In a window of the long gallery of the chateau1 de Saint Desert the new Marquise de Chelles stood looking down the poplar avenue into the November rain. It had been raining heavily and persistently2 for a longer time than she could remember. Day after day the hills beyond the park had been curtained by motionless clouds, the gutters3 of the long steep roofs had gurgled with a perpetual overflow4, the opaque5 surface of the moat been peppered by a continuous pelting6 of big drops. The water lay in glassy stretches under the trees and along the sodden7 edges of the garden-paths, it rose in a white mist from the fields beyond, it exuded8 in a chill moisture from the brick flooring of the passages and from the walls of the rooms on the lower floor. Everything in the great empty house smelt9 of dampness: the stuffing of the chairs, the threadbare folds of the faded curtains, the splendid tapestries10, that were fading too, on the walls of the room in which Undine stood, and the wide bands of crape which her husband had insisted on her keeping on her black dresses till the last hour of her mourning for the old Marquis.
The summer had been more than usually inclement11, and since her first coming to the country Undine had lived through many periods of rainy weather; but none which had gone before had so completely epitomized, so summed up in one vast monotonous12 blur13, the image of her long months at Saint Desert.
When, the year before, she had reluctantly suffered herself to be torn from the joys of Paris, she had been sustained by the belief that her exile would not be of long duration. Once Paris was out of sight, she had even found a certain lazy charm in the long warm days at Saint Desert. Her parents-in-law had remained in town, and she enjoyed being alone with her husband, exploring and appraising14 the treasures of the great half abandoned house, and watching her boy scamper15 over the June meadows or trot16 about the gardens on the poney his stepfather had given him. Paul, after Mrs. Heeny's departure, had grown fretful and restive17, and Undine had found it more and more difficult to fit his small exacting18 personality into her cramped19 rooms and crowded life. He irritated her by pining for his Aunt Laura, his Marvell granny, and old Mr. Dagonet's funny stories about gods and fairies; and his wistful allusions20 to his games with Clare's children sounded like a lesson he might have been drilled in to make her feel how little he belonged to her. But once released from Paris, and blessed with rabbits, a poney and the freedom of the fields, he became again all that a charming child should be, and for a time it amused her to share in his romps21 and rambles22. Raymond seemed enchanted23 at the picture they made, and the quiet weeks of fresh air and outdoor activity gave her back a bloom that reflected itself in her tranquillized mood. She was the more resigned to this interlude because she was so sure of its not lasting24. Before they left Paris a doctor had been found to say that Paul--who was certainly looking pale and pulled-down--was in urgent need of sea air, and Undine had nearly convinced her husband of the expediency25 of hiring a chalet at Deauville for July and August, when this plan, and with it every other prospect26 of escape, was dashed by the sudden death of the old Marquis.
Undine, at first, had supposed that the resulting change could not be other than favourable27. She had been on too formal terms with her father-in-law--a remote and ceremonious old gentleman to whom her own personality was evidently an insoluble enigma--to feel more than the merest conventional pang28 at his death; and it was certainly "more fun" to be a marchioness than a countess, and to know that one's husband was the head of the house. Besides, now they would have the chateau to themselves--or at least the old Marquise, when she came, would be there as a guest and not a ruler--and visions of smart house-parties and big shoots lit up the first weeks of Undine's enforced seclusion29. Then, by degrees, the inexorable conditions of French mourning closed in on her. Immediately after the long-drawn31 funeral observances the bereaved32 family--mother, daughters, sons and sons-in-law--came down to seclude33 themselves at Saint Desert; and Undine, through the slow hot crape-smelling months, lived encircled by shrouded34 images of woe35 in which the only live points were the eyes constantly fixed36 on her least movements. The hope of escaping to the seaside with Paul vanished in the pained stare with which her mother-in-law received the suggestion. Undine learned the next day that it had cost the old Marquise a sleepless37 night, and might have had more distressing38 results had it not been explained as a harmless instance of transatlantic oddness. Raymond entreated39 his wife to atone40 for her involuntary legerete by submitting with a good grace to the usages of her adopted country; and he seemed to regard the remaining months of the summer as hardly long enough for this act of expiation41. As Undine looked back on them, they appeared to have been composed of an interminable succession of identical days, in which attendance at early mass (in the coroneted gallery she had once so glowingly depicted42 to Van Degen) was followed by a great deal of conversational43 sitting about, a great deal of excellent eating, an occasional drive to the nearest town behind a pair of heavy draft horses, and long evenings in a lamp-heated drawing-room with all the windows shut, and the stout44 cure making an asthmatic fourth at the Marquise's card-table.
Still, even these conditions were not permanent, and the discipline of the last years had trained Undine to wait and dissemble. The summer over, it was decided45--after a protracted46 family conclave--that the state of the old Marquise's health made it advisable for her to spend the winter with the married daughter who lived near Pau. The other members of the family returned to their respective estates, and Undine once more found herself alone with her husband. But she knew by this time that there was to be no thought of Paris that winter, or even the next spring. Worse still, she was presently to discover that Raymond's accession of rank brought with it no financial advantages.
Having but the vaguest notion of French testamentary law, she was dismayed to learn that the compulsory48 division of property made it impossible for a father to benefit his eldest49 son at the expense of the others. Raymond was therefore little richer than before, and with the debts of honour of a troublesome younger brother to settle, and Saint Desert to keep up, his available income was actually reduced. He held out, indeed, the hope of eventual50 improvement, since the old Marquis had managed his estates with a lofty contempt for modern methods, and the application of new principles of agriculture and forestry51 were certain to yield profitable results. But for a year or two, at any rate, this very change of treatment would necessitate52 the owner's continual supervision53, and would not in the meanwhile produce any increase of income.
To faire valoir the family acres had always, it appeared, been Raymond's deepest-seated purpose, and all his frivolities dropped from him with the prospect of putting his hand to the plough. He was not, indeed, inhuman54 enough to condemn55 his wife to perpetual exile. He meant, he assured her, that she should have her annual spring visit to Paris--but he stared in dismay at her suggestion that they should take possession of the coveted56 premier57 of the Hotel de Chelles. He was gallant58 enough to express the wish that it were in his power to house her on such a scale; but he could not conceal59 his surprise that she had ever seriously expected it. She was beginning to see that he felt her constitutional inability to understand anything about money as the deepest difference between them. It was a proficiency60 no one had ever expected her to acquire, and the lack of which she had even been encouraged to regard as a grace and to use as a pretext61. During the interval62 between her divorce and her remarriage she had learned what things cost, but not how to do without them; and money still seemed to her like some mysterious and uncertain stream which occasionally vanished underground but was sure to bubble up again at one's feet. Now, however, she found herself in a world where it represented not the means of individual gratification but the substance binding63 together whole groups of interests, and where the uses to which it might be put in twenty years were considered before the reasons for spending it on the spot. At first she was sure she could laugh Raymond out of his prudence64 or coax65 him round to her point of view. She did not understand how a man so romantically in love could be so unpersuadable on certain points. Hitherto she had had to contend with personal moods, now she was arguing against a policy; and she was gradually to learn that it was as natural to Raymond de Chelles to adore her and resist her as it had been to Ralph Marvell to adore her and let her have her way. At first, indeed, he appealed to her good sense, using arguments evidently drawn from accumulations of hereditary66 experience. But his economic plea was as unintelligible67 to her as the silly problems about pen-knives and apples in the "Mental Arithmetic" of her infancy68; and when he struck a tenderer note and spoke69 of the duty of providing for the son he hoped for, she put her arms about him to whisper: "But then I oughtn't to be worried..."
After that, she noticed, though he was as charming as ever, he behaved as if the case were closed. He had apparently70 decided that his arguments were unintelligible to her, and under all his ardour she felt the difference made by the discovery. It did not make him less kind, but it evidently made her less important; and she had the half-frightened sense that the day she ceased to please him she would cease to exist for him. That day was a long way off, of course, but the chill of it had brushed her face; and she was no longer heedless of such signs. She resolved to cultivate all the arts of patience and compliance71, and habit might have helped them to take root if they had not been nipped by a new cataclysm72.
It was barely a week ago that her husband had been called to Paris to straighten out a fresh tangle73 in the affairs of the troublesome brother whose difficulties were apparently a part of the family tradition. Raymond's letters had been hurried, his telegrams brief and contradictory74, and now, as Undine stood watching for the brougham that was to bring him from the station, she had the sense that with his arrival all her vague fears would be confirmed. There would be more money to pay out, of course--since the funds that could not be found for her just needs were apparently always forthcoming to settle Hubert's scandalous prodigalities--and that meant a longer perspective of solitude75 at Saint Desert, and a fresh pretext for postponing76 the hospitalities that were to follow on their period of mourning. The brougham--a vehicle as massive and lumbering77 as the pair that drew it-- presently rolled into the court, and Raymond's sable47 figure (she had never before seen a man travel in such black clothes) sprang up the steps to the door. Whenever Undine saw him after an absence she had a curious sense of his coming back from unknown distances and not belonging to her or to any state of things she understood. Then habit reasserted itself, and she began to think of him again with a querulous familiarity. But she had learned to hide her feelings, and as he came in she put up her face for a kiss.
"Yes--everything's settled--" his embrace expressed the satisfaction of the man returning from an accomplished78 task to the joys of his fireside.
"Settled?" Her face kindled79. "Without your having to pay?"
He looked at her with a shrug80. "Of course I've had to pay. Did you suppose Hubert's creditors81 would be put off with vanilla82 eclairs?"
"Oh, if THAT'S what you mean--if Hubert has only to wire you at any time to be sure of his affairs being settled--!"
She saw his lips narrow and a line come out between his eyes. "Wouldn't it be a happy thought to tell them to bring tea?" he suggested.
"In the library, then. It's so cold here--and the tapestries smell so of rain."
He paused a moment to scrutinize83 the long walls, on which the fabulous84 blues85 and pinks of the great Boucher series looked as livid as withered86 roses. "I suppose they ought to be taken down and aired," he said.
She thought: "In THIS air--much good it would do them!" But she had already repented87 her outbreak about Hubert, and she followed her husband into the library with the resolve not to let him see her annoyance88. Compared with the long grey gallery the library, with its brown walls of books, looked warm and home-like, and Raymond seemed to feel the influence of the softer atmosphere. He turned to his wife and put his arm about her.
"I know it's been a trial to you, dearest; but this is the last time I shall have to pull the poor boy out."
In spite of herself she laughed incredulously: Hubert's "last times" were a household word.
But when tea had been brought, and they were alone over the fire, Raymond unfolded the amazing sequel. Hubert had found an heiress, Hubert was to be married, and henceforth the business of paying his debts (which might be counted on to recur89 as inevitably90 as the changes of the seasons) would devolve on his American bride--the charming Miss Looty Arlington, whom Raymond had remained over in Paris to meet.
"An American? He's marrying an American?" Undine wavered between wrath91 and satisfaction. She felt a flash of resentment92 at any other intruder's venturing upon her territory--("Looty Arlington? Who is she? What a name!")--but it was quickly superseded93 by the relief of knowing that henceforth, as Raymond said, Hubert's debts would be some one else's business. Then a third consideration prevailed. "But if he's engaged to a rich girl, why on earth do WE have to pull him out?"
Her husband explained that no other course was possible. Though General Arlington was immensely wealthy, ("her father's a general--a General Manager, whatever that may be,") he had exacted what he called "a clean slate94" from his future son-in-law, and Hubert's creditors (the boy was such a donkey!) had in their possession certain papers that made it possible for them to press for immediate30 payment.
"Your compatriots' views on such matters are so rigid--and it's all to their credit--that the marriage would have fallen through at once if the least hint of Hubert's mess had got out--and then we should have had him on our hands for life."
Yes--from that point of view it was doubtless best to pay up; but Undine obscurely wished that their doing so had not incidentally helped an unknown compatriot to what the American papers were no doubt already announcing as "another brilliant foreign alliance."
"Where on earth did your brother pick up anybody respectable? Do you know where her people come from? I suppose she's perfectly95 awful," she broke out with a sudden escape of irritation96.
"I believe Hubert made her acquaintance at a skating rink. They come from some new state--the general apologized for its not yet being on the map, but seemed surprised I hadn't heard of it. He said it was already known as one of 'the divorce states,' and the principal city had, in consequence, a very agreeable society. La petite n'est vraiment pas trop mal."
"I daresay not! We're all good-looking. But she must be horribly common."
Raymond seemed sincerely unable to formulate97 a judgment98. "My dear, you have your own customs..."
"Oh, I know we're all alike to you!" It was one of her grievances99 that he never attempted to discriminate100 between Americans. "You see no difference between me and a girl one gets engaged to at a skating rink!"
He evaded101 the challenge by rejoining: "Miss Arlington's burning to know you. She says she's heard a great deal about you, and Hubert wants to bring her down next week. I think we'd better do what we can."
"Of course." But Undine was still absorbed in the economic aspect of the case. "If they're as rich as you say, I suppose Hubert means to pay you back by and bye?"
"Naturally. It's all arranged. He's given me a paper." He drew her hands into his. "You see we've every reason to be kind to Miss Arlington."
"Oh, I'll be as kind as you like!" She brightened at the prospect of repayment102. Yes, they would ask the girl down... She leaned a little nearer to her husband. "But then after a while we shall be a good deal better off--especially, as you say, with no more of Hubert's debts to worry us." And leaning back far enough to give her upward smile, she renewed her plea for the premier in the Hotel de Chelles: "Because, really, you know, as the head of the house you ought to--"
"Ah, my dear, as the head of the house I've so many obligations; and one of them is not to miss a good stroke of business when it comes my way."
Her hands slipped from his shoulders and she drew back. "What do you mean by a good stroke of business?
"Why, an incredible piece of luck--it's what kept me on so long in Paris. Miss Arlington's father was looking for an apartment for the young couple, and I've let him the premier for twelve years on the understanding that he puts electric light and heating into the whole hotel. It's a wonderful chance, for of course we all benefit by it as much as Hubert."
"A wonderful chance... benefit by it as much as Hubert!" He seemed to be speaking a strange language in which familiar-sounding syllables103 meant something totally unknown. Did he really think she was going to coop herself up again in their cramped quarters while Hubert and his skating-rink bride luxuriated overhead in the coveted premier? All the resentments104 that had been accumulating in her during the long baffled months since her marriage broke into speech. "It's extraordinary of you to do such a thing without consulting me!"
"Without consulting you? But, my dear child, you've always professed105 the most complete indifference106 to business matters--you've frequently begged me not to bore you with them. You may be sure I've acted on the best advice; and my mother, whose head is as good as a man's, thinks I've made a remarkably107 good arrangement."
"I daresay--but I'm not always thinking about money, as you are."
As she spoke she had an ominous108 sense of impending109 peril110; but she was too angry to avoid even the risks she saw. To her surprise Raymond put his arm about her with a smile. "There are many reasons why I have to think about money. One is that YOU don't; and another is that I must look out for the future of our son."
Undine flushed to the forehead. She had grown accustomed to such allusions and the thought of having a child no longer filled her with the resentful terror she had felt before Paul's birth. She had been insensibly influenced by a different point of view, perhaps also by a difference in her own feeling; and the vision of herself as the mother of the future Marquis de Chelles was softened111 to happiness by the thought of giving Raymond a son. But all these lightly-rooted sentiments went down in the rush of her resentment, and she freed herself with a petulant112 movement. "Oh, my dear, you'd better leave it to your brother to perpetuate113 the race. There'll be more room for nurseries in their apartment!"
She waited a moment, quivering with the expectation of her husband's answer; then, as none came except the silent darkening of his face, she walked to the door and turned round to fling back: "Of course you can do what you like with your own house, and make any arrangements that suit your family, without consulting me; but you needn't think I'm ever going back to live in that stuffy114 little hole, with Hubert and his wife splurging round on top of our heads!"
"Ah--" said Raymond de Chelles in a low voice.
1 chateau | |
n.城堡,别墅 | |
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2 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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3 gutters | |
(路边)排水沟( gutter的名词复数 ); 阴沟; (屋顶的)天沟; 贫贱的境地 | |
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4 overflow | |
v.(使)外溢,(使)溢出;溢出,流出,漫出 | |
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5 opaque | |
adj.不透光的;不反光的,不传导的;晦涩的 | |
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6 pelting | |
微不足道的,无价值的,盛怒的 | |
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7 sodden | |
adj.浑身湿透的;v.使浸透;使呆头呆脑 | |
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8 exuded | |
v.缓慢流出,渗出,分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 );流露出对(某物)的神态或感情 | |
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9 smelt | |
v.熔解,熔炼;n.银白鱼,胡瓜鱼 | |
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10 tapestries | |
n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 );绣帷,织锦v.用挂毯(或绣帷)装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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11 inclement | |
adj.严酷的,严厉的,恶劣的 | |
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12 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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13 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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14 appraising | |
v.估价( appraise的现在分词 );估计;估量;评价 | |
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15 scamper | |
v.奔跑,快跑 | |
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16 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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17 restive | |
adj.不安宁的,不安静的 | |
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18 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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19 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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20 allusions | |
暗指,间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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21 romps | |
n.无忧无虑,快活( romp的名词复数 )v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的第三人称单数 );(尤指在赛跑或竞选等中)轻易获胜 | |
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22 rambles | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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23 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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24 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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25 expediency | |
n.适宜;方便;合算;利己 | |
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26 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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27 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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28 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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29 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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30 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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31 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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32 bereaved | |
adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去(希望、生命等)( bereave的过去式和过去分词);(尤指死亡)使丧失(亲人、朋友等);使孤寂;抢走(财物) | |
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33 seclude | |
vi.使隔离,使孤立,使隐退 | |
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34 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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35 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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36 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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37 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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38 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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39 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40 atone | |
v.赎罪,补偿 | |
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41 expiation | |
n.赎罪,补偿 | |
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42 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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43 conversational | |
adj.对话的,会话的 | |
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45 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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46 protracted | |
adj.拖延的;延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47 sable | |
n.黑貂;adj.黑色的 | |
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48 compulsory | |
n.强制的,必修的;规定的,义务的 | |
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49 eldest | |
adj.最年长的,最年老的 | |
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50 eventual | |
adj.最后的,结局的,最终的 | |
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51 forestry | |
n.森林学;林业 | |
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52 necessitate | |
v.使成为必要,需要 | |
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53 supervision | |
n.监督,管理 | |
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54 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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55 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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56 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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57 premier | |
adj.首要的;n.总理,首相 | |
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58 gallant | |
adj.英勇的,豪侠的;(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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59 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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60 proficiency | |
n.精通,熟练,精练 | |
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61 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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62 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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63 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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64 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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65 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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66 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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67 unintelligible | |
adj.无法了解的,难解的,莫明其妙的 | |
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68 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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69 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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70 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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71 compliance | |
n.顺从;服从;附和;屈从 | |
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72 cataclysm | |
n.洪水,剧变,大灾难 | |
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73 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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74 contradictory | |
adj.反驳的,反对的,抗辩的;n.正反对,矛盾对立 | |
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75 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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76 postponing | |
v.延期,推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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77 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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78 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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79 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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80 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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81 creditors | |
n.债权人,债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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82 vanilla | |
n.香子兰,香草 | |
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83 scrutinize | |
n.详细检查,细读 | |
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84 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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85 blues | |
n.抑郁,沮丧;布鲁斯音乐 | |
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86 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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87 repented | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 annoyance | |
n.恼怒,生气,烦恼 | |
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89 recur | |
vi.复发,重现,再发生 | |
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90 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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91 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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92 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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93 superseded | |
[医]被代替的,废弃的 | |
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94 slate | |
n.板岩,石板,石片,石板色,候选人名单;adj.暗蓝灰色的,含板岩的;vt.用石板覆盖,痛打,提名,预订 | |
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95 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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96 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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97 formulate | |
v.用公式表示;规划;设计;系统地阐述 | |
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98 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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99 grievances | |
n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 );苦衷;不满;牢骚 | |
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100 discriminate | |
v.区别,辨别,区分;有区别地对待 | |
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101 evaded | |
逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 ); 避开; 回避; 想不出 | |
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102 repayment | |
n.偿还,偿还款;报酬 | |
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103 syllables | |
n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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104 resentments | |
(因受虐待而)愤恨,不满,怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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105 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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106 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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107 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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108 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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109 impending | |
a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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110 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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111 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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112 petulant | |
adj.性急的,暴躁的 | |
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113 perpetuate | |
v.使永存,使永记不忘 | |
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114 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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