The spring in New York proceeded through more than its usual extremes of temperature to the threshold of a sultry June.
Ralph Marvell, wearily bent1 to his task, felt the fantastic humours of the weather as only one more incoherence in the general chaos2 of his case. It was strange enough, after four years of marriage, to find himself again in his old brown room in Washington Square. It was hardly there that he had expected Pegasus to land him; and, like a man returning to the scenes of his childhood, he found everything on a much smaller scale than he had imagined. Had the Dagonet boundaries really narrowed, or had the breach3 in the walls of his own life let in a wider vision?
Certainly there had come to be other differences between his present and his former self than that embodied4 in the presence of his little boy in the next room. Paul, in fact, was now the chief link between Ralph and his past. Concerning his son he still felt and thought, in a general way, in the terms of the Dagonet tradition; he still wanted to implant5 in Paul some of the reserves and discriminations which divided that tradition from the new spirit of limitless concession6. But for himself it was different. Since his transaction with Moffatt he had had the sense of living under a new dispensation. He was not sure that it was any worse than the other; but then he was no longer very sure about anything. Perhaps this growing indifference7 was merely the reaction from a long nervous strain: that his mother and sister thought it so was shown by the way in which they mutely watched and hovered9. Their discretion10 was like the hushed tread about a sick-bed. They permitted themselves no criticism of Undine; he was asked no awkward questions, subjected to no ill-timed sympathy. They simply took him back, on his own terms, into the life he had left them to; and their silence had none of those subtle implications of disapproval11 which may be so much more wounding than speech.
For a while he received a weekly letter from Undine. Vague and disappointing though they were, these missives helped him through the days; but he looked forward to them rather as a pretext12 for replies than for their actual contents. Undine was never at a loss for the spoken word: Ralph had often wondered at her verbal range and her fluent use of terms outside the current vocabulary. She had certainly not picked these up in books, since she never opened one: they seemed rather like some odd transmission of her preaching grandparent's oratory13. But in her brief and colourless letters she repeated the same bald statements in the same few terms. She was well, she had been "round" with Bertha Shallum, she had dined with the Jim Driscolls or May Beringer or Dicky Bowles, the weather was too lovely or too awful; such was the gist14 of her news. On the last page she hoped Paul was well and sent him a kiss; but she never made a suggestion concerning his care or asked a question about his pursuits. One could only infer that, knowing in what good hands he was, she judged such solicitude15 superfluous16; and it was thus that Ralph put the matter to his mother.
"Of course she's not worrying about the boy--why should she? She knows that with you and Laura he's as happy as a king."
To which Mrs. Marvell would answer gravely: "When you write, be sure to say I shan't put on his thinner flannels17 as long as this east wind lasts."
As for her husband's welfare. Undine's sole allusion18 to it consisted in the invariable expression of the hope that he was getting along all right: the phrase was always the same, and Ralph learned to know just how far down the third page to look for it. In a postscript19 she sometimes asked him to tell her mother about a new way of doing hair or cutting a skirt; and this was usually the most eloquent20 passage of the letter. What satisfaction he extracted from these communications he would have found it hard to say; yet when they did not come he missed them hardly less than if they had given him all he craved21. Sometimes the mere8 act of holding the blue or mauve sheet and breathing its scent22 was like holding his wife's hand and being enveloped23 in her fresh young fragrance24: the sentimental25 disappointment vanished in the penetrating26 physical sensation. In other moods it was enough to trace the letters of the first line and the last for the desert of perfunctory phrases between the two to vanish, leaving him only the vision of their interlaced names, as of a mystic bond which her own hand had tied. Or else he saw her, closely, palpably before him, as she sat at her writing-table, frowning and a little flushed, her bent nape showing the light on her hair, her short lip pulled up by the effort of composition; and this picture had the violent reality of dream-images on the verge27 of waking. At other times, as he read her letter, he felt simply that at least in the moment of writing it she had been with him. But in one of the last she had said (to excuse a bad blot28 and an incoherent sentence): "Everybody's talking to me at once, and I don't know what I'm writing." That letter he had thrown into the fire....
After the first few weeks, the letters came less and less regularly: at the end of two months they ceased. Ralph had got into the habit of watching for them on the days when a foreign post was due, and as the weeks went by without a sign he began to invent excuses for leaving the office earlier and hurrying back to Washington Square to search the letter-box for a big tinted29 envelope with a straggling blotted30 superscription.
Undine's departure had given him a momentary31 sense of liberation: at that stage in their relations any change would have brought relief. But now that she was gone he knew she could never really go. Though his feeling for her had changed, it still ruled his life. If he saw her in her weakness he felt her in her power: the power of youth and physical radiance that clung to his disenchanted memories as the scent she used clung to her letters. Looking back at their four years of marriage he began to ask himself if he had done all he could to draw her half-formed spirit from its sleep. Had he not expected too much at first, and grown too indifferent in the sequel? After all, she was still in the toy age; and perhaps the very extravagance of his love had retarded32 her growth, helped to imprison33 her in a little circle of frivolous34 illusions. But the last months had made a man of him, and when she came back he would know how to lift her to the height of his experience.
So he would reason, day by day, as he hastened back to Washington Square; but when he opened the door, and his first glance at the hall table showed him there was no letter there, his illusions shrivelled down to their weak roots. She had not written: she did not mean to write. He and the boy were no longer a part of her life. When she came back everything would be as it had been before, with the dreary35 difference that she had tasted new pleasures and that their absence would take the savour from all he had to give her. Then the coming of another foreign mail would lift his hopes, and as he hurried home he would imagine new reasons for expecting a letter....
Week after week he swung between the extremes of hope and dejection, and at last, when the strain had become unbearable36, he cabled her. The answer ran: "Very well best love writing"; but the promised letter never came....
He went on steadily37 with his work: he even passed through a phase of exaggerated energy. But his baffled youth fought in him for air. Was this to be the end? Was he to wear his life out in useless drudgery38? The plain prose of it, of course, was that the economic situation remained unchanged by the sentimental catastrophe39 and that he must go on working for his wife and child. But at any rate, as it was mainly for Paul that he would henceforth work, it should be on his own terms and according to his inherited notions of "straightness." He would never again engage in any transaction resembling his compact with Moffatt. Even now he was not sure there had been anything crooked40 in that; but the fact of his having instinctively41 referred the point to Mr. Spragg rather than to his grandfather implied a presumption42 against it.
His partners were quick to profit by his sudden spurt43 of energy, and his work grew no lighter44. He was not only the youngest and most recent member of the firm, but the one who had so far added least to the volume of its business. His hours were the longest, his absences, as summer approached, the least frequent and the most grudgingly45 accorded. No doubt his associates knew that he was pressed for money and could not risk a break. They "worked" him, and he was aware of it, and submitted because he dared not lose his job. But the long hours of mechanical drudgery were telling on his active body and undisciplined nerves. He had begun too late to subject himself to the persistent46 mortification47 of spirit and flesh which is a condition of the average business life; and after the long dull days in the office the evenings at his grandfather's whist-table did not give him the counter-stimulus he needed.
Almost every one had gone out of town; but now and then Miss Ray came to dine, and Ralph, seated beneath the family portraits and opposite the desiccated Harriet, who had already faded to the semblance48 of one of her own great-aunts, listened languidly to the kind of talk that the originals might have exchanged about the same table when New York gentility centred in the Battery and the Bowling49 Green. Mr. Dagonet was always pleasant to see and hear, but his sarcasms50 were growing faint and recondite51: they had as little bearing on life as the humours of a Restoration comedy. As for Mrs. Marvell and Miss Ray, they seemed to the young man even more spectrally52 remote: hardly anything that mattered to him existed for them, and their prejudices reminded him of sign-posts warning off trespassers who have long since ceased to intrude53.
Now and then he dined at his club and went on to the theatre with some young men of his own age; but he left them afterward54, half vexed55 with himself for not being in the humour to prolong the adventure. There were moments when he would have liked to affirm his freedom in however commonplace a way: moments when the vulgarest way would have seemed the most satisfying. But he always ended by walking home alone and tip-toeing upstairs through the sleeping house lest he should wake his boy....
On Saturday afternoons, when the business world was hurrying to the country for golf and tennis, he stayed in town and took Paul to see the Spraggs. Several times since his wife's departure he had tried to bring about closer relations between his own family and Undine's; and the ladies of Washington Square, in their eagerness to meet his wishes, had made various friendly advances to Mrs. Spragg. But they were met by a mute resistance which made Ralph suspect that Undine's strictures on his family had taken root in her mother's brooding mind; and he gave up the struggle to bring together what had been so effectually put asunder56.
If he regretted his lack of success it was chiefly because he was so sorry for the Spraggs. Soon after Undine's marriage they had abandoned their polychrome suite57 at the Stentorian58, and since then their peregrinations had carried them through half the hotels of the metropolis59. Undine, who had early discovered her mistake in thinking hotel life fashionable, had tried to persuade her parents to take a house of their own; but though they refrained from taxing her with inconsistency they did not act on her suggestion. Mrs. Spragg seemed to shrink from the thought of "going back to house-keeping," and Ralph suspected that she depended on the transit60 from hotel to hotel as the one element of variety in her life. As for Mr. Spragg, it was impossible to imagine any one in whom the domestic sentiments were more completely unlocalized and disconnected from any fixed61 habits; and he was probably aware of his changes of abode62 chiefly as they obliged him to ascend63 from the Subway, or descend64 from the "Elevated," a few blocks higher up or lower down.
Neither husband nor wife complained to Ralph of their frequent displacements65, or assigned to them any cause save the vague one of "guessing they could do better"; but Ralph noticed that the decreasing luxury of their life synchronized66 with Undine's growing demands for money. During the last few months they had transferred themselves to the "Malibran," a tall narrow structure resembling a grain-elevator divided into cells, where linoleum67 and lincrusta simulated the stucco and marble of the Stentorian, and fagged business men and their families consumed the watery68 stews69 dispensed70 by "coloured help" in the grey twilight71 of a basement dining-room.
Mrs. Spragg had no sitting-room72, and Paul and his father had to be received in one of the long public parlours, between ladies seated at rickety desks in the throes of correspondence and groups of listlessly conversing73 residents and callers.
The Spraggs were intensely proud of their grandson, and Ralph perceived that they would have liked to see Paul charging uproariously from group to group, and thrusting his bright curls and cherubic smile upon the general attention. The fact that the boy preferred to stand between his grandfather's knees and play with Mr. Spragg's Masonic emblem74, or dangle75 his legs from the arm of Mrs. Spragg's chair, seemed to his grandparents evidence of ill-health or undue76 repression77, and he was subjected by Mrs. Spragg to searching enquiries as to how his food set, and whether he didn't think his Popper was too strict with him. A more embarrassing problem was raised by the "surprise" (in the shape of peanut candy or chocolate creams) which he was invited to hunt for in Gran'ma's pockets, and which Ralph had to confiscate78 on the way home lest the dietary rules of Washington Square should be too visibly infringed79.
Sometimes Ralph found Mrs. Heeny, ruddy and jovial80, seated in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Spragg, and regaling her with selections from a new batch81 of clippings. During Undine's illness of the previous winter Mrs. Heeny had become a familiar figure to Paul, who had learned to expect almost as much from her bag as from his grandmother's pockets; so that the intemperate82 Saturdays at the Malibran were usually followed by languid and abstemious83 Sundays in Washington Square. Mrs. Heeny, being unaware84 of this sequel to her bounties85, formed the habit of appearing regularly on Saturdays, and while she chatted with his grandmother the little boy was encouraged to scatter86 the grimy carpet with face-creams and bunches of clippings in his thrilling quest for the sweets at the bottom of her bag.
"I declare, if he ain't in just as much of a hurry f'r everything as his mother!" she exclaimed one day in her rich rolling voice; and stooping to pick up a long strip of newspaper which Paul had flung aside she added, as she smoothed it out: "I guess 'f he was a little mite87 older he'd be better pleased with this 'n with the candy. It's the very thing I was trying to find for you the other day, Mrs. Spragg," she went on, holding the bit of paper at arm's length; and she began to read out, with a loudness proportioned to the distance between her eyes and the text:
"With two such sprinters as 'Pete' Van Degen and Dicky Bowles to set the pace, it's no wonder the New York set in Paris has struck a livelier gait than ever this spring. It's a high-pressure season and no mistake, and no one lags behind less than the fascinating Mrs. Ralph Marvell, who is to be seen daily and nightly in all the smartest restaurants and naughtiest theatres, with so many devoted88 swains in attendance that the rival beauties of both worlds are said to be making catty comments. But then Mrs. Marvell's gowns are almost as good as her looks--and how can you expect the other women to stand for such a monopoly?"
To escape the strain of these visits, Ralph once or twice tried the experiment of leaving Paul with his grand-parents and calling for him in the late afternoon; but one day, on re-entering the Malibran, he was met by a small abashed89 figure clad in a kaleidoscopic90 tartan and a green velvet91 cap with a silver thistle. After this experience of the "surprises" of which Gran'ma was capable when she had a chance to take Paul shopping Ralph did not again venture to leave his son, and their subsequent Saturdays were passed together in the sultry gloom of the Malibran. Conversation with the Spraggs was almost impossible. Ralph could talk with his father-in-law in his office, but in the hotel parlour Mr. Spragg sat in a ruminating93 silence broken only by the emission94 of an occasional "Well--well" addressed to his grandson. As for Mrs. Spragg, her son-in-law could not remember having had a sustained conversation with her since the distant day when he had first called at the Stentorian, and had been "entertained," in Undine's absence, by her astonished mother. The shock of that encounter had moved Mrs. Spragg to eloquence95; but Ralph's entrance into the family, without making him seem less of a stranger, appeared once for all to have relieved her of the obligation of finding something to say to him.
The one question she invariably asked: "You heard from Undie?" had been relatively96 easy to answer while his wife's infrequent letters continued to arrive; but a Saturday came when he felt the blood rise to his temples as, for the fourth consecutive97 week, he stammered98 out, under the snapping eyes of Mrs. Heeny: "No, not by this post either--I begin to think I must have lost a letter"; and it was then that Mr. Spragg, who had sat silently looking up at the ceiling, cut short his wife's exclamation99 by an enquiry about real estate in the Bronx. After that, Ralph noticed, Mrs. Spragg never again renewed her question; and he understood that his father-in-law had guessed his embarrassment100 and wished to spare it.
Ralph had never thought of looking for any delicacy101 of feeling under Mr. Spragg's large lazy irony102, and the incident drew the two men nearer together. Mrs. Spragg, for her part, was certainly not delicate; but she was simple and without malice103, and Ralph liked her for her silent acceptance of her diminished state. Sometimes, as he sat between the lonely primitive104 old couple, he wondered from what source Undine's voracious105 ambitions had been drawn106: all she cared for, and attached importance to, was as remote from her parents' conception of life as her impatient greed from their passive stoicism.
One hot afternoon toward the end of June Ralph suddenly wondered if Clare Van Degen were still in town. She had dined in Washington Square some ten days earlier, and he remembered her saying that she had sent the children down to Long Island, but that she herself meant to stay on in town till the heat grew unbearable. She hated her big showy place on Long Island, she was tired of the spring trip to London and Paris, where one met at every turn the faces one had grown sick of seeing all winter, and she declared that in the early summer New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers... She put the case amusingly, and it was like her to take up any attitude that went against the habits of her set; but she lived at the mercy of her moods, and one could never tell how long any one of them would rule her.
As he sat in his office, with the noise and glare of the endless afternoon rising up in hot waves from the street, there wandered into Ralph's mind a vision of her shady drawing-room. All day it hung before him like the mirage107 of a spring before a dusty traveller: he felt a positive thirst for her presence, for the sound of her voice, the wide spaces and luxurious108 silences surrounding her.
It was perhaps because, on that particular day, a spiral pain was twisting around in the back of his head, and digging in a little deeper with each twist, and because the figures on the balance sheet before him were hopping92 about like black imps109 in an infernal forward-and-back, that the picture hung there so persistently110. It was a long time since he had wanted anything as much as, at that particular moment, he wanted to be with Clare and hear her voice; and as soon as he had ground out the day's measure of work he rang up the Van Degen palace and learned that she was still in town.
The lowered awnings112 of her inner drawing-room cast a luminous113 shadow on old cabinets and consoles, and on the pale flowers scattered114 here and there in vases of bronze and porcelain115. Clare's taste was as capricious as her moods, and the rest of the house was not in harmony with this room. There was, in particular, another drawing-room, which she now described as Peter's creation, but which Ralph knew to be partly hers: a heavily decorated apartment, where Popple's portrait of her throned over a waste of gilt116 furniture. It was characteristic that to-day she had had Ralph shown in by another way; and that, as she had spared him the polyphonic drawing-room, so she had skilfully117 adapted her own appearance to her soberer background. She sat near the window, reading, in a clear cool dress: and at his entrance she merely slipped a finger between the pages and looked up at him.
Her way of receiving him made him feel that restlessness and stridency were as unlike her genuine self as the gilded118 drawing-room, and that this quiet creature was the only real Clare, the Clare who had once been so nearly his, and who seemed to want him to know that she had never wholly been any one else's.
"Why didn't you let me know you were still in town?" he asked, as he sat down in the sofa-corner near her chair.
Her dark smile deepened. "I hoped you'd come and see."
"One never knows, with you."
He was looking about the room with a kind of confused pleasure in its pale shadows and spots of dark rich colour. The old lacquer screen behind Clare's head looked like a lustreless119 black pool with gold leaves floating on it; and another piece, a little table at her elbow, had the brown bloom and the pear-like curves of an old violin.
"I like to be here," Ralph said.
She did not make the mistake of asking: "Then why do you never come?" Instead, she turned away and drew an inner curtain across the window to shut out the sunlight which was beginning to slant120 in under the awning111.
The mere fact of her not answering, and the final touch of well-being121 which her gesture gave, reminded him of other summer days they had spent together long rambling122 boy-and-girl days in the hot woods and fields, when they had never thought of talking to each other unless there was something they particularly wanted to say. His tired fancy strayed off for a second to the thought of what it would have been like come back, at the end of the day, to such a sweet community of silence; but his mind was too crowded with importunate123 facts for any lasting124 view of visionary distances. The thought faded, and he merely felt how restful it was to have her near...
"I'm glad you stayed in town: you must let me come again," he said.
"I suppose you can't always get away," she answered; and she began to listen, with grave intelligent eyes, to his description of his tedious days.
With her eyes on him he felt the exquisite125 relief of talking about himself as he had not dared to talk to any one since his marriage. He would not for the world have confessed his discouragement, his consciousness of incapacity; to Undine and in Washington Square any hint of failure would have been taken as a criticism of what his wife demanded of him. Only to Clare Van Degen could he cry out his present despondency and his loathing126 of the interminable task ahead.
"A man doesn't know till he tries it how killing127 uncongenial work is, and how it destroys the power of doing what one's fit for, even if there's time for both. But there's Paul to be looked out for, and I daren't chuck my job--I'm in mortal terror of its chucking me..."
Little by little he slipped into a detailed128 recital129 of all his lesser130 worries, the most recent of which was his experience with the Lipscombs, who, after a two months' tenancy of the West End Avenue house, had decamped without paying their rent.
Clare laughed contemptuously. "Yes--I heard he'd come to grief and been suspended from the Stock Exchange, and I see in the papers that his wife's retort has been to sue for a divorce."
Ralph knew that, like all their clan131, his cousin regarded a divorce-suit as a vulgar and unnecessary way of taking the public into one's confidence. His mind flashed back to the family feast in Washington Square in celebration of his engagement. He recalled his grandfather's chance allusion to Mrs. Lipscomb, and Undine's answer, fluted132 out on her highest note: "Oh, I guess she'll get a divorce pretty soon. He's been a disappointment to her."
Ralph could still hear the horrified133 murmur134 with which his mother had rebuked135 his laugh. For he had laughed--had thought Undine's speech fresh and natural! Now he felt the ironic136 rebound137 of her words. Heaven knew he had been a disappointment to her; and what was there in her own feeling, or in her inherited prejudices, to prevent her seeking the same redress138 as Mabel Lipscomb? He wondered if the same thought were in his cousin's mind...
They began to talk of other things: books, pictures, plays; and one by one the closed doors opened and light was let into dusty shuttered places. Clare's mind was neither keen nor deep: Ralph, in the past, had smiled at her rash ardours and vague intensities139. But she had his own range of allusions140, and a great gift of momentary understanding; and he had so long beaten his thoughts out against a blank wall of incomprehension that her sympathy seemed full of insight.
She began by a question about his writing, but the subject was distasteful to him, and he turned the talk to a new book in which he had been interested. She knew enough of it to slip in the right word here and there; and thence they wandered on to kindred topics. Under the warmth of her attention his torpid142 ideas awoke again, and his eyes took their fill of pleasure as she leaned forward, her thin brown hands clasped on her knees and her eager face reflecting all his feelings.
There was a moment when the two currents of sensation were merged143 in one, and he began to feel confusedly that he was young and she was kind, and that there was nothing he would like better than to go on sitting there, not much caring what she said or how he answered, if only she would let him look at her and give him one of her thin brown hands to hold. Then the corkscrew in the back of his head dug into him again with a deeper thrust, and she seemed suddenly to recede144 to a great distance and be divided from him by a fog of pain. The fog lifted after a minute, but it left him queerly remote from her, from the cool room with its scents145 and shadows, and from all the objects which, a moment before, had so sharply impinged upon his senses. It was as though he looked at it all through a rain-blurred pane146, against which his hand would strike if he held it out to her...
That impression passed also, and he found himself thinking how tired he was and how little anything mattered. He recalled the unfinished piece of work on his desk, and for a moment had the odd illusion that it was there before him...
She exclaimed: "But are you going?" and her exclamation made him aware that he had left his seat and was standing141 in front of her... He fancied there was some kind of appeal in her brown eyes; but she was so dim and far off that he couldn't be sure of what she wanted, and the next moment he found himself shaking hands with her, and heard her saying something kind and cold about its having been so nice to see him...
Half way up the stairs little Paul, shining and rosy147 from supper, lurked148 in ambush149 for his evening game. Ralph was fond of stooping down to let the boy climb up his outstretched arms to his shoulders, but to-day, as he did so, Paul's hug seemed to crush him in a vice150, and the shout of welcome that accompanied it racked his ears like an explosion of steam-whistles. The queer distance between himself and the rest of the world was annihilated151 again: everything stared and glared and clutched him. He tried to turn away his face from the child's hot kisses; and as he did so he caught sight of a mauve envelope among the hats and sticks on the hall table.
Instantly he passed Paul over to his nurse, stammered out a word about being tired, and sprang up the long flights to his study. The pain in his head had stopped, but his hands trembled as he tore open the envelope. Within it was a second letter bearing a French stamp and addressed to himself. It looked like a business communication and had apparently152 been sent to Undine's hotel in Paris and forwarded to him by her hand. "Another bill!" he reflected grimly, as he threw it aside and felt in the outer envelope for her letter. There was nothing there, and after a first sharp pang153 of disappointment he picked up the enclosure and opened it.
Inside was a lithographed circular, headed "Confidential154" and bearing the Paris address of a firm of private detectives who undertook, in conditions of attested155 and inviolable discretion, to investigate "delicate" situations, look up doubtful antecedents, and furnish reliable evidence of misconduct--all on the most reasonable terms.
For a long time Ralph sat and stared at this document; then he began to laugh and tossed it into the scrap-basket. After that, with a groan156, he dropped his head against the edge of his writing table.
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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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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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implant
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| vt.注入，植入，灌输 | |
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concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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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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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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23
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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25
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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26
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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27
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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28
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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29
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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30
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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31
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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32
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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33
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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34
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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35
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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36
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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37
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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38
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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39
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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40
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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41
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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42
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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43
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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44
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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45
grudgingly
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46
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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47
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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48
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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49
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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50
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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51
recondite
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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52
spectrally
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| adv.幽灵似地，可怕地 | |
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53
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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54
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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55
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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56
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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57
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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58
stentorian
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| adj.大声的，响亮的 | |
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59
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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60
transit
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| n.经过，运输；vt.穿越，旋转；vi.越过 | |
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61
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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62
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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63
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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64
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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65
displacements
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| n.取代( displacement的名词复数 )；替代；移位；免职 | |
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66
synchronized
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| 同步的 | |
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67
linoleum
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| n.油布，油毯 | |
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68
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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69
stews
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| n.炖煮的菜肴( stew的名词复数 )；烦恼，焦虑v.炖( stew的第三人称单数 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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70
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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71
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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72
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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73
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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74
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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75
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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76
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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77
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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78
confiscate
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| v.没收(私人财产)，把…充公 | |
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79
infringed
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|
| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的过去式和过去分词 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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80
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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81
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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82
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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83
abstemious
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|
| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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84
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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85
bounties
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| （由政府提供的）奖金( bounty的名词复数 )； 赏金； 慷慨； 大方 | |
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86
scatter
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|
| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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87
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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88
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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89
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
kaleidoscopic
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|
| adj.千变万化的 | |
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91
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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92
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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93
ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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94
emission
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| n.发出物，散发物；发出，散发 | |
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95
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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96
relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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97
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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98
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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100
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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101
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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102
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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103
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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104
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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105
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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106
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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107
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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108
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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109
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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110
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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111
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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112
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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113
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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114
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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115
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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116
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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117
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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118
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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119
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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120
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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121
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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122
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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123
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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124
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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125
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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126
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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127
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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128
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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129
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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130
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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131
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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132
fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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133
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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134
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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135
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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137
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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138
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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139
intensities
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| n.强烈( intensity的名词复数 )；（感情的）强烈程度；强度；烈度 | |
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140
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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141
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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142
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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143
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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144
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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145
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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146
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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147
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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148
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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149
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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150
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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151
annihilated
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|
| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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152
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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153
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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154
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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155
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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156
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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