For the first time in her young married life, Polly felt vexed1 with her husband.
“Oh, he shouldn’t have done that. . . no. really he shouldn’t!” she murmured; and the hand with the letter in it drooped2 to her lap.
She had been doing a little surreptitious baking in Richard’s absence, and without a doubt was hot and tired. The tears rose to her eyes. Deserting her pastry-board she retreated behind the woodstack and sat down on the chopping-block; and then, for some minutes, the sky was blotted3 out. She felt quite unequal, in her present condition, to facing Sarah, who was so sensitive, so easily shocked; and she was deeply averse4 from her fine-lady sister discovering the straitness of Richard’s means and home.
But it was hard for Polly to secure a moment’s privacy.
“An’ so this is w’ere you’re ‘idin’, is it?” said Long Jim snappishly — he had been opening a keg of treacle5 and held a sticky plug in his hand. “An’ me runnin’ my pore ol’ legs off arter you!” And Hempel met her on her entry with: “No further bad news, I ‘ope and trust, ma’am?”— Hempel always retained his smooth servility of manner. “The shopman PAR6 EXCELLENCE7, my dear!” Richard was used to say of him.
Polly reassured8 her attendants, blew her nose, re-read her letter; and other feelings came uppermost. She noticed how scribbly9 the writing was — Richard had evidently been hard pushed for time. There was an apologetic tone about it, too, which was unlike him. He was probably wondering what she would say; he might even be making himself reproaches. It was unkind of her to add to them. Let her think rather of the sad state poor John had been found in, and of his two motherless babes. As for Sarah, it would never have done to leave her out.
Wiping her eyes Polly untied11 her cooking-apron and set to reviewing her resources. Sarah would have to share her bed, Richard to sleep on the sofa. The children . . . and here she knitted her brows. Then going into the yard, she called to Tom Ocock, who sat whittling12 a stick in front of his father’s house; and Tom went down to Main Street for her, and bought a mattress13 which he carried home on his shoulder. This she spread on the bedroom floor, Mrs. Hemmerde having already given both rooms a sound scouring14, just in case a flea15 or a spider should be lying perdu. After which Polly fell to baking again in good earnest; for the travellers would be famished16 by the time they arrived.
Towards ten o’clock Tom, who was on the look-out, shouted that the coach was in, and Polly, her table spread, a good fire going, stepped to the door, outwardly very brave, inwardly all a-flutter. Directly, however, she got sight of the forlorn party that toiled17 up the slope: Sarah clinging to Hempel’s arm, Mahony bearing one heavy child, and — could she believe her eyes?— Jerry staggering under the other: her bashfulness was gone. She ran forward to prop18 poor Sarah on her free side, to guide her feet to the door; and it is doubtful whether little Polly had ever spent a more satisfying hour than that which followed.
Her husband, watching her in silent amaze, believed she thoroughly19 enjoyed the fuss and commotion20.
There was Sarah, too sick to see anything but the bed, to undress, to make fomentations for, to coax21 to mouthfuls of tea and toast. There was Jerry to feed and send off, with the warmest of hugs, to share Tom Ocock’s palliasse. There were the children . . . well, Polly’s first plan had been to put them straight to bed. But when she came to peel off their little trousers she changed her mind.
“I think, Mrs. Hemmerde, if you’ll get me a tub of hot water, we’ll just pop them into it; they’ll sleep so much better,” she said . . . not quite truthfully. Her private reflection was: “I don’t think Sarah can once have washed them properly, all that time.”
The little girl let herself be bathed in her sleep; but young John stood and bawled22, digging fat fists into slits23 of eyes, while Polly scrubbed at his massy knees, the dimpled ups and downs of which looked as if they had been worked in by hand. She had never seen her brother’s children before and was as heartily24 lost in admiration25 of their plump, well-formed bodies, as her helper of the costliness26 of their outfit27.
“Real Injun muslin, as I’m alive!” ejaculated the woman, on fishing out their night-clothes. “An’ wid the sassiest lace for trimmin’!— Och, the poor little motherless angels!— Stan’ quiet, you young divil you, an’ lemme button you up!”
Clean as lily-bells, the pair were laid on the mattress-bed.
“At least they can’t fall out,” said Polly, surveying her work with a sigh of content.
Every one else having retired28, she sat with Richard before the fire, waiting for his bath-water to reach the boil. He was anxious to know just how she had fared in his absence, she to hear the full story of his mission. He confessed to her that his offer to load himself up with the whole party had been made in a momentary29 burst of feeling. Afterwards he had repented30 his impulsiveness31.
“On your account, love. Though when I see how well you’ve managed — you dear, clever little woman!”
And Polly consoled him, being now come honestly to the stage of: “But, Richard, what else could you do?”
“What, indeed! I knew Emma had no relatives in Melbourne, and who John’s intimates might be I had no more idea than the man in the moon.”
“John hasn’t any friends. He never had.”
“As for leaving the children in Sarah’s charge, if you’ll allow me to say so, my dear, I consider your sister Sarah the biggest goose of a female it has ever been my lot to run across.”
“Ah, but you don’t really know Sarah yet,” said Polly, and smiled a little, through the tears that had ripen32 to her eyes at the tale of John’s despair.
What Mahony did not mention to her was the necessity he had been under of borrowing money; though Polly was aware he had left home with but a modest sum in his purse. He wished to spare her feelings. Polly had a curious delicacy33 — he might almost call it a manly34 delicacy — with regard to money; and the fact that John had not offered to put hand to pocket; let alone liberally flung a blank cheque at his head, would, Mahony knew, touch his wife on a tender spot. Nor did Polly herself ask questions. Richard made no allusion35 to John having volunteered to bear expenses, so the latter had evidently not done so. What a pity! Richard was so particular himself, in matters of this kind, that he might write her brother down close and stingy. Of course John’s distressed36 state of mind partly served to excuse him. But she could not imagine the calamity37 that would cause Richard to forget his obligations.
She slid her hand into her husband’s and they sat for a while in silence. Then, half to herself, and out of a very different train of thought she said: “Just fancy them never crying once for their mother.”
* * * * *
“Talking of friends,” said Sarah, and fastidiously cleared her throat. “Talking of friends, I wonder now what has become of one of those young gentlemen I met at your wedding. He was . . . let me see . . . why, I declare if I haven’t forgotten his name!”
“Oh, I know who you mean — besides there was only one, Sarah,” Mahony heard his wife reply, and therewith fall into her sister’s trap. “You mean Purdy — Purdy Smith — who was Richard’s best man.”
“Smith?” echoed Sarah. “La, Polly! Why don’t he make it Smythe?”
It was a warm evening some three weeks later. The store was closed to customers; but Mahony had ensconced himself in a corner of it with a book: since the invasion, this was the one place in which he could make sure of finding quiet. The sisters sat on the log-bench before the house; and, without seeing them, Mahony knew to a nicety how they were employed. Polly darned stockings, for John’s children; Sarah was tatting, with her little finger stuck out at right angles to the rest. Mahony could hardly think of this finger without irritation38: it seemed to sum up Sarah’s whole outlook on life.
Meanwhile Polly’s fresh voice went on, relating Purdy’s fortunes. “He took part, you know, in the dreadful affair on the Eureka last Christmas, when so many poor men were killed. We can speak of it, now they’ve all been pardoned; but then we had to be very careful. Well, he was shot in the ankle, and will always be lame39 from it.”
“What!— go hobbling on one leg for the remainder of his days? Oh, my dear!” said Sarah, and laughed.
“Yes, because the wound wasn’t properly attended to — he had to hide about in the bush, for ever so long. Later on he went to the Beamishes, to be nursed. But by that time his poor leg was in a very bad state. You know he is engaged — or very nearly so — to Tilly Beamish.”
“What?” said Sarah once more. “That handsome young fellow engaged to one of those vulgar creatures?”
“Oh, Sarah . . . not really vulgar. It isn’t their fault they didn’t have a better education. They lived right up-country, where there were no schools. Tilly never saw a town till she was sixteen; but she can sit any horse.— Yes, we hope very much Purdy will soon settle down and marry her — though he left the Hotel again without proposing.” And Polly sighed.
“There he shows his good taste, my dear.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’s fond of Tilly. It’s only that his life is so unsettled. He’s been a barman at Euroa since then; and the last we heard of him, he was shearing40 somewhere on the Goulburn. He doesn’t seem able to stick to anything.”
“And a rolling stone gathers no moss41!” gave back Sarah sententiously — and in fancy Mahony saw the cut-and-dried nod with which she accompanied the words.
Here Hempel passed through the store, clad in his Sunday best, his hair plastered flat with bear’s-grease.
“Going out for a stroll?” asked his master.
“That was my h’intention, sir. I don’t think you’ll find I’ve left any of my dooties undone42.”
“Oh, go, by all means!” said Mahony curtly43, nettled44 at having his harmless query45 misconstrued. It pointed46 a suspicion he had had, of late, that a change was coming over Hempel. The model employee was a shade less prompt than heretofore to fly at his word, and once or twice seemed actually to be studying his own convenience. Without knowing what the matter was, Mahony felt it politic47 not to be over-exacting — even mildly to conciliate his assistant. It would put him in an awkward fix, now that he was on the verge49 of winding50 up affairs, should Hempel take it in his head to leave him in the lurch51.
The lean figure moved on and blocked the doorway52. Now there was a sudden babble53 of cheepy voices, and simultaneously54 Sarah cried: “Where have you been, my little cherubs55? Come to your aunt, and let her kiss you!”
But the children, who had frankly56 no great liking57 for Aunt Sarah, would, Mahony knew, turn a deaf ear to this display of opportunism and make a rush for his wife. Laying down his book he ran out. “Polly . . . cautious!”
“It’s all right, Richard, I’m being careful.” Polly had let her mending fall, and with each hand held a flaxen-haired child at arm’s length. “Johnny, dirty boy! what HAVE you been up to?”
“He played he was a digger and sat down in a pool — I couldn’t get him to budge,” answered Jerry, and drew his sleeve over his perspiring58 forehead.
“Oh fy, for shame!”
“Don’ care!” said John, unabashed.
“Don’ tare59!” echoed his roly-poly sister, who existed but as his shadow.
“Don’t-care was made to care, don’t-care was hung!” quoted Aunt Sarah in her severest copybook tones.
Turning his head in his aunt’s direction young John thrust forth60 a bright pink tongue. Little Emma was not behindhand.
Polly jumped up, dropping her work to the ground. “Johnny, I shall punish you if ever I see you do that again. Now, Ellen shall put you to bed instead of Auntie.”— Ellen was Mrs. Hemmerde’s eldest61, and Polly’s first regular maidservant.
“Don’ care,” repeated Johnny. “Ellen plays pillers.”
“Edn pays pidders,” said the echo.
Seizing two hot, pudgy hands Polly dragged the pair indoors — though they held back mainly on principle. They were not affectionate children; they were too strong of will and set of purpose for that; but if they had a fondness for anyone it was for their Aunt Polly: she was ruler over a drawerful of sugar-sticks, and though she scolded she never slapped.
While this was going on Hempel stood, the picture of indecision, and eased now one foot, now the other, as if his boots pinched him.
At length he blurted62 out: “I was wondering, ma’am — ahem! Miss Turnham — if, since it is an agreeable h’evening, you would care to take a walk to that ‘ill I told you of?”
“Me take a walk? La, no! Whatever put such an idea as that into your head?” cried Sarah; and tatted and tatted, keeping time with a pretty little foot.
“I thought per’aps . . .” said Hempel meekly63.
“I didn’t make your thoughts, Mr. Hempel,” retorted Sarah, laying stress on the aspirate.
“Oh no, ma’am. I ‘ope I didn’t presume to suggest such a thing”; and with a hangdog air Hempel prepared to slink away.
“Well, well!” said Sarah double quick; and ceasing to jerk her crochet-needle in and out, she nimbly rolled up her ball of thread. “Since you’re so insistent64 . . . and since, mind you, there’s no society worth calling such, on these diggings. . . .” The truth was, Sarah saw that she was about to be left alone with Mahony — Jerry had sauntered off to meet Ned — and this TETE-A-TETE was by no means to her mind. She still bore her brother-in-law a grudge65 for his high-handed treatment of her at the time of John’s bereavement66. “As if I had been one of the domestics, my dear — a paid domestic! Ordered me off to the butcher’s in language that fairly shocked me.”
Mahony turned his back and strolled down to the river. He did not know which was more painful to witness: Hempel’s unmanly cringing67, or the air of fatuous68 satisfaction that succeeded it. When he returned, the pair was just setting out; he watched Sarah, on Hempel’s arm, picking short steps in dainty latchet-shoes.
As soon as they were well away he called to Polly.
“The coast’s clear. Come for a stroll.”
Polly emerged, tying her bonnet69-strings. “Why, where’s Sarah? Oh . . . I see. Oh, Richard, I hope she didn’t put on that —”
“She did, my dear!” said Mahony grimly, and tucked his wife’s hand under his arm.
“Oh, how I wish she wouldn’t!” said Polly in a tone of concern. “She does get so stared at — especially of an evening, when there are so many rude men about. But I really don’t think she minds. For she HAS a bonnet in her box all the time.” Miss Sarah was giving Ballarat food for talk, by appearing on her promenades70 in a hat: a large, flat, mushroom hat.
“I trust my little woman will never put such a ridiculous object on her head!”
“No, never . . . at least, not unless they become quite the fashion,” answered Polly. “And I don’t think they will. They look too odd.”
“Another thing, love,” continued Mahony, on whom a sudden light had dawned as he stood listening to Sarah’s trumpery71. “I fear your sister is trifling72 with the feelings of our worthy73 Hempel.”
Polly, who had kept her own counsel on this matter, went crimson74. “Oh, do you really think so, Richard?” she asked evasively. “I hope not. For of course nothing could come of it. Sarah has refused the most eligible75 offers.”
“Ah, but there are none here to refuse. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Poll, anything in trousers seems fish to her net!”
On one of their pacings they found Mr. Ocock come out to smoke an evening pipe. The old man had just returned from a flying visit to Melbourne. He looked glum76 and careworn77, but livened up at the sight of Polly, and cracked one of the mouldy jokes he believed beneficial to a young woman in her condition. Still, the leading-note in his mood was melancholy78; and this, although his dearest wish was on the point of being fulfilled.
“Yes, I’ve got the very crib for ‘Enry at last, doc., Billy de la Poer’s liv’ry-stable, top o’ Lydiard Street. We sol’ poor Billy up yesterday. The third smash in two days that makes. Lord! I dunno where it’ll end.”
“Things are going a bit quick over there. There’s been too much building.”
“They’re at me to build, too —‘Enry is. But I says no. This place is good enough for me. If ‘e’s goin’ to be ashamed of ‘ow ‘is father lives, ‘e’d better stop away. I’m an ol’ man now, an’ a poor one. What should I want with a fine noo ’ouse? An’ ‘oo should I build it for, even if I ‘ad the tin? For them two good-for-nothin’s in there? Not if I know it!”
“Mr. Ocock, you wouldn’t believe how kind and clever Tom’s been at helping79 with the children,” said Polly warmly.
“Yes, an’ at bottle-washin’ and sweepin’ and cookin’ a pasty. But a female ‘ud do it just as well,” returned Tom’s father with a snort of contempt.
“Poor old chap!” said Mahony, as they passed out of earshot. “So even the great Henry’s arrival is not to be without its drop of gall80.”
“Surely he’ll never be ashamed of his father?”
“Who knows! But it’s plain he suspects the old boy has made his pile and intends him to fork out,” said Mahony carelessly; and, with this, dismissed the subject. Now that his own days in the colony were numbered, he no longer felt constrained81 to pump up a spurious interest in local affairs. He consigned82 them wholesale83 to that limbo84 in which, for him, they had always belonged.
The two brothers came striding over the slope. Ned, clad in blue serge shirt and corduroys, laid an affectionate arm round Polly’s shoulder, and tossed his hat into the air on hearing that the “Salamander,” as he called Sarah, was not at home.
“For I’ve tons to tell you, Poll old girl. And when milady sits there turning up her nose at everything a chap says, somehow the spunk85 goes out of one.”
Polly had baked a large cake for her darling, and served out generous slices. Then, drawing up a chair she sat down beside him, to drink in his news.
From his place at the farther end of the table Mahony studied the trio — these three young faces which were so much alike that they might have been different readings of one and the same face. Polly, by reason of her woman’s lot, looked considerably86 the oldest. Still, the lamplight wiped out some of the shadows, and she was never more girlishly vivacious87 than with Ned, entering as she did with zest88 into his plans and ideas — more sister now than wife. And Ned showed at his best with Polly: he laid himself out to divert her; forgot to brag89 or to swear; and so natural did it seem for brother to open his heart to sister that even his egoistic chatter90 passed muster91. As for young Jerry, who in a couple of days was to begin work in the same claim as Ned, he sat round-eyed, his thoughts writ10 large on his forehead. Mahony translated them thus: how in the world I could ever have sat prim92 and proper on the school-bench, when all this — change, adventure, romance — was awaiting me? Jerry was only, Mahony knew, to push a wheelbarrow from hole to water and back again for many a week to come; but for him it would certainly be a golden barrow, and laden93 with gold, so greatly had Ned’s tales fired his imagination.
The onlooker94 felt odd man out, debarred as he was by his profounder experience from sharing in the young people’s light-legged dreams. He took up his book. But his reading was cut into by Ned’s sprightly95 account of the Magpie96 rush; by his description of an engine at work on the Eureka, and of the wooden airpipes that were being used to ventilate deep-sinkings. There was nothing Ned did not know, and could not make entertaining. One was forced, almost against one’s will, to listen to him; and on this particular evening, when he was neither sponging, nor acting48 the Big Gun, Mahony toned down his first sweeping97 judgment98 of his young relative. Ned was all talk; and what impressed one so unfavourably — his grumbling99, his extravagant100 boastfulness — was the mere101 thistledown of the moment, puffed102 off into space. It mattered little that he harped103 continually on “chucking up” his job. Two years had passed since he came to Ballarat, and he was still working for hire in somebody else’s hole. He still groaned104 over the hardships of the life, and still toiled on — and all the rest was just the froth and braggadocio105 of aimless youth.
收听单词发音 |
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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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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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scribbly
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| 次要的； 不重要的； 没价值的； 不足取的 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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famished
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| adj.饥饿的 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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costliness
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| 昂贵的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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repented
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| 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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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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46
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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47
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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48
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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49
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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50
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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51
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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52
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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53
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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54
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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55
cherubs
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| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
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56
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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57
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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58
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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59
tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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60
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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66
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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69
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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74
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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82
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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83
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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84
limbo
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| n.地狱的边缘；监狱 | |
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85
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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86
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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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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93
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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95
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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96
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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97
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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98
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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99
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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100
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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101
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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102
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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103
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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104
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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