being like the housemaid, I had sent him a photo of Venus. He might justly complain then; but now—— There, I can do no more!" says her ladyship, with a sigh, half pleased, half fearful. "If I weren't so shamefully91 nervous I would do very well."
"I don't believe you are half as frightened for yourself at this moment as I am for you. If I were in your shoes I should faint. It is to me an awful ordeal92."
"I am so white, too," says Cecil, impatiently. "You haven't—I suppose, Molly—but of course you haven't——"
"What, dear?"
"Rouge93. After all, Therese was right. When leaving town she asked me should she get some; and, when I rejected the idea with scorn, said there was no knowing when one might require it. Perhaps afterward she did put it in. Let us ring and ask her."
"Never mind it. You are no comparison prettier without it. Cecil,"—doubtingly,—"I hope when it comes to the last moment you will have nerve."
"Be happy," says Cecil. "I am always quite composed at last moments; that is one of my principal charms. I never create sensations through vulgar excitement. I shall probably astonish you (and myself also) by my extreme coolness. In the meantime I"—smiling—"I own I should like a glass of sherry. What o'clock is it, Molly?"
"Just seven."
"Ah! he must be here now. How I wish it was over!" says Lady Stafford, with a little sinking of the heart.
"And I am not yet dressed. I must run," exclaims Molly. "Good-bye, Cecil. Keep up your spirits, and remember above all things how well your dress becomes you."
Two or three minutes elapse,—five,—and still Cecil cannot bring herself to descend94. She is more nervous about this inevitable95 meeting than she cares to own. Will he be openly cold, or anxious to conciliate, or annoyed? The latter she greatly fears. What if he should suspect her of having asked Mr. Amherst to invite him? This idea torments her more than all the others, and chains her to her room.
She takes up another bracelet96 and tries it on. Disliking the effect, she takes it off again. So she trifles, in fond hope of cheating time, and would probably be trifling97 now had not the handle of her door been boldly turned, the door opened, and a young man come confidently forward.
His confidence comes to an untimely end as his astonished eyes rest on Cecil.
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure," he says, beating a hasty retreat back to the landing outside. "I had no idea—I'm awfully sorry—but this room used to be mine."
"It is mine now," says Cecil, accepting the situation at a glance, recognizing Sir Penthony without hesitation98.
He is a tall young man,—"lanky," as she has herself expressed him,—with thick brown hair, closely cropped. He has handsome dark eyes, with a rather mocking expression in them, and has a trick of shutting them slightly if puzzled or annoyed. His voice is extremely charming, though it has a distinct croak99 (that can hardly be called husky or hoarse) that is rather fascinating. His short upper lip is covered by a heavy brown moustache that hides a laughing mouth. He is aristocratic and good-looking, without being able to lay claim to actual beauty.
Just now he is overwhelmed with confusion, as Cecil, feeling compelled thereto, steps forward, smiling, to reassure100 him.
"You have made a mistake,—you have lost your way," she says, in a tone that trembles ever such a little in spite of her efforts to be calm.
"To my shame I confess it," he says, laughing, gazing with ill-concealed admiration102 at this charming azure103 vision standing before him. "Foolishly I forgot to ask for my room, and ran up the stairs, feeling certain that the one that used to be mine long ago must be so still. Can you forgive me?"
"I think I can. Meantime, if you are Sir Penthony Stafford, your room lies there," pointing to the last door opening on the corridor.
"Thank you," yet making no haste to reach the discovered shelter. "May I not know to whom I am indebted for so much kindness?"
"I dare say you will be introduced in proper form by and by," says Cecil, demurely104, making a movement as though to leave him. "When you are dressed you shall be formally presented."
"At least," he asks, hastily, with a view to detaining her, "do me one more service before you go. If you know me so well, perhaps you can tell me if any of my friends are staying here at present?"
"Several. Teddy Luttrell for one."
"Indeed! And——"
"The Darleys. You know them?"
"Little woman,—dolly,—bizarre in manner and dress?"
"A most accurate description. And there is another friend,—one who ought to be your dearest: I allude105 to Lady Stafford."
"Lady Stafford!"
"Yes, your wife. You don't seem over and above pleased at my news."
"Is a man always pleased at his wife's unexpected appearance?" asks Sir Penthony, recovering himself with a rather forced laugh. "I had no idea she was here. I—— Is she a friend of yours?"
"The dearest friend I have. I know no one," declares her ladyship, fervently106, "I love so fondly."
"Happy Lady Stafford! I almost think I would change places with her this moment. At all events, whatever faults she may possess, she has rare taste in friends."
"You speak disparagingly107. Has she a fault?"
"The greatest a woman can have: she lacks that one quality that would make her a 'joy forever.'"
"Your severity makes you unkind. And yet, do you know she is greatly liked. Nay108, she has been loved. Perhaps when you come to know her a little better (I do not conceal101 from you that I have heard something of your story), you will think more tenderly of her. Remember, 'beauty is only skin deep.'"
"Yes,"—with a light laugh,—"But 'ugliness goes to the bone.'"
"That is the retort discourteous109. I see it is time wasted to plead my friend's cause. Although, perhaps,"—reproachfully,—"not blessed with actual beauty, still——"
"No, there's not much beauty about her," says Sir Penthony, with something akin24 to a groan110. Then, "I beg your pardon," he murmurs111; "pray excuse me. Why should I trouble a stranger with my affairs?" He stands aside, with a slight bow, to let her pass. "And you won't tell me your name?" he cannot resist saying before losing sight of her.
"Make haste with your dressing112; you shall know then," glancing back at him, with a bewitching smile.
"Be sure I shall waste no time. If, in my hurry, I appear to less advantage than usual to-night, you must not be the one to blame me."
"A very fair beginning," says Cecil, as she slips away. "Now I must be firm. But, oh dear, oh dear! he is much handsomer even than I thought."
点击收听单词发音
1 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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2 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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3 ted | |
vt.翻晒,撒,撒开 | |
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4 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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5 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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6 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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7 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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8 subside | |
vi.平静,平息;下沉,塌陷,沉降 | |
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9 subsides | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的第三人称单数 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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10 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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11 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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12 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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13 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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14 forfeit | |
vt.丧失;n.罚金,罚款,没收物 | |
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15 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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16 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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17 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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18 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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19 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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20 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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21 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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22 WHIMS | |
虚妄,禅病 | |
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23 stilted | |
adj.虚饰的;夸张的 | |
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24 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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25 interfere | |
v.(in)干涉,干预;(with)妨碍,打扰 | |
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26 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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27 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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28 bounty | |
n.慷慨的赠予物,奖金;慷慨,大方;施与 | |
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29 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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30 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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31 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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32 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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33 egregiously | |
adv.过份地,卓越地 | |
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34 maliciously | |
adv.有敌意地 | |
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35 awfully | |
adv.可怕地,非常地,极端地 | |
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36 lanky | |
adj.瘦长的 | |
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37 regiment | |
n.团,多数,管理;v.组织,编成团,统制 | |
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38 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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39 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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40 flirt | |
v.调情,挑逗,调戏;n.调情者,卖俏者 | |
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41 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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42 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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43 siesta | |
n.午睡 | |
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44 rosebuds | |
蔷薇花蕾,妙龄少女,初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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45 bouquet | |
n.花束,酒香 | |
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46 fleck | |
n.斑点,微粒 vt.使有斑点,使成斑驳 | |
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47 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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48 mote | |
n.微粒;斑点 | |
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49 tribulation | |
n.苦难,灾难 | |
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50 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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51 frantically | |
ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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52 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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53 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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54 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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55 lugubrious | |
adj.悲哀的,忧郁的 | |
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56 inclination | |
n.倾斜;点头;弯腰;斜坡;倾度;倾向;爱好 | |
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57 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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58 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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59 inflamed | |
adj.发炎的,红肿的v.(使)变红,发怒,过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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61 entreaty | |
n.恳求,哀求 | |
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62 tableau | |
n.画面,活人画(舞台上活人扮的静态画面) | |
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63 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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64 irresolutely | |
adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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65 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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66 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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67 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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68 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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69 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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70 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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71 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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72 vehemently | |
adv. 热烈地 | |
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73 torments | |
(肉体或精神上的)折磨,痛苦( torment的名词复数 ); 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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74 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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75 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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76 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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77 haughtily | |
adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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78 opposition | |
n.反对,敌对 | |
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79 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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80 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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81 flirted | |
v.调情,打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82 deplore | |
vt.哀叹,对...深感遗憾 | |
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83 cozy | |
adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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84 repent | |
v.悔悟,悔改,忏悔,后悔 | |
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85 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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86 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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87 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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88 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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90 grievance | |
n.怨愤,气恼,委屈 | |
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91 shamefully | |
可耻地; 丢脸地; 不体面地; 羞耻地 | |
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92 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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93 rouge | |
n.胭脂,口红唇膏;v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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94 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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95 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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96 bracelet | |
n.手镯,臂镯 | |
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97 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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98 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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99 croak | |
vi.嘎嘎叫,发牢骚 | |
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100 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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101 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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102 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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103 azure | |
adj.天蓝色的,蔚蓝色的 | |
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104 demurely | |
adv.装成端庄地,认真地 | |
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105 allude | |
v.提及,暗指 | |
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106 fervently | |
adv.热烈地,热情地,强烈地 | |
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107 disparagingly | |
adv.以贬抑的口吻,以轻视的态度 | |
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108 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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109 discourteous | |
adj.不恭的,不敬的 | |
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110 groan | |
vi./n.呻吟,抱怨;(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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111 murmurs | |
n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 );低语声;怨言;嘀咕 | |
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112 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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