Orde's bank account, in spite of his laughing assertion to Newmark, contained some eleven hundred dollars. After a brief but comprehensive tour of inspection1 over all the works then forward, he drew a hundred of this and announced to Newmark that business would take him away for about two weeks.
"I have some private affairs to attend to before settling down to business for keeps," he told Newmark vaguely2.
At Redding, whither he went to pack his little sole-leather trunk, he told Grandma Orde the same thing. She said nothing at the time, but later, when Grandpa Orde's slender figure had departed, very courteous3, very erect4, very dignified5, with its old linen6 duster flapping around it, she came and stood by the man leaning over the trunk.
"Speak to her, Jack," said she quietly. "She cares for you."
Orde looked up in astonishment7, but he did not pretend to deny the implied accusation8 as to his destination.
"Why, mother!" he cried. "She's only seen me three or four times! It's absurd--yet."
"I know," nodded Grandma Orde, wisely. "I know. But you mark my words; she cares for you."
She said nothing more, but stood looking while Orde folded and laid away, his head bent9 low in thought. Then she placed her hand for an instant on his shoulder and went away. The Ordes were not a demonstrative people.
The journey to New York was at that time very long and disagreeable, but Orde bore it with his accustomed stoicism. He had visited the metropolis10 before, so it was not unfamiliar11 to him. He was very glad, however, to get away from the dust and monotony of the railroad train. The September twilight12 was just falling. Through its dusk the street lamps were popping into illumination as the lamp-lighter made his rapid way. Orde boarded a horse-car and jingled13 away down Fourth Avenue. He was pleased at having arrived, and stretched his legs and filled his lungs twice with so evident an enjoyment14 that several people smiled.
His comfort was soon disturbed, however, by an influx15 of people boarding the car at Twenty-third Street. The seats were immediately filled, and late comers found themselves obliged to stand in the aisle16. Among these were several women. The men nearest buried themselves in the papers after the almost universal metropolitan17 custom. Two or three arose to offer their seats, among them Orde. When, however, the latter had turned to indicate to one of the women the vacated seat, he discovered it occupied by a chubby18 and flashily dressed youth of the sort common enough in the vicinity of Fourteenth Street; impudent19 of eye, cynical20 of demeanour, and slightly contemptuous of everything unaccustomed. He had slipped in back of Orde when that young man arose, whether under the impression that Orde was about to get off the car or from sheer impudence21, it would be impossible to say.
Orde stared at him, a little astonished.
"I intended that seat for this lady," said Orde, touching22 him on the shoulder.
The youth looked up coolly.
"You don't come that!" said he.
Orde wasted no time in discussion, which no doubt saved the necessity of a more serious disturbance23. He reached over suddenly, seized the youth by the collar, braced24 his knee against the seat, and heaved the interloper so rapidly to his feet that he all but plunged25 forward among the passengers sitting opposite.
"Your seat, madam," said Orde.
The woman, frightened, unwilling26 to become the participant of a scene of any sort, stood looking here and there. Orde, comprehending her embarrassment27, twisted his antagonist28 about, and, before he could recover his equilibrium29 sufficiently30 to offer resistance, propelled him rapidly to the open door, the passengers hastily making way for them.
"Now, my friend," said Orde, releasing his hold on the other's collar, "don't do such things any more. They aren't nice."
Trivial as the incident was, it served to draw Orde to the particular notice of an elderly man leaning against the rear rail. He was a very well-groomed man, dressed in garments whose fit was evidently the product of the highest art, well buttoned up, well brushed, well cared for in every way. In his buttonhole he wore a pink carnation31, and in his gloved hand he carried a straight, gold-headed cane32. A silk hat covered his head, from beneath which showed a slightly empurpled countenance33, with bushy white eyebrows34, a white moustache, and a pair of rather bloodshot, but kindly35, blue eyes. In spite of his somewhat pudgy rotundity, he carried himself quite erect, in a manner that bespoke36 the retired37 military man.
"You have courage, sir," said this gentleman, inclining his bead38 gravely to Orde.
The young man laughed in his good-humoured fashion.
"Not much courage required to root out that kind of a skunk," said he cheerfully.
"I refer to the courage of your convictions. The young men of this generation seem to prefer to avoid public disturbances39. That breed is quite capable of making a row, calling the police, raising the deuce, and all that."
"What of it?" said Orde.
The elderly gentleman puffed40 out his cheeks.
"You are from the West, are you not?" he stated, rather than asked.
"We call it the East out there," said Orde. "It's Michigan."
"I should call that pretty far west," said the old gentleman.
Nothing more was said. After a block or two Orde descended41 on his way to a small hotel just off Broadway. The old gentleman saluted42. Orde nodded good-humouredly. In his private soul he was a little amused at the old boy. To his view a man and clothes carried to their last refinement43 were contradictory44 terms.
Orde ate, dressed, and set out afoot in search of Miss Bishop45's address. He arrived in front of the house a little past eight o'clock, and, after a moment's hesitation46, mounted the steps and rang the bell.
The door swung silently back to frame an impassive man-servant dressed in livery. To Orde's inquiry47 he stated that Miss Bishop had gone out to the theatre. The young man left his name and a message of regret. At this the footman, with an irony48 so subtle as to be quite lost on Orde, demanded a card. Orde scribbled49 a line in his note-book, tore it out, folded it, and left it. In it he stated his regret, his short residence in the city, and desired an early opportunity to call. Then he departed down the brownstone steps, totally unconscious of the contempt he had inspired in the heart of the liveried man behind him.
He retired early and arose early, as had become his habit. When he descended to the office the night clerk, who had not yet been relieved, handed him a note delivered the night before. Orde ripped it open eagerly.
"MY DEAR MR. ORDE:
"I was so sorry to miss you that evening because of a stupid play. Come around as early as you can to-morrow morning. I shall expect you.
"Sincerely yours,
"CARROLL BISHOP."
Orde glanced at the clock, which pointed50 to seven. He breakfasted, read the morning paper, finally started leisurely51 in the direction of West Ninth Street. He walked slowly, so as to consume more time, then at University Place was seized with a panic, and hurried rapidly to his destination. The door was answered by the same man who had opened the night before, but now, in some indefinable way, his calm, while flawless externally, seemed to have lifted to a mere52 surface, as though he might hastily have assumed his coat. To Orde's inquiry he stated with great brevity that Miss Bishop was not yet visible, and prepared to close the door.
"You are mistaken," said Orde, with equal brevity, and stepped inside. "I have an engagement with Miss Bishop. Tell her Mr. Orde is here."
The man departed in some doubt, leaving Orde standing53 in the gloomy hall. That young man, however, quite cheerfully parted the heavy curtains leading into a parlour, and sat down in a spindle-legged chair. At his entrance, a maid disappeared out another door, carrying with her the implements54 of dusting and brushing.
Orde looked around the room with some curiosity. It was long, narrow, and very high. Tall windows admitted light at one end. The illumination was, however, modified greatly by hangings of lace covering all the windows, supplemented by heavy draperies drawn55 back to either side. The embrasure was occupied by a small table, over which seemed to flutter a beautiful marble Psyche56. A rubber plant, then as now the mark of the city and suburban57 dweller58, sent aloft its spare, shiny leaves alongside a closed square piano. The lack of ornaments59 atop the latter bespoke the musician. Through the filtered gloom of the demi-light Orde surveyed with interest the excellent reproductions of the Old World masterpieces framed on the walls--"Madonnas" by Raphael, Murillo, and Perugino, the "Mona Lisa," and Botticelli's "Spring"--the three oil portraits occupying the large spaces; the spindle-legged chairs and tables, the tea service in the corner, the tall bronze lamp by the piano, the neat little grate-hearth, with its mantel of marble; the ormolu clock, all the decorous and decorated gentility which marked the irreproachable60 correctness of whoever had furnished the apartment. Dark and heavy hangings depended in front of a double door leading into another room beyond. Equally dark and heavy hangings had closed behind Orde as he entered. An absolute and shrouded61 stillness seemed to settle down upon him. The ormolu clock ticked steadily62. Muffled63 sounds came at long intervals64 from behind the portieres. Orde began to feel oppressed and subdued65.
For quite three quarters of an hour he waited without hearing any other indications of life than the muffled sounds just remarked upon. Occasionally he shifted his position, but cautiously, as though he feared to awaken66 some one. The three oil portraits stared at him with all the reserved aloofness67 of their painted eyes. He began to doubt whether the man had announced him at all.
Then, breaking the stillness with almost startling abruptness68, he heard a clear, high voice saying something at the top of the stairs outside. A rhythmical69 SWISH of skirts, punctuated70 by the light PAT-PAT of a girl tripping downstairs, brought him to his feet. A moment later the curtains parted and she entered, holding out her hand.
"Oh, I did keep you waiting such a long time!" she cried.
He stood holding her hand, suddenly unable to say a word, looking at her hungrily. A flood of emotion, of which he had had no prevision, swelled71 up within him to fill his throat. An almost irresistible72 impulse all but controlled him to crush her to him, to kiss her lips and her throat, to lose his fingers in the soft, shadowy fineness of her hair. The crest73 of the wave passed almost immediately, but it left him shaken. A faint colour deepened under the transparence of her skin; her fathomless74 black eyes widened ever so little; she released her hand.
"It was good of you to come so promptly," said she. "I'm so anxious to hear all about the dear people at Redding."
She settled gracefully76 in one of the little chairs. Orde sat down, once more master of himself, but still inclined to devour77 her with his gaze. She was dressed in a morning gown, all laces and ribbons and long, flowing lines. Her hair was done low on the back of her head and on the nape of her neck. The blood ebbed78 and flowed beneath her clear skin. A faint fragrance79 of cleanliness diffused80 itself about her--the cool, sweet fragrance of daintiness. They entered busily into conversation. Her attitudes were no longer relaxed and languidly graceful75 as in the easy chairs under the lamplight. She sat forward, her hands crossed on her lap, a fire smouldering deep beneath the cool surface lights of her eyes.
The sounds in the next room increased in volume, as though several people must have entered that apartment. In a moment or so the curtains to the hall parted to frame the servant.
"Mrs. Bishop wishes to know, miss," said that functionary81, "if you're not coming to breakfast."
Orde sprang to his feet.
"Haven't you had your breakfast yet?" he cried, conscience stricken.
"Didn't you gather the fact that I'm just up?" she mocked him. "I assure you it doesn't matter. The family has just come down."
"But," cried Orde, "I wasn't here until nine o'clock. I thought, of course, you'd be around. I'm mighty82 sorry--"
"Oh, la la!" she cried, cutting him short. "What a bother about nothing. Don't you see--I'm ahead a whole hour of good talk."
"You see, you told me in your note to come early," said Orde.
"I forgot you were one of those dreadful outdoor men. You didn't see any worms, did you? Next time I'll tell you to come the day after."
Orde was for taking his leave, but this she would not have.
"You must meet my family," she negatived. "For if you're here for so short a time we want to see something of you. Come right out now."
Orde thereupon followed her down a narrow, dark hall, squeezed between the stairs and the wall, to a door that opened slantwise into a dining-room the exact counterpart in shape to the parlour at the other side of the house. Only in this case the morning sun and more diaphanous83 curtains lent an air of brightness, further enhanced by a wire stand of flowers in the bow-windows.
The centre of the room was occupied by a round table, about which were grouped several people of different ages. With her back to the bow-window sat a woman well beyond middle age, but with evidently some pretensions84 to youth. She was tall, desiccated, quick in movement. Dark rings below her eyes attested85 either a nervous disease, an hysterical86 temperament87, or both. Immediately at her left sat a boy of about fourteen years of age, his face a curious contradiction between a naturally frank and open expression and a growing sullenness88. Next him stood a vacant chair, evidently for Miss Bishop. Opposite lolled a young man, holding a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. He was very handsome, with a drooping89 black moustache, dark eyes, under lashes90 almost too luxuriant, and a long, oval face, dark in complexion91, and a trifle sardonic92 in expression. In the VIS-A-VIS to Mrs. Bishop, Orde was surprised to find his ex-military friend of the street car. Miss Bishop performed the necessary introductions, which each acknowledged after his fashion, but with an apparent indifference93 that dashed Orde, accustomed to a more Western cordiality. Mrs. Bishop held out a languidly graceful hand, the boy mumbled94 a greeting, the young man nodded lazily over his newspaper. Only General Bishop, recognising him, arose and grasped his hand, with a real, though rather fussy95, warmth.
"My dear sir," he cried, "I am honoured to see you again. This, my dear," he addressed his wife, "is the young man I was telling you about--in the street car," he explained.
"How very interesting," said Mrs. Bishop, with evidently no comprehension and less interest.
Gerald Bishop cast an ironically amused glance across at Orde. The boy looked up at him quickly, the sullenness for a moment gone from his face.
Carroll Bishop appeared quite unconscious of an atmosphere which seemed to Orde strained, but sank into her place at the table and unfolded her napkin. The silent butler drew forward a chair for Orde, and stood looking impassively in Mrs. Bishop's direction.
"You will have some breakfast with us?" she inquired. "No? A cup of coffee, at least?"
She began to manipulate the coffee pot, without paying the slightest attention to Orde's disclaimer. The general puffed out his cheeks, and coughed a bit in embarrassment.
"A good cup of coffee is never amiss to an old campaigner," he said to Orde. "It's as good as a full meal in a pinch. I remember when I was a major in the Eleventh, down near the City of Mexico, in '48, the time Hardy's command was so nearly wiped out by that viaduct--" He half turned toward Orde, his face lighting96 up, his fingers reaching for the fork with which, after the custom of old soldiers, to trace the chart of his reminiscences.
Mrs. Bishop rattled97 her cup and saucer with an uncontrollably nervous jerk of her slender body. For some moments she had awaited a chance to get the general's attention. "Spare us, father," she said brusquely. "Will you have another cup of coffee?"
The old gentleman, arrested in mid-career, swallowed, looked a trifle bewildered, but subsided98 meekly99.
"No, thank you, my dear," said he, and went furiously at his breakfast.
Orde, overwhelmed by embarrassment, discovered that none of the others had paid the incident the slightest attention. Only on the lips of Gerald Bishop he surprised a fine, detached smile.
At this moment the butler entered bearing the mail. Mrs. Bishop tore hers open rapidly, dropping the mangled100 envelopes at her side. The contents of one seemed to vex101 her.
"Oh!" she cried aloud. "That miserable102 Marie! She promised me to have it done to-day, and now she puts it off until Monday. It's too provoking!" She turned to Orde for sympathy. "Do you know ANYTHING more aggravating103 than to work and slave to the limit of endurance, and then have everything upset by the stupidity of some one else?"
Orde murmured an appropriate reply, to which Mrs. Bishop paid no attention whatever. She started suddenly up from the table.
"I must see about it!" she cried. "I plainly see I shall have to do it myself. I WILL do it myself. I promised it for Sunday."
"You mustn't do another stitch, mother," put in Carroll Bishop decidedly. "You know what the doctor told you. You'll have yourself down sick."
"Well, see for yourself!" cried Mrs. Bishop. "That's what comes of leaving things to others! If I'd done it myself, it would have saved me all this bother and fuss, and it would have been done. And now I've got to do it anyway."
"My dear," put in the general, "perhaps Carroll can see Marie about it. In any case, there's nothing to work yourself up into such an excitement about."
"It's very easy for you to talk, isn't it?" cried Mrs. Bishop, turning on him. "I like the way you all sit around like lumps and do nothing, and then tell me how I ought to have done it. John, have the carriage around at once." She turned tensely to Orde. "I hope you'll excuse me," she said very briefly104; "I have something very important to attend to."
Carroll had also risen. Orde held out his hand.
"I must be going," said he.
"Well," she conceded, "I suppose I'd better see if I can't help mother out. But you'll come in again. Come and dine with us this evening. Mother will be delighted."
As Mrs. Bishop had departed from the room, Orde had to take for granted the expression of this delight. He bowed to the other occupants of the table. The general was eating nervously105. Gerald's eyes were fixed106 amusedly on Orde.
To Orde's surprise, he was almost immediately joined on the street by young Mr. Bishop, most correctly appointed.
"Going anywhere in particular?" he inquired. "Let's go up the avenue, then. Everybody will be out."
They turned up the great promenade107, a tour of which was then, even more than now, considered obligatory108 on the gracefully idle. Neither said anything--Orde because he was too absorbed in the emotions this sudden revelation of Carroll's environment had aroused in him; Gerald, apparently109, because he was too indifferent. Nevertheless it was the young exquisite110 who finally broke the silence.
"It was an altar cloth," said he suddenly.
"What?" asked Orde, rather bewildered.
"Mother is probably the most devout111 woman in New York," went on Gerald's even voice. "She is one of the hardest workers in the church. She keeps all the fast days, and attends all the services. Although she has no strength to speak of, she has just completed an elaborate embroidered112 altar cloth. The work she accomplished113 while on her knees. Often she spent five or six hours a day in that position. It was very devout, but against the doctor's orders, and she is at present much pulled down. Finally she gave way to persuasion114 to the extent of sending the embroidery115 out to be bound and corded. As a result, the altar cloth will not be done for next Sunday."
He delivered this statement in a voice absolutely colourless, without the faintest trace discernible of either approval or disapproval116, without the slightest irony, yet Orde felt vaguely uncomfortable.
"It must have been annoying to her," he said gravely, "and I hope she will get it done in time. Perhaps Miss Bishop will be able to do it."
"That," said Gerald, "is Madison Square--or perhaps you know New York? My sister would, of course, be only too glad to finish the work, but I fear that my mother's peculiarly ardent117 temperament will now insist on her own accomplishment118 of the task. But perhaps you do not understand temperaments119?"
"Very little, I'm afraid," confessed Orde.
They walked on for some distance farther.
"Your father was in the Mexican War?" said Orde, to change the trend of his own thoughts.
"He was a most distinguished120 officer. I believe he received the Medal of Honour for a part in the affair of the Molina del Rey."
"What command had he in the Civil War?" asked Orde. "I fooled around the outskirts121 of that a little myself."
"My father resigned from the army in '54," replied Gerald, with his cool, impersonal122 courtesy.
"That was too bad; just before the chance for more service," said Orde.
"Army life was incompatible123 with my mother's temperament," stated Gerald.
Orde said nothing more. It was Gerald's turn to end the pause.
"You are from Redding, of course," said he. "My sister is very enthusiastic about the place. You are in business there?"
Orde replied briefly, but, forced by the direct, cold, and polite cross-questioning of his companion, he gave the latter a succinct124 idea of the sort of operations in which he was interested.
"And you," he said at last; "I suppose you're either a broker125 or lawyer; most men are down here."
"I am neither one nor the other," stated Gerald. "I am possessed126 of a sufficient income from a legacy127 to make business unnecessary."
"I don't believe I'd care to--be idle," said Orde vaguely.
"There is plenty to occupy one's time," replied Gerald. "I have my clubs, my gymnasium, my horse, and my friends."
"Isn't there anything that particularly attracts you?" asked Orde.
The young man's languid eyes grew thoughtful, and he puffed more strongly on his cigarette.
"I should like," said he slowly, at last, "to enter the navy."
"Why don't you?" asked Orde bluntly.
"Certain family reasons make it inexpedient at present," said Gerald. "My mother is in a very nervous state; she depends on us, and any hint of our leaving her is sufficient to render her condition serious."
By this time the two young men were well uptown. On Gerald's initiative, they turned down a side street, and shortly came to a stop.
"That is my gymnasium," said Gerald, pointing to a building across the way. "Won't you come in with me? I am due now for my practice."
收听单词发音 |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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bespoke
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| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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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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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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43
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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45
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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46
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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47
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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48
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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49
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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50
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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51
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
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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54
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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55
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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56
psyche
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| n.精神；灵魂 | |
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57
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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58
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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59
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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60
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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61
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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63
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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67
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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68
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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71
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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72
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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73
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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fathomless
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| a.深不可测的 | |
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75
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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77
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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79
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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80
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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81
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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83
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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84
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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86
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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87
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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88
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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89
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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90
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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91
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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92
sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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93
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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96
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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97
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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98
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；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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99
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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100
mangled
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| vt.乱砍（mangle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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101
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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102
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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103
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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104
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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105
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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106
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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107
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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108
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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109
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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110
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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111
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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112
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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113
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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114
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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115
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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116
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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117
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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118
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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119
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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120
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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121
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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122
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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123
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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124
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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125
broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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126
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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127
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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