Not twenty-four hours later, Sarah had an accident to her MACHOIRE and returned post-haste to Melbourne.
“A most opportune1 breakage!” said Mahony, and laughed.
That day at the dinner-table he had given his sister-in-law a piece of his mind. Sarah had always resented the name bestowed4 on her by her parents, and was at present engaged in altering it, in giving it, so to speak, a foreign tang: henceforth she was to be not Sarah, but Sara (spoken Sahra). As often as Polly’s tongue tripped over the unfamiliar6 syllable7, Sara gently but firmly put her right; and Polly corrected herself, even begged pardon for her stupidity, till Mahony could bear it no longer. Throwing politeness to the winds, he twitted Sara with her finical affectations, her old-maidish ways, the morning sloth8 that expected Polly, in her delicate state of health, to carry a breakfast-tray to the bedside: cast up at her, in short, all that had made him champ and fret9 in silence. Sara might, after a fitting period of the huff, have overlooked the rest; but the “old-maidish” she could not forgive. And directly dinner was over, the mishap10 to her mouthpiece was made known.
Too much in awe11 of Mahony to stand up to him — for when he was angry, he was very angry — Sara retaliated12 by abusing him to Polly as she packed her trunk.
“Manners, indeed! To turn and insult a visitor at his own table! And who and what is he, I should like to know, to speak to me so? Nothing but a common storekeeper. My dear, you have my deepest sympathy. It’s a DREADFUL life for you. Of course you keep everything as nice as possible, under the circumstances. But the surroundings, Polly! . . . and the store . . . and the want of society. I couldn’t put up with it, not for a week!”
Polly, sitting on the side of the tester-bed and feeling very cast down at Sara’s unfriendly departure, shed a few tears at this. For part of what her sister said was true: it had been wrong of Richard to be rude to Sara while the latter was a guest in his house. But she defended him warmly. “I couldn’t be happier than I am; Richard’s the best husband in the world. As for his being common, Sara, you know he comes of a much better family than we do.”
“My dear, common is as common does; and a vulgar calling ends by vulgarising those who have the misfortune to pursue it. But there’s another reason, Polly, why it is better for me to leave you. There are certain circumstances, my dear, in which, to put it mildly, it is AWKWARD for two people of OPPOSITE sexes to go on living under the same roof.”
“Sarah!— I mean Sara — do you really mean to say Hempel has made you a proposal?” cried Polly, wide-eyed in her tears.
“I won’t say, my dear, that he has so far forgotten himself as to actually offer marriage. But he has let me see only too plainly what his feelings are. Of course, I’ve kept him in his place — the preposterous13 creature! But all the same it’s not COMME IL FAUT any longer for me to be here.”
“Did she say where she was going, or what she intended to do?” Mahony inquired of his wife that night as she bound the strings14 of her nightcap.
No, she hadn’t, Polly admitted, rather out of countenance15. But then Sara was like that — very close about her own affairs. “I think she’s perhaps gone back to her last situation. She had several letters while she was here, in that lady’s hand. People are always glad to get her back. Not many finishing governesses can teach all she can”— and Polly checked off Sara’s attainments16 on the fingers of both hands. “She won’t go anywhere under two hundred a year.”
“A most accomplished17 person, your sister!” said Mahony sleepily. “Still, it’s very pleasant to be by ourselves again — eh, wife?”
An even more blessed peace shortly descended18 on the house; for the time was now come to get rid of the children as well. Since nothing had been heard of John, they were to be boarded out over Polly’s illness. Through the butcher’s lady, arrangements were made with a trooper’s wife, who lived outside the racket and dust of the township, and had a whole posse of little ones of her own.—“Bless you! half-a-dozen more wouldn’t make any difference to me. There’s the paddock for ’em to run wild in.” This was the best that could be done for the children. Polly packed their little kit20, dealt out a parting bribe21 of barley-sugar, and saw them hoisted22 into the dray that would pass the door of their destination.
Once more husband and wife sat alone together, as in the days before John’s domestic catastrophe23. And now Mahony said tentatively: “Don’t you think, love, we could manage to get on without that old Beamish woman? I’ll guarantee to nurse you as well as any female alive.”
The question did not come as a surprise to Polly; she had already put it to herself. After the affair with Sara she awaited her new visitor in fear and trembling. Sara had at least stood in awe of Richard and held her tongue before him; Mrs. Beamish prided herself on being afraid of nobody, and on always speaking her mind. And yet, even while agreeing that it would be well to put “mother” off, Polly drooped24 her wings. At a time like this a woman was a woman. It seemed as if even the best of husbands did not quite understand.
“Just give her the hint we don’t want her,” said Mahony airily.
But “mother” was not the person to take a hint, no matter how broad. It was necessary to be blunt to the point of rudeness; and Polly spent a difficult hour over the composition of her letter. She might have saved her pains. Mrs. Beamish replied that she knew her darling little Polly’s unwillingness25 to give trouble; but it was not likely she would now go back on her word: she had been packed and ready to start for the past week. Polly handed the letter to her husband, and did not say what she thought she read out of it, namely that “mother,” who so seldom could be spared from home, was looking forward with pleasure to her trip to Ballarat.
“I suppose it’s a case of making the best of a bad job,” sighed Mahony; and having one day drawn26 Mrs. Beamish, at melting point, from the inside of a crowded coach, he loaded Long Jim with her bags and bundles.
His aversion was not lightened by his subsequently coming on his wife in the act of unpacking27 a hamper28, which contained half a ham, a stone jar of butter, some home-made loaves of bread, a bag of vegetables and a plum pudding. “Good God! does the woman think we can’t give her enough to eat?” he asked testily29. He had all the poor Irishman’s distrust of a gift.
“She means it kindly30, dear. She probably thought things were still scarce here; and she knew I wouldn’t be able to do much cooking,” pleaded Polly. And going out to the kitchen she untied31 the last parcel, in which was a big round cheese, by stealth.
She had pulled Mrs. Beamish over the threshold, had got her into the bedroom and shut the door, before any of the “ohs” and “ahs” she saw painted on the broad, rubicund32 face could be transformed into words. And hugs and kisses over, she bravely seized the bull by the horns and begged her guest not to criticise33 house or furnishings in front of Richard.
It took Mrs. Beamish a minute or two to grasp her meaning. Then, she said heartily34: “There, there, my duck, don’t you worry! I’ll be as mum as mum.” And in a whisper: “So, ‘e’s got a temper, Polly, ‘as ‘e? But this I will say: if I’d known this was all ‘e ‘ad to h’offer you, I’d ‘a’ said, stop w’ere you are, my lamb, in a comfortable, ‘appy ‘ome.”
“Oh, I AM happy, mother dear, indeed I am!” cried Polly. “I’ve never regretted being married — never once!”
“There, there, now!”
“And it’s only . . . I mean . . . this is the best we can afford in the meantime, and if I am satisfied . . .” floundered Polly, dismayed to hear her words construed35 into blame of her husband. “It’s only that it upsets Richard if people speak slightingly of our house, and that upsets me — and I musn’t be worried just now, you know,” she added with a somewhat shaky smile.
“Not a word will I say, ducky, make yer pore little mind easy about that. Though such a poky little ‘en-coop of a place I never was in!”— and, while tying her cap-strings, Mrs. Beamish swept the little bedroom and its sloping roof with a withering36 glance. “I was ‘orrified, girls, simply ‘ORRIFIED!” she related the incident to her daughters. “An’ I up an’ told ‘er so — just like me, you know. Not room enough to swing a cat in, and ’im sittin’ at the ‘ead of the table as ‘igh an’ mighty37 as a dook! You can thank yer stars, you two, ‘e didn’t take one o’ you instead o’ Polly.” But this was chiefly by way of a consolation-prize for Tilly and Jinny.
“An’ now, my dear, tell me EVERYTHING.” With these words, Mrs. Beamish spread her skirts and settled down to a cosy38 chat on the subject of Polly’s hopes.
But like the majority of her sex she was an adept39 at dividing her attention; and while making delicate inquiries40 of the young wife, she was also travelling her shrewd eye round the little bedchamber, spying out and appraising41: not one of poor Polly’s makeshifts escaped her. The result of her inspection42 was to cause her to feel justly indignant with Mahony. The idea! Him to rob them of Polly just to dump her down in a place like this! She would never be able to resist telling him what she thought of him.
Here, however, she reckoned without Polly. Polly was sharp enough to doubt “mother’s” ability to hold her tongue; and saw to it that Richard and she were not left alone together. And of an evening when talk languished43, she would beg her husband to read to them from the BALLARAT STAR, until, as often as not, Mrs. Beamish fell asleep. Frequently, too, she persuaded him to go out and take a hand in a newlyformed whist club, or discuss politics with a neighbour.
Mahony went willingly enough; his home was less home than ever since the big woman’s intrusion. Even his food lost its savour. Mrs. Beamish had taken over the cooking, and she went about it with an air that implied he had not had a decent bite to eat since his marriage.
“There! what do you say to that now? That’s something LIKE a pudding!” and a great plum-duff was planked triumphantly44 down in the middle of the dinner-table. “Lor, Polly! your bit of a kitchen . . . in this weather . . . I’m fair dished.” And the good woman mopped her streaming face and could herself eat nothing.
Mahony much preferred his wife’s cooking, which took account of his tastes — it was done, too, without any fuss — and he persisted in upholding Polly’s skill, in face of Mrs. Beamish’s good-natured disbelief. Polly, on edge, lest he should openly state his preference, nervously45 held out her plate.
“It’s so good, mother, I must have a second helping,” she declared; and then, without appetite in the cruel, midday heat, did not know what to do with the solid slab46 of pudding. Pompey and Palmerston got into the way of sitting very close to her chair.
She confided47 to Richard that Mrs. Beamish disapproved48 of his evening outings. “Many an ‘usband takes to goin’ out at such a time, my dear, an’ never gets back the ‘abit of stoppin’ at ‘ome. So just you be careful, ducky!” This was a standing49 joke between them. Mahony would wink50 at Polly when he put his hat on, and wear it rakishly askew51.
However, he quite enjoyed a crack with the postmaster or the town-surveyor, at this juncture52. Colonial politics were more interesting than usual. The new Constitution had been proclaimed, and a valiant53 effort was being made to form a Cabinet; to induce, that was, a sufficient number of well-to-do men to give up time to the service of their country. It looked as if the attempt were going to fail, just as on the goldfields the Local Courts, by which since the Stockade55 the diggers governed themselves, were failing, because none could afford to spend his days sitting in them.
Yet however high the discussion ran, he kept one ear turned towards his home. Here, things were at a standstill. Polly’s time had come and gone — but there was no end set to their suspense56. It was blazing hot now in the little log house; walls and roof were black with flies; mosquitoes made the nights hideous57. Even Polly lost patience with herself when, morning after morning, she got up feeling as well as ever, and knowing that she had to steer58 through another difficult day.
It was not the suspense alone: the strain of keeping the peace was growing too much for her.
“Oh, DON’T quarrel with her, Richard, for my sake,” she begged her husband one night. “She means so well. And she can’t help being like she is — she has always been accustomed to order Mr. Beamish about. But I wish she had never, never come,” sobbed59 poor Polly. And Mahony, in a sudden flash of enlightenment, put his arms round her, and made humble60 promises. Not another word should cross his lips! “Though I’d like nothing so well as to throw her out, and her bags and bundles after her. Come, laugh a little, my Polly. Think of the old lady flying down the slope, with her packages in a shower about her head!”
Rogers, M.D., looked in whenever he passed. At this stage he was of the jocular persuasion61. “Still an unwelcome visitor, ma’am? No little tidbit of news for me to-day?” There he sat, twiddling his thumbs, reiterating62 his singsong: “Just so!” and looking wise as an owl63. Mahony knew the air — had many a time seen it donned to cloak perplexity — and covert64 doubts of Rogers’ ability began to assail65 him. But then he fell mentally foul66 of every one he came in touch with, at present: Ned, for the bare-faced fashion in which he left his cheerfulness on the door-mat; Mrs. Beamish for the eternal “Pore lamb!” with which she beplastered Polly, and the antiquated67 reckoning-table she embarrassed them by consulting.
However, this state of things could not last for ever, and at dawn, one hot January day, Polly was taken ill.
The early hours promised well. But the morning wore on, turned to midday, then to afternoon, and matters still hung fire. While towards six o’clock the patient dismayed them by sitting up in bed, saying she felt much better, and asking for a cup of tea. This drew: “Ah, my pore lamb, you’ve got to feel worse yet afore you’re better!” from Mrs. Beamish.
It ended in Rogers taking up his quarters there, for the night.
Towards eleven o’clock Mahony and he sat, one on each side of the table, in the little sitting-room68. The heat was insupportable and all three doors and the window were propped69 open, in the feeble hope of creating a draught70. The lamp had attracted a swarm71 of flying things: giant moths72 beat their wings against the globe, or fell singed73 and sizzling down the chimney; winged-ants alighted with a click upon the table; blowflies and mosquitoes kept up a dizzy hum.
From time to time Mahony rose and stole into the bedroom, where Mrs. Beamish sat fanning the pests off Polly, who was in a feverish74 doze19. Leaning over his wife he let his finger lie on her wrist; and, back again in the outer room, he bit nervously at his little-finger nail — an old trick of his when in a quandary75. He had curtly76 refused a game of bezique; so Rogers had produced a pack of cards from his own pocket — soiled, frayed77 cards, which had likely done service on many a similar occasion — and was whiling the time away with solitaire. To sit there watching his slow manipulation of the cards, his patent intentness on the game; to listen any longer to the accursed din3 of the gnats78 and flies passed Mahony’s powers of endurance. Abruptly79 shoving back his chair, he went out into the yard.
This was some twenty paces across — from the row of old kerosene-tins that constituted his flower-garden, past shed and woodstack to the post-and-rail fence. How often he walked it he did not know; but when he went indoors again, his boots were heavy with mud. For a brief summer storm had come up earlier in the evening. A dense80 black pall81 of cloud had swept like a heavy curtain over the stars, to the tune2 of flash and bang. Now, all was clear and calm again; the white star-dust of the Milky82 Way powdered the sky just overhead; and though the heat was still intense, the air had a fragrant83 smell of saturated84 dust and rain-soaked earth — he could hear streamlets of water trickling85 down the hillside to the river below.
Out there in the dark, several things became plain to him. He saw that he had not had any real confidence in Rogers from the start; while the effect of the evening spent at close quarters had been to sink his opinion to nothing. Rogers belonged to an old school; his method was to sit by and let nature take its course — perhaps just this slowness to move had won him a name for extreme care. His old fogyism showed up unmistakably in a short but heated argument they had had on the subject of chloroform. He cited such hoary86 objections to the use of the new anaesthetic in maternity87 cases as Mahony had never expected to hear again: the therapeutic88 value of pain; the moral danger the patient ran in yielding up her will (“What right have we to bid a fellow-creature sacrifice her consciousness?”) and the impious folly89 of interfering90 with the action of a creative law. It had only remained for him to quote Genesis, and the talking serpent!
Had the case been in his own hands he would have intervened before now. Rogers, on the contrary, was still satisfied with the shape of affairs — or made pretence91 to be. For, watching lynx-eyed, Mahony fancied each time the fat man propelled his paunch out of the sickroom it was a shade less surely: there were nuances, too, in the way he pronounced his vapid92: “As long as our strength is well maintained . . . well maintained.” Mahony doubted Polly’s ability to bear much more; and he made bold to know his own wife’s constitution best. Rogers was shilly-shallying: what if he delayed too long and Polly slipped through his hands? Lose Polly? Good God! the very thought turned him cold. And alive to his finger-tips with the superstition93 of his race, he impetuously offered up his fondest dream to those invisible powers that sat aloft, waiting to be appeased94. If this was to be the price exacted of him — the price of his escape from exile — then. . . then . . .
To come back to the present, however, he was in an awkward position: he was going to be forced to take Polly’s case out of the hands of the man to whom he had entrusted95 it. Such a step ran counter to all the stiff rules of conduct, the punctilios of decorum, laid down by the most code-ridden profession in the world.
But a fresh visit to Polly, whose pulse had grown markedly softer, put an end to his scruples96.
Stalking into the sitting-room he said without preamble97: “In my opinion any further delay will mean a risk to my wife. I request you to operate immediately.”
Rogers blinked up from his cards, surprise writ98 across his ruddy countenance. He pushed his spectacles to his forehead. “Eh? What? Well, well . . . yes, the time is no doubt coming when we shall have to lend Mother Nature a hand.”
“Coming? It’s come . . . and gone. Are you blind, man?”
Rogers had faced many an agitated99 husband in his day. “Now, now, Mr. Mahony,” he said soothingly100, and laid his last two cards in line. “You must allow me to be the judge of that. Besides,” he added, as he took off his glasses to polish them on a red bandanna101; “besides, I should have to ask you to go out and get some one to assist me.”
“I shall assist you,” returned Mahony.
Rogers smiled his broad, fat smile. “Easier said than done, my good sir! . . . easier said than done.”
Mahony considerately turned his back; and kept it turned. Emptying a pitcher102 of water into a basin he began to lather103 his hands. “I am a qualified104 medical man. Of the same university as yourself. I studied under Simpson.” It cost him an effort to get the words out. But, by speaking, he felt that he did ample penance105 for the fit of tetchy pride which, in the first instance, had tied his tongue.
Rogers was dumbfounded.
“Well, upon my word!” he ejaculated, letting his hands with glasses and handkerchief fall to the table. “God bless my soul! why couldn’t you say so before? And why the deuce didn’t you yourself attend —”
“We can go into all that afterwards.”
But Rogers was not one of those who could deal rapidly with the unexpected: he continued to vent106 his surprise, and to shoot distrustful glances at his companion. He was flurried, too, at being driven forward quicker than he had a mind to go, and said sulkily that Mahony must take full responsibility for what they were about to do. Mahony hardly heard him; he was looking at the instruments laid out on the table. His fingers itched107 to close round them.
“I’ll prepare my wife,” he said briskly. And going into the bedroom he bent108 over the pillow. It was damp with the sweat that had dripped from Polly’s head when the pains were on her.
“‘Ere, you girl, get in quick now with your bucket and cloth, and give that place a good clean-up afore that pore lamb opens ‘er eyes again. I’m cooked — that’s what I am!” and sitting heavily down on the kitchen-chair, Mrs. Beamish wiped her face towards the four points of the compass.
Piqued109 by an unholy curiosity young Ellen willingly obeyed. But a minute later she was back, having done no more than set her pail down inside the bedroom door. “Oh, sure, Mrs. Beamish, and I can’t do’t!” she cried shrilly110. “It’s jus’ like Andy Soakes’s shop . . . when they’ve bin54 quarterin’ a sheep.”
“I’ll QUARTER you, you lazy trollop, you!” cried Mrs. Beamish, rising to her aching legs again; and her day-old anxiety found vent in a hearty111 burst of temper. “I’ll teach you!” pulling, as she spoke5, the floorcloth out of the girl’s hand. “Such airs and graces! Why, sooner or later, milady, you’ve got to go through it yourself.”
“ME . . .? Catch me!” said Ellen, with enormous emphasis. “D’yer mean to say that’s ‘ow . . . ‘ow the children always come?”
“Of course it is, you mincing112 Nanny-hen!— every blessed child that walks. And I just ‘ope,” said Mrs. Beamish, as she marched off herself with brush and scrubber: “I ‘ope, now you know it, you’ll ‘ave a little more love and gratitoode for your own mother than ever you ‘ad before.”
“Oh lor!” said the girl. “Oh, lor!” And plumping down on the chopping-block she snatched her apron113 to her face and began to cry.
收听单词发音 |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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retaliated
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| v.报复，反击( retaliate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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attainments
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| 成就，造诣； 获得( attainment的名词复数 )； 达到； 造诣； 成就 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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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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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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rubicund
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| adj.(脸色)红润的 | |
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criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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38
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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39
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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40
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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41
appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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42
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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43
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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44
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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45
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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46
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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47
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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48
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
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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50
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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51
askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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52
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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53
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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54
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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55
stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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56
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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57
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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58
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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59
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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61
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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62
reiterating
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的现在分词 ) | |
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63
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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64
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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65
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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67
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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68
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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71
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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73
singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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quandary
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| n.困惑，进迟两难之境 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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78
gnats
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| n.叮人小虫( gnat的名词复数 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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81
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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82
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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83
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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84
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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85
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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86
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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87
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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therapeutic
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| adj.治疗的，起治疗作用的；对身心健康有益的 | |
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89
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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90
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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91
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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92
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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93
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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94
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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95
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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97
preamble
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| n.前言；序文 | |
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98
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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99
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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100
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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101
bandanna
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| n.大手帕 | |
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102
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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103
lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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104
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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105
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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106
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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107
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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109
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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110
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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111
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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112
mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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113
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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