How to begin, how reduce to a few plain words his subtle tangle1 of thought and feeling, was the problem.
He did not find his wife on her usual seat in the arbour. In searching for her, upstairs and down, he came to a rapid decision. He would lay chief stress on his poor state of health.
“I feel I’m killing2 myself. I can’t go on.”
“But Richard dear!” ejaculated Mary, and paused in her sewing, her needle uplifted, a bead3 balanced on its tip. Richard had run her to earth in the spare bedroom, to which at this time she often repaired. For he objected to the piece of work she had on hand — that of covering yards of black cashmere with minute jet beads5 — vowing6 that she would ruin her eyesight over it. So, having set her heart on a fashionable polonaise, she was careful to keep out of his way.
“I’m not a young man any longer, wife. When one’s past forty . . .”
“Poor mother used to say forty-five was a man’s prime of life.”
“Not for me. And not here in this God-forsaken hole!”
“Oh dear me! I do wonder why you have such a down on Ballarat. I’m sure there must be many worse places in the world to live in”, and lowering her needle, Mary brought the bead to its appointed spot. “Of course you have a lot to do, I know, and being such a poor sleeper7 doesn’t improve matters.” But she was considering her pattern sideways as she spoke8, thinking more of it than of what she said. Every one had to work hard out here; compared with some she could name, Richard’s job of driving round in a springy buggy seemed ease itself. “Besides I told you at the time you were wrong not to take a holiday in winter, when you had the chance. You need a thorough change every year to set you up. You came back from the last as fresh as a daisy.”
“The only change that will benefit me is one for good and all,” said Mahony with extreme gloom. He had thrown up the bed-curtain and stretched himself on the bed, where he lay with his hands clasped under his neck.
Tutored by experience, Mary did not contradict him.
“And it’s the kind I’ve finally made up my mind to take.”
“Richard! How you do run on!” and Mary, still gently incredulous but a thought wider awake, let her work sink to her lap. “What is the use of talking like that?”
“Believe it or not, my dear, as you choose. You’ll see — that’s all.”
At her further exclamations9 of doubt and amazement10, Mahony’s patience slipped its leash11. “Surely to goodness my health comes first . . . before any confounded practice?”
“Ssh! Baby’s asleep.— And don’t get cross, Richard. You can hardly expect me not to be surprised when you spring a thing of this sort on me. You’ve never even dropped a hint of it before.”
“Because I knew very well what it would be. You dead against it, of course!”
“Now I call that unjust. You’ve barely let me get a word in edgeways.”
“Oh, I know by heart everything you’re going to say. It’s nonsense . . . folly12 . . . madness . . . and so on: all the phrases you women fish up from your vocabulary when you want to stave off a change — hinder any alteration13 of the STATUS QUO. But I’ll tell you this, wife. You’ll bury me here, if I don’t get away soon. I’m not much more than skin and bone as it is. And I confess, if I’ve got to be buried I’d rather lie elsewhere — have good English earth atop of me.”
Had Mary been a man, she might have retorted that this was a very woman’s way of shifting ground. She bit her lip and did not answer immediately. Then: “You know I can’t bear to hear you talk like that, even in fun. Besides, you always say much more than you mean, dear.”
“Very well then, if you prefer it, wait and see! You’ll be sorry some day.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Richard, you’re in earnest, when you talk of selling off your practice and going to England?”
“I can buy another there, can’t I?”
With these words he leapt to his feet, afire with animation14. And while Mary, now thoroughly15 uneasy, was folding up her work, he dilated16 upon the benefits that would accrue17 to them from the change. Good-bye to dust, and sun, and drought, to blistering18 hot winds and PAPIER MACHE walls! They would make their new home in some substantial old stone house that had weathered half a century or more, tangled19 over with creepers, folded away in its own privacy as only an English house could be. In the flower-garden roses would trail over arch and pergola; there would be a lawn with shaped yews20 on it; while in the orchard21 old apple-trees would flaunt22 their red abundance above grey, lichened23 walls.
(“As if there weren’t apples enough here!” thought Mary.)
He got a frog in his throat as he went on to paint in greater detail for her, who had left it so young, the intimate charm of the home country — the rich, green, dimpled countryside. And not till now did he grasp how sorely he had missed it. “Oh, believe me, to talk of ‘going home’ is no mere4 figure of speech, Mary!” In fancy he trod winding24 lanes that ran between giant hedges: hedges in tender bud, with dew on them; or snowed over with white mayflowers; or behung with the fairy webs and gossamer25 of early autumn, thick as twine26 beneath their load of moisture. He followed white roads that were banked with primroses27 and ran headlong down to the sea; he climbed the shoulder of a down on a spring morning, when the air was alive with larks28 carolling. But chiefly it was the greenness that called to him — the greenness of the greenest country in the world. Viewed from this distance, the homeland looked to him like one vast meadow. Oh, to tread its grass again!— not what one knew as grass here, a poor annual, that lasted for a few brief weeks; but lush meadow-grass, a foot high; or shaven emerald lawns on which ancient trees spread their shade; or the rank growth in old orchards29, starry30 with wild flowers, on which fruit-blossoms fluttered down. He longed, too, for the exquisite31 finishedness of the mother country, the soft tints32 of cloud-veiled northern skies. His eyes ached, his brows had grown wrinkled from gazing on iron roofs set against the hard blue overhead; on dirty weatherboards innocent of paint; on higgledy-piggledy backyards and ramshackle fences; on the straggling landscape with its untidy trees — all the unrelieved ugliness, in short, of the colonial scene.
He stopped only for want of breath. Mary was silent. He waited. Still she did not speak.
He fell to earth with a bump, and was angry. “Come . . . out with it! I suppose all this seems to you just the raving33 of a lunatic?”
“Oh, Richard, no. But a little . . . well, a little unpractical. I never heard before of any one throwing up a good income because he didn’t like the scenery. It’s a step that needs the greatest consideration.”
“Good God! Do you think I haven’t considered it?— and from every angle? There isn’t an argument for or against, that I haven’t gone over a thousand and one times.”
“And with never a word to me, Richard?” Mary was hurt; and showed it. “It really is hardly fair. For this is my home as well as yours.— But now listen. You’re tired out, run down with the heat and that last attack of dysentery. Take a good holiday — stay away for three months if you like. Sail over to Hobart Town, or up to Sydney, you who’er so fond of the water. And when you come back strong and well we’ll talk about all this again. I’m sure by then you’ll see things with other eyes.”
“And who’s to look after the practice, pray?”
“Why, a LOCUM TENENS, of course. Or engage an assistant.”
“Aha! you’d agree to that now, would you? I remember how opposed you were once to the idea.”
“Well, if I have to choose between it and you giving up altogether. . . Now, for your own sake, Richard, don’t go and do anything rash. If once you sell off and leave Ballarat, you can never come back. And then, if you regret it, where will you be? That’s why I say don’t hurry to decide. Sleep over it. Or let us consult somebody — John perhaps —”
“No you don’t, madam, no you don’t!” cried Richard with a grim dash of humour. “You had me once . . . crippled me . . . handcuffed me — you and your John between you! It shan’t happen again.”
“I crippled you? I, Richard! Why, never in my life have I done anything but what I thought was for your good. I’ve always put you first.” And Mary’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, where it’s a question of one’s material welfare you haven’t your equal — I admit that. But the other side of me needs coddling too — yes, and sympathy. But it can whistle for such a thing as far as you’re concerned.”
Mary sighed. “I think you don’t realise, dear, how difficult it sometimes is to understand you . . . or to make out what you really do want,” she said slowly.
Her tone struck at his heart. “Indeed and I do!” he cried contritely34. “I’m a born old grumbler35, mavourneen, I know — contrariness in person! But in this case . . . come, love, do try to grasp what I’m after; it means so much to me.” And he held out his hand to her, to beseech36 her.
Unhesitatingly she laid hers in it. “I am trying, Richard, though you mayn’t believe it. I always do. And even if I sometimes can’t manage it — well, you know, dear, you generally get your own way in the end. Think of the house. I’m still not clear why you altered it. I liked it much better as it was. But I didn’t make any fuss, did I?— though I should have, if I’d thought we were only to occupy it for a single year after. — Still, that was a trifle compared with what you want to do now. Though I lived to a hundred I should never be able to approve of this. And you don’t know how hard it is to consent to a thing one disapproves37 of. You couldn’t do it yourself. Oh, what WAS the use, Richard, of toiling38 as you have, if now, just when you can afford to charge higher fees and the practice is beginning to bring in money —”
Mahony let her hand drop, even giving it a slight push from him, and turned to pace the floor anew. “Oh, money, money, money! I’m sick of the very sound of the word. But you talk as if nothing else mattered. Can’t you for once, wife, see through the letter of the thing to the spirit behind? I admit the practice HAS brought in a tidy income of late; but as for the rest of the splendours, they exist, my dear, only in your imagination. If you ask me, I say I lead a dog’s life — why, even a navvy works only for a fixed39 number of hours per diem! My days have neither beginning nor end. Look at yesterday! Out in the blazing sun from morning till night — I didn’t get back from the second round till nine. At ten a confinement40 that keeps me up till three. From three till dawn I toss and turn, far too weary to sleep. By the time six o’clock struck — you of course were slumbering41 sweetly — I was in hell with tic. At seven I could stand it no longer and got up for the chloroform bottle: an hour’s rest at any price — else how face the crowd in the waiting-room? And you call that splendour?— luxurious42 ease? If so, my dear, words have not the same meaning any more for you and me.”
Mary did not point out that she had said nothing of the kind, or that he had set up an extreme case as typical. She tightened43 her lips; her big eyes were very solemn.
“And it’s not the work alone,” Richard was declaring, “it’s the place, wife — the people. I’m done with ’em, Mary — utterly44 done! Upon my word, if I thought I had to go on living among them even for another twelvemonth . . .”
“But PEOPLE are the same all the world over!” The protest broke from her in spite of herself.
“No, by God, they’re not!” And here Richard launched out into a diatribe45 against his fellow-colonists: “This sordid46 riff-raff! These hard, mean, grasping money-grubbers!” that made Mary stand aghast. What could be the matter with him? What was he thinking of, he who was ordinarily so generous? Had he forgotten the many kindnesses shown him, the warm gratitude47 of his patients, people’s sympathy, at the time of his illness? But he went on: “My demands are most modest. All I ask is to live among human beings with whom I have half an idea in common — men who sometimes raise their noses from the ground, instead of eternally scheming how to line their pockets, reckoning human progress solely48 in terms of l.s.d. No, I’ve sacrificed enough of my life to this country. I mean to have the rest for myself. And there’s another thing, my dear — another bad habit this precious place breeds in us. It begins by making us indifferent to those who belong to us but are out of our sight, and ends by cutting our closest ties. I don’t mean by distance alone. I have an old mother still living, Mary, whose chief prayer is that she may see me once again before she dies. I was her last-born — the child her arms kept the shape of. What am I to her now? . . . what does she know of me, of the hard, tired, middle-aged49 man I have become? And you are in much the same box, my dear; unless you’ve forgotten by now that you ever had a mother.”
Mary was scandalised. “Forget one’s mother? . . . Richard! I think you’re trying what dreadful things you can find to say . . . when I write home every three months!” And provoked by this fresh piece of unreason she opened fire in earnest, in defence of what she believed to be their true welfare. Richard listened to her without interrupting; even seemed to grant the truth of what she said. But none the less, even as she pleaded with him, a numbing50 sense of futility51 crept over her. She stuttered, halted, and finally fell silent. Her words were like so many lassos thrown after his vagrant52 soul; and this was out of reach. It had sniffed53 freedom — it WAS free; ran wild already on the boundless54 plains of liberty.
After he had gone from the room she sat with idle hands. She was all in a daze55. Richard was about to commit an out-and-out folly, and she was powerless to hinder it. If only she had had some one she could have talked things over with, taken advice of! But no — it went against the grain in her to discuss her husband’s actions with a third person. Purdy had been the sole exception, and Purdy had become impossible.
Looking back, she marvelled56 at her own dullness in not fore-seeing that something like this might happen. What more natural than that the multitude of little whims57 and fads59 Richard had indulged should culminate60 in a big whim58 of this kind? But the acknowledgment caused her fresh anxiety. She had watched him tire, like a fickle61 child, of first one thing, then another; was it likely that he would now suddenly prove more stable? She did not think so. For she attributed his present mood of pettish62 aversion wholly to the fact of his being run down in health. It was quite true: he had not been himself of late. But, here again, he was so fanciful that you never knew how literally63 to take his ailments64: half the time she believed he just imagined their existence; and the long holiday she had urged on him would have been enough to sweep the cobwebs from his brain. Oh, if only he could have held on in patience! Four or five years hence, at most, he might have considered retiring from general practice. She almost wept as she remembered how they had once planned to live for that day. Now it was all to end in smoke.
Then her mind reverted65 to herself and to what the break would mean to her; and her little world rocked to its foundations. For no clear call went out to Mary from her native land. She docilely66 said “home” with the rest, and kept her family ties intact; but she had never expected to go back, except on a flying visit. She thought of England rather vaguely67 as a country where it was always raining, and where — according to John — an assemblage of old fogies, known as the House of Commons, persistently68 intermeddled in the affairs of the colony. For more than half her life — and the half that truly counted — Australia had been her home.
Her home! In fancy she made a round of the house, viewing each cosy69 room, lingering fondly over the contents of cupboards and presses, recollecting70 how she had added this piece of furniture for convenience’ sake, that for ornament71, till the whole was as perfect as she knew how to make it. Now, everything she loved and valued — the piano, the wax-candle chandelier, the gilt72 cornices, the dining-room horsehair — would fall under the auctioneer’s hammer, go to deck out the houses of other people. Richard said she could buy better and handsomer things in England; but Mary allowed herself no illusions on this score. Where was the money to come from? She had learnt by personal experience what slow work building up a practice was. It would be years and years before they could hope for another such home. And sore and sorry as SHE might feel at having to relinquish73 her pretty things, in Richard’s case it would mean a good deal more than that. To him the loss of them would be a real misfortune, so used had he grown to luxury and comfort, so strongly did the need of it run in his blood.
Worse still was the prospect74 of parting from relatives and friends. The tears came at this, freely. John’s children!— who would watch over them when she was gone? How could she, from so far away, keep the promise she had made to poor Jinny on her death-bed? She would have to give up the baby of which she had grown so fond — give it back into Zara’s unmotherly hands. And never again of a Saturday would she fetch poor little long-legged Trotty from school. She must say good-bye to one and to all — to John, and Zara, and Jerry — and would know no more, at close quarters, how they fared. When Jerry married there would be no one to see to it that he chose the right girl. Then Ned and Polly — poor souls, poor souls! What with the rapid increase of their family and Ned’s unsteadiness — he could not keep any job long because of it — they only just contrived75 to make ends meet. How they would do it when she was not there to lend a helping76 hand, she could not imagine. And outside her brothers and sisters there was good Mrs. Devine. Mary had engaged to guide her friend’s tottery77 steps on the slippery path of Melbourne society, did Mr. Devine enter the ministry78. And poor little Agnes with her terrible weakness. . . and Amelia and her sickly babes . . . and Tilly, dear, good, warm-hearted Tilly! Never again would the pair of them enjoy one of their jolly laughs; or cook for a picnic; or drive out to a mushroom hunt. No, the children would grow up anyhow; her brothers forget her in carving79 out their own lives; her friends find other friends.
For some time, however, she kept her own counsel. But when she had tried by hook and by crook80 to bring Richard to reason, and failed; when she saw that he was actually beginning, on the quiet, to make ready for departure, and that the day was coming on which every one would have to know: then she threw off her reserve. She was spending the afternoon with Tilly. They sat on the verandah together, John’s child, black-eyed, fat, self-willed, playing, after the manner of two short years, at their feet. At the news that was broken to her Tilly began by laughing immoderately, believing that Mary was “taking a rise out of her.” But having studied her friend’s face she let her work fall, slowly opened mouth and eyes, and was at first unequal to uttering a word.
Thereafter she bombarded Mary with questions.
“Wants to leave Ballarat? To go home to England?” she echoed, with an emphasis such as Tilly alone could lay. “Well! of all the . . . What for? What on earth for? ‘As somebody gone and left ’im a fortune? Or ‘as ‘e been appointed pillmonger-in-ordinary to the Queen ‘erself? What is it, Mary? What’s up?”
What indeed! This was the question Mary dreaded81, and one that would leap to every tongue: why was he going? She sat on the horns of a dilemma82. It was not in her to wound people’s feelings by blurting83 out the truth — this would also put Richard in a bad light — and, did she give no reason at all, many would think he had taken leave of his senses. Weakly, in a very un-Maryish fashion, she mumbled84 that his health was not what it should be, and he had got it into his head that for this the climate of the colony was to blame. Nothing would do him but to return to England.
“I never! No, never in my born days did I hear tell of such a thing!” and Tilly, exploding, brought her closed fist heavily down on her knee. “Mary! . . . for a mere maggot like that, to chuck up a practice such as ‘e’s got. Upon my word, my dear, it looks as if ‘e was touched ’ere,”— and she significantly tapped her forehead. “Ha! Now I understand. You know I’ve seen quite well, love, you’ve been looking a bit down in the mouth of late. And so ‘as pa noticed it, too. After you’d gone the other day, ‘e said to me: ‘Looks reflexive-like does the little lady nowadays; as if she’d got something on ‘er mind.’ And I to him: ‘Pooh! Isn’t it enough that she’s got to put up with the cranks and crotchets of one o’ YOUR sect85?’— Oh Mary, my dear, there’s many a true word said in jest. Though little did I think what the crotchet would be.” And slowly the rims86 of Tilly’s eyes and the tip of her nose reddened and swelled87.
“No, I can’t picture it, Mary — what it’ull be like ’ere without you,” she said; and pulling out her handkerchief blew snort after snort, which was Tilly’s way nowadays of having a good cry. “There, there, Baby, Auntie’s only got the sniffles.— For just think of it, Mary: except that first year or so after you were married, we’ve been together, you and me, pretty much ever since you came to us that time at the ‘otel — a little black midget of a thing in short frocks. I can still remember ‘ow Jinn and I laughed at the idea of you teaching us; and ‘ow poor ma said to wait and make sure we weren’t laughing on the wrong side of our mouths. And ma was right as usual. For if ever a clever little kid trod the earth, it was you.”
Mary pooh-poohed the cleverness. “I knew very little more than you yourselves. No, it was you who were all so kind to me. I had been feeling so lonely — as if nobody wanted me — and I shall never forget how mother put her arms round me and cuddled me, and how safe and comfortable I felt. It was always just like home there to me.”
“And why not, I’d like to know!— Look ’ere, Mary, I’m going to ask you something, plump and plain. ‘Ave you really been happy in your marriage, my dear, or ‘ave you not? You’re such a loyal little soul, I know you’d never show it if you weren’t; and sometimes I’ve ‘ad my doubts about you, Mary. For you and the doctor are just as different as chalk and cheese.”
“Of course I have — as happy as the day’s long!” cried Mary, sensitive as ever to a reflection on her husband. “You mustn’t think anything like that, Tilly. I couldn’t imagine myself married to anyone but Richard.”
“Then that only makes it harder for you now, poor thing, pulled two ways like, as you are,” said Tilly, and trumpeted88 afresh. “All the same, there isn’t anything I’d stick at, Mary, to keep you here. Don’t be offended, my dear, but it doesn’t matter half so much about the doctor going as you. There’s none cleverer than ’im, of course, in ‘is own line. But ‘e’s never fitted in properly here — I don’t want to exactly say ‘e thinks ‘imself too good for us; but there is something, Mary love, and I’m not the only one who’s felt it. I’ve known people go on like anything about ’im behind ‘is back: nothing would induce them to have ’im and ‘is haughty89 airs inside their doors again, etcetera.”
Mary flushed. “Yes, I know, people do sometimes judge Richard very unkindly. For at heart he’s the most modest of men. It’s only his manner. And he can’t help that, can he?”
“There are those who say a doctor ought to be able to, my dear.— But never mind him. Oh, it’s you I feel for, Mary, being dragged off like this. Can’t you DO anything, dear? Put your foot down?”
Mary shook her head. “It’s no use. Richard is so . . . well, so queer in some ways, Tilly. Besides, you know, I don’t think it would be right of me to really pit my will against his.”
“Poor little you!— Oh! men are queer fish, Mary, aren’t they? Not that I can complain; I drew a prize in the lucky-bag when I took that old Jawkins in there. But when I look round me, or think back, and see what we women put up with! There was poor old ma; she ‘ad to be man for both. And Jinn, Mary, who didn’t dare to call ‘er soul ‘er own. And milady Agnes is travelling the selfsame road — why, she ‘as to cock ‘er eye at Henry nowadays before she trusts ‘erself to say whether it’s beef or mutton she’s eating! And now ’ere’s you, love, carted off with never a with-your-leave or by-your-leave, just because the doctor’s tired of it and thinks ‘e’d like a change. There’s no question of whether you’re tired or not — oh, my, no!”
“But he has to earn the money, Tilly. It isn’t quite fair to put it that way,” protested her friend.
“Well! I don’t know, Mary, I’m sure,” and Tilly’s plump person rose and sank in a prodigious90 sigh. “But if I was ‘is wife ‘e wouldn’t get off so easy — I know that! It makes me just boil.”
Mary answered with a rueful smile. She could never be angry with Richard in cold blood, or for long together.
As time went on, though, and the break-up of her home began — by the auctioneer’s man appearing to paw over and appraise91 the furniture — a certain dull resentment92 did sometimes come uppermost. Under its sway she had forcibly to remind herself what a good husband Richard had always been; had to tell off his qualities one by one, instead of taking them as hitherto for granted. No, her quarrel, she began to see, was not so much with him as with the Powers above. Why should HER husband alone not be as robust93 and hardy94 as all the other husbands in the place? None of THEIR healths threatened to fail, nor did any of them find the conditions of the life intolerable. That was another shabby trick Fate had played Richard in not endowing him with worldly wisdom, and a healthy itch95 to succeed. Instead of that, he had been blessed with ideas and impulses that stood directly in his way.— And it was here that Mary bore more than one of her private ambitions for him to its grave. A new expression came into her eyes, too — an unsure, baffled look. Life was not, after all, going to be the simple, straightforward96 affair she had believed. Thus far, save for the one unhappy business with Purdy, wrongs and complications had passed her by. Now she saw that no more than anyone else could she hope to escape them.
Out of this frame of mind she wrote a long, confidential97 letter to John: John must not be left in ignorance of what hung over her; it was also a relief to unbosom herself to one of her own family. And John was good enough to travel up expressly to talk things over with her, and, as he put it, to “call Richard to order.” Like every one else he showed the whites of his eyes at the latter’s flimsy reasons for seeking a change. But when, in spite of her warning, he bearded his brother-in-law with a jocose98 and hearty99: “Come, come, my dear Mahony! what’s all this? You’re actually thinking of giving us the slip?” Richard took his interference so badly, became so agitated100 over the head of the harmless question that John’s airy remonstrance101 died in his throat.
“Mad as a March hare!” was his private verdict, as he shook down his ruffled102 plumes103. To Mary he said ponderously104: “Well, upon my soul, my dear girl, I don’t know — I am frankly105 at a loss what to say. Measured by every practical standard, the step he contemplates106 is little short of suicidal. I fear he will live to regret it.”
And Mary, who had not expected anything from John’s intervention107, and also knew the grounds for Richard’s heat — Mary now resigned herself, with the best grace she could muster108, to the inevitable109.
收听单词发音 |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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bead
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| n.念珠；(pl.)珠子项链；水珠 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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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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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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thoroughly
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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accrue
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| v.(利息等)增大，增多 | |
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18
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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21
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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flaunt
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| vt.夸耀，夸饰 | |
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lichened
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| adj.长满地衣的，长青苔的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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25
gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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27
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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28
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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29
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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30
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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34
contritely
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35
grumbler
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| 爱抱怨的人，发牢骚的人 | |
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36
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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37
disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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41
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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44
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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45
diatribe
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| n.抨击，抨击性演说 | |
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46
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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51
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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52
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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55
daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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culminate
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| v.到绝顶，达于极点，达到高潮 | |
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61
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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pettish
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| adj.易怒的，使性子的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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docilely
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| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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71
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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72
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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73
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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76
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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77
tottery
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| adj.蹒跚的，摇摇欲倒 | |
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78
ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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79
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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80
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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82
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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83
blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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84
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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86
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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88
trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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90
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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91
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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92
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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93
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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95
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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96
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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97
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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98
jocose
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| adj.开玩笑的，滑稽的 | |
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99
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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100
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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101
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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102
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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103
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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104
ponderously
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105
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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106
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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107
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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108
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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109
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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