THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple1, high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in. Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous2 green; the waggon3-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering4 their sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour of red and gold; the lambs and calves5 have lost all traces of their innocent frisky6 prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows. But it is a time of leisure on the farm — that pause between hay- and corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton thought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which had been brewed7 the autumn after “the heir” was born, and was to be tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.
The midday sun was streaming into Hetty’s bedchamber, and there was no blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging glass she had fetched out of the next room — the room that had been Dinah’s — would show her nothing below her little chin; and that beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And today she thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy yesterday with her spotted8 pink-and-white frock, that she might make the sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of “real” lace, which her aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments9 besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she wore every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently10, before she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to put the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly11 in a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason about it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear- rings which she could not possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced on others; you will never understand women’s natures if you are so excessively rational. Try rather to divest12 yourself of all your rational prejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology13 of a canary bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that she had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could imagine.
“Little, little ears!” Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. “I wish I had some pretty ear-rings!” she said in a moment, almost before she knew what she was saying — the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter past them at the slightest breath. And the next day — it was only last week — Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That little wish so naively14 uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back their new delight into his.
No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears — only for one moment, to see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty must be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman, with a woman’s destiny before her — a woman spinning in young ignorance a light web of folly15 and vain hopes which may one day close round her and press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human anguish16.
But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes, and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes, shimmering17 gauze, soft satin, and velvet18, such as the lady’s maid at the Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia’s wardrobe. She feels the bracelets19 on her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear today, because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown berries — her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings. She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery, and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in her bosom20. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter her aunt’s questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and her straw hat trimmed with white today instead of the pink, which had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of bitterness in Hetty’s cup today, for it was not quite new — everybody would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon — and Mary Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet21 on. She looked for consolation22 at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were very nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them. Hetty’s dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would never care about looking at other people, but then those other people didn’t know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby and insignificant23 in their eyes even for a short space.
The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down, all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so this morning in honour of the captain’s twenty- first birthday, and the work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going to church was not part of the day’s festivities. Mr. Poyser had once suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care of itself; “for,” said he, “there’s no danger of anybody’s breaking in — everybody’ll be at the Chase, thieves an’ all. If we lock th’ house up, all the men can go: it’s a day they wonna see twice i’ their lives.” But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: “I never left the house to take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There’s been ill-looking tramps enoo’ about the place this last week, to carry off every ham an’ every spoon we’n got; and they all collogue together, them tramps, as it’s a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when we’n got the money in th’ house to pay the men. And it’s like enough the tramps know where we’re going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry24 wants any work done, you may be sure he’ll find the means.”
“Nonsense about murdering us in our beds,” said Mr. Poyser; “I’ve got a gun i’ our room, hanna I? and thee’st got ears as ’ud find it out if a mouse was gnawing25 the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick can stay at home i’ the forepart o’ the day, and Tim can come back tow’rds five o’clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler loose if anybody offers to do mischief26, and there’s Alick’s dog too, ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink27.”
Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting, Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters28 of the house-place, although the window, lying under the immediate29 observation of Alick and the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a burglarious attempt.
The covered cart, without springs, was standing30 ready to carry the whole family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting31 would not hurt so much, and Nancy’s broad person and thick arms were an excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits of movable bright colour — a scarlet32 waistcoat to match the poppies that nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief with ends flaunting33 across a brand-new white smock- frock. All Broxton and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour of “th’ heir”; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer’s waggons34, at Mr. Irwine’s suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now — a last tune35, before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing Mr. Poyser’s cart, began to prick36 up his ears. It was the band of the Benefit Club, which had mustered37 in all its glory — that is to say, in bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with the motto, “Let brotherly love continue,” encircling a picture of a stone-pit.
The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get down at the lodges39, and the vehicles must be sent back.
“Why, the Chase is like a fair a’ready,” said Mrs. Poyser, as she got down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered40 under the great oaks, and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles surmounted41 by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the successful climbers. “I should ha’ thought there wasna so many people i’ the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o’ the shade! Come here, Totty, else your little face ’ull be burnt to a scratchin’! They might ha’ cooked the dinners i’ that open space an’ saved the fires. I shall go to Mrs. Best’s room an’ sit down.”
“Stop a bit, stop a bit,” said Mr. Poyser. “There’s th’ waggin coming wi’ th’ old folks in’t; it’ll be such a sight as wonna come o’er again, to see ’em get down an’ walk along all together. You remember some on ’em i’ their prime, eh, Father?”
“Aye, aye,” said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge38 porch, from which he could see the aged43 party descend44. “I remember Jacob Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch45 raybels, when they turned back from Stoniton.”
He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon and walk towards him, in his brown nigbtcap, and leaning on his two sticks.
“Well, Mester Taft,” shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his voice — for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit the propriety46 of a greeting —”you’re hearty47 yet. You can enjoy yoursen today, for-all you’re ninety an’ better.”
“Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant,” said Feyther Taft in a treble tone, perceiving that he was in company.
The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house, where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees, but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn, standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have been nothing but a plain square mansion48 of Queen Anne’s time, but for the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse49 rising high and prim42 at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches50, but the sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and she should not see him for a long, long while — not till after dinner, when they said he was to come up and make a speech.
But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture51. No grand company was come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early, and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the rector into the broad stone cloisters52 of the old abbey, where the long tables were laid for all the cottage tenants53 and the farm-servants. A very handsome young Briton he looked to- day, in high spirits and a bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode — his arm no longer in a sling54. So open-looking and candid55, too; but candid people have their secrets, and secrets leave no lines in young faces.
“Upon my word,” he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, “I think the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful56 dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine, about the dinners — to let them be as orderly and comfortable as possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he couldn’t make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point.”
“Never mind, you’ll give more pleasure in this quiet way,” said Mr. Irwine. “In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding liberality with riot and disorder57. It sounds very grand to say that so many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity of ale in the middle of the day, they’ll be able to enjoy the games as the day cools. You can’t hinder some of them from getting too much towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than drunkenness and daylight.”
“Well, I hope there won’t be much of it. I’ve kept the Treddleston people away by having a feast for them in the town; and I’ve got Casson and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of ale in the booths, and to take care things don’t go too far. Come, let us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants.”
They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old pictures had been banished58 for the last three generations — mouldy portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk59 with his eye knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius Caesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his Commentaries in his hand.
“What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old abbey!” said Arthur. “If I’m ever master here, I shall do up the gallery in first-rate style. We’ve got no room in the house a third as large as this. That second table is for the farmers’ wives and children: Mrs. Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children to be by themselves. I was determined60 to have the children, and make a regular family thing of it. I shall be ‘the old squire’ to those little lads and lasses some day, and they’ll tell their children what a much finer young fellow I was than my own son. There’s a table for the women and children below as well. But you will see them all — you will come up with me after dinner, I hope?”
“Yes, to be sure,” said Mr. Irwine. “I wouldn’t miss your maiden61 speech to the tenantry.”
“And there will be something else you’ll like to hear,” said Arthur. “Let us go into the library and I’ll tell you all about it while my grandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will surpsise you,” he continued, as they sat down. “My grandfather has come round after all.”
“What, about Adam?”
“Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with him — I thought it was hopeless — but yesterday morning he asked me to come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that he had decided62 on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week, and the use of a pony63 to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is, he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some particular dislike of Adam to get over — and besides, the fact that I propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There’s the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I sometimes think he positively64 hates me because I’m his heir. I believe if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my life a series of petty annoyances65.”
“Ah, my boy, it is not only woman’s love that is [two greek words omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There’s plenty of ‘unloving love’ in the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted the post? I don’t see that it can be much more profitable than his present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time on his own hands.
“Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke66 to him and he seemed to hesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour to me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he really liked the employment and would not be giving up anything that was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all things — it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little business of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants today; and I mean to announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam’s health. It’s a little drama I’ve got up in honour of my friend Adam. He’s a fine fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think so.”
“A drama in which friend Arthur piques67 himself on having a pretty part to play,” said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he went on relentingly, “My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don’t like to admit that I’m proud of my pupil when he does graceful68 things. But I must play the amiable69 old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to have a respectable man as steward70?”
“Oh no,” said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience71 and walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. “He’s got some project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for a supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about it — it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the business himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It’s amazing what energy he has, though.”
“Well, we’ll go to the ladies now,” said Mr. Irwine, rising too. “I want to tell my mother what a splendid throne you’ve prepared for her under the marquee.”
“Yes, and we must be going to luncheon72 too,” said Arthur. “It must be two o’clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants’ dinners.”
收听单词发音 |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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frisky
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| adj.活泼的，欢闹的；n.活泼，闹着玩；adv.活泼地，闹着玩地 | |
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brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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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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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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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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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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34
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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35
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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42
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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43
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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44
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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45
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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52
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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sling
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| vt.扔；悬挂；n.挂带；吊索，吊兜；弹弓 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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piques
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的第三人称单数 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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71
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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