The trouble in civilized1 life of entertaining company, as it is called too generally without much regard to strict veracity2, is so great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain3 what is the quid pro4 quo. If they who give such laborious5 parties and who endure such toil6 and turmoil7 in the vain hope of giving them successfully really enjoyed the parties given by others, the matter could be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries8 which others had undergone in their behalf. But they all profess9 that going out is as great a bore as receiving, and to look at them when they are out, one cannot but believe them.
Entertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel sufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he can entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally, perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring because nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each other. Few others even try.
Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may be presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To these are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne10 and such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still considered as comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating11. All the good soups are now tabooed, and at the houses of one’s accustomed friends — small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such-like (for we cannot all of us always live as grandees12, surrounded by an elysium of livery servants)— one gets a cold potato handed to one as a sort of finale to one’s slice of mutton. Alas13 for those happy days when one could say to one’s neighbour, “Jones, shall I give you some mashed14 turnip15? May I trouble you for a little cabbage?” And then the pleasure of drinking wine with Mrs. Jones and Miss Smith — with all the Joneses and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more economical.
Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern, beaten track and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! She did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going, and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance. She offered to them good, honest household cake made of currants and flour and eggs and sweetmeat, but they would feed themselves on trashy wafers from the shop of the Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum and adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne! Yours is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days gone by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that, when invited to a déjeuner at twelve, she ought to come at three, no eloquence16 of thine will teach her the advantage of a nearer approach to punctuality.
She had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come at twelve, and specially17 begged them to believe that she meant it, she would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two. Vain woman — or rather ignorant woman — ignorant of the advances of that civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of the newest of her many suits of raiment — with strong shoes however, and a serviceable bonnet18 on her head, and a warm, rich shawl on her shoulders. Thus clad, she peered out into the tent, went to the ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were amusing themselves, spoke19 a word to Mrs. Greenacre over the ditch, and took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were turning the machine round and round and poking20 at the bag of flour in a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game, but no mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry21 Greenacre was not to begin till the half-hour.
Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than was her wont22, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome her. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past twelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival took place. Mrs. Clantantram was announced.
No announcement was necessary, indeed, for the good lady’s voice was heard as she walked across the courtyard to the house, scolding the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other guests were more fashionable and were thus spared the fury of Mrs. Clantantram’s indignation.
“Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!” said she as soon as she found herself in the drawing-room; “do look at my roque-laure. It’s clean spoilt, and forever. I wouldn’t but wear it because I knew you wished us all to be grand today, and yet I had my misgivings24. Oh dear, oh dear! It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.”
The Barchester post-horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs. Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly thrown her under the wheel.
Mrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain extent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure away to be cleaned and lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr. Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs. Clantantram’s misfortune and of her determination to pay neither master nor post-boy, although, as she remarked, she intended to get her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then a good deal of rustling26 was heard in the sort of lobby that was used for the ladies’ outside cloaks, and the door having been thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices, Mrs. Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr. Augustus Lookaloft.
Poor man!— we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs. Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout27 lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves that there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs. Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel28. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there she had surmised29 before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of boasting that she had consorted30 on the lawn with the squire31 and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop32, and the county grandees, while Mrs. Greenacre and such-like were walking about with the ploughboys in the park. It was a great point gained by Mrs. Lookaloft, and it might be fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband as T. Lookaloft, Esquire.
Mrs. Lookaloft’s pluck carried her through everything, and she walked triumphant33 into the Ullathorne drawing-room, but her children did feel a little abashed34 at the sort of reception they met with. It was not in Miss Thorne’s heart to insult her own guests, but neither was it in her disposition35 to overlook such effrontery36.
“Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you?” said she. “And your daughters and son? Well, we’re very glad to see you, but I’m sorry you’ve come in such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend you anything?”
“Oh dear, no thank ye, Miss Thorne,” said the mother; “the girls and myself are quite used to low dresses, when we’re out.”
“Are you, indeed?” said Miss Thorne shuddering38 — but the shudder37 was lost on Mrs. Lookaloft.
“And where’s Lookaloft?” said the master of the house, coming up to welcome his tenant’s wife. Let the faults of the family be what they would, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.
“Such a headache, Mr. Thorne!” said Mrs. Lookaloft. “In fact he couldn’t stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have absented hisself.”
“Dear me,” said Miss Thorne. “If he is so ill, I’m sure you’d wish to be with him.”
“Not at all!” said Mrs. Lookaloft. “Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is only bilious39 you know, and when he’s that way, he can bear nobody nigh him.”
The fact, however, was that Mr. Lookaloft, having either more sense or less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude40 on Miss Thorne’s drawing-room, and as he could not very well have gone among the plebeians41 while his wife was with the patricians42, he thought it most expedient43 to remain at Rosebank.
Mrs. Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts on two chairs, while Mr. Augustus stood near the door; and here they remained till in due time they were seated, all four together, at the bottom of the dining-room table.
Then the Grantlys came — the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly and the two girls, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Harding. As ill-luck would have it, they were closely followed by Dr. Stanhope’s carriage. As Eleanor looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-inlaw helping44 the ladies out and threw herself back into her seat, dreading45 to be discovered. She had had an odious46 journey. Mr. Slope’s civility had been more than ordinarily greasy47, and now, though he had not in fact said anything which she could notice, she had for the first time entertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her. Was it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way that justified48 the world in thinking that she liked the man? After all, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin were right, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been watching Mr. Slope and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her brother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She almost regretted that it had not been contrived49 that Bertie should be at Ullathorne before them.
Dr. Grantly did not see his sister-inlaw in company with Mr. Slope, but Mr. Arabin did. Mr. Arabin came out with Mr. Thorne to the front door to welcome Mrs. Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr. Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative but to take it. Mr. Arabin, standing50 at the open door while Mrs. Grantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight from the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr. Slope, and then he saw this clergyman hand out Mrs. Bold. Having seen so much, Mr. Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs. Grantly into the house.
Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate25 degradation51, for Dr. Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr. Slope was fain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.
They had hardly passed into the house and from the house to the lawn when, with a loud rattle52 and such noise as great men and great women are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no everyday comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms53 and coachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortège to see the bishop and his “lady” walk across the courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the parish of St. Ewold’s.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled54 against silk, and muslin crumpled55 against muslin. Miss Thorne became more happy than she had been and again bethought her of her sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock and gave ample room for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as could bend a bow and marshalled them to the targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor56, and Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle Park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr. Vellem Deeds, the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev23. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr. Brown, and the Rev. Mr. White, all of whom, as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss Proudies.
“Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr. Foster?” said Miss Thorne as she walked with her party across the lawn.
“The quintain?” said young Foster, who considered himself a dab57 at horsemanship. “Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?”
Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.
“Would you like to come and see?” said Miss Thorne. “There’ll be plenty here you know without you, if you like it.”
“Well, I don’t mind,” said Frank. “I suppose the ladies can come too.”
“Oh, yes,” said Miss Thorne; “those who like it. I have no doubt they’ll go to see your prowess, if you’ll ride, Mr. Foster.”
Mr. Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons, which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic or fête champêtre, but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged than had been Mr. Thorne by the idea of being attacked from behind by the bag of flour, which Miss Thorne had graphically58 described to him.
“Well, I don’t know about riding, Miss Thorne,” said he; “I fear I’m not quite prepared.”
Miss Thorne sighed but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows and returned towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induce her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their manly59 amusements. Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post.
Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.
“Shall I begin, ma’am?” said Harry, fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.
“Yes, yes,” said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty on an inverted60 tub which some chance had brought thither61 from the farmyard.
“Here goes then,” said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the necessary momentum62 of a sharp gallop63. The quintain post stood right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt64 was fairly in his way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would he carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the cross-bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers-on.
Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the service of his mistress and therefore gallantly65 touched his steed with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he started. The animal swerved66 and shied and galloped67 off wide of the quintain. Harry, well-accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do so with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the bridle68, and thus the end of the lance came to the ground and got between the legs of the steed. Down came rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse’s head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell off her tub in a swoon.
“Oh, gracious, he’s killed,” shrieked69 a woman who was near him when he fell.
“The Lord be good to him! His poor mother, his poor mother!” said another.
“Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,” said an old crone.
“He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,” said a fourth.
Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon. She made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself almost to death. Oh, his mother — his poor mother! How could she ever forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She could hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as three or four men in front were about the horse, which had risen with some difficulty, but at last she found herself close to the young farmer.
“Has he marked himself? For heaven’s sake tell me that: has he marked his knees?” said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand and thinking only of his horse’s legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from that time forth70 she never instigated71 anyone to ride at a quintain.
Eleanor left Dr. Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly and went in quest of her father, whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr. Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to disabuse72 at any rate her father’s mind as to this report which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr. Arabin. She put her own through her father’s arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St. Ewold’s.
“And how did you come?” said Mr. Harding, when the first greeting was over.
“The Stanhopes brought me,” said she; “their carriage was obliged to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.” As she spoke she caught Mr. Arabin’s eye and saw that he was looking pointedly73 at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation74 contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak, “Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you might be in company with Mr. Slope.”
“Our party,” said she, still addressing her father, “consisted of the doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr. Slope.” As she mentioned the last name she felt her father’s arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr. Arabin turned away from them and, joining his hands behind his back, strolled slowly away by one of the paths.
“Papa,” said she, “it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr. Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren’t at home, you know. I couldn’t possibly help it.” She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.
“I don’t know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,” said her father.
“Yes, Papa, you do. You must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was; and Mr. Arabin too. He’s a horrid75 man, a horrid odious man, but —”
Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr. Arabin?”
“No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean Mr. Slope. He’s the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?”
A great weight began to move itself off Mr. Harding’s mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all her tact76, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to become the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified77 had he been of the fact, and now he learnt that this imputed78 lover of Eleanor’s was at any rate as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently79 a man of the world to conceal80 the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises81. He was greatly surprised and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
“My darling girl,” said he, “I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.”
“But surely, Papa, you didn’t think —”
“I didn’t know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that —”
“The archdeacon!” said Eleanor, her face lighting82 up with passion. “A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, he better employed than in traducing83 his sister-inlaw and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter!”
“He didn’t mean to do that, Eleanor.”
“What did he mean then? Why did he interfere84 with me and fill your mind with such falsehood?”
“Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.”
“Oh, Papa, that you should have thought it! That you should have suspected me!”
“I don’t know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know, nothing wrong in such a marriage. Nothing that could have justified my interfering85 as your father.” And Mr. Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr. Slope after all was a very good sort of man and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor’s greater energy.
“It would be disgraceful,” said she; “it would be wrong; it would be abominable86. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh —” and she shuddered87 as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. “I don’t wonder at Dr. Grantly; I don’t wonder at Susan; but, oh, Papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?” Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father’s defalcation88, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune89 for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr. Harding stammered90 out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal91 gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr. Slope as his son-inlaw. It was such a relief to him to find that his daughter’s feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison92. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr. Slope! He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor’s anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.
“Dear Papa,” she said, hanging closely to his arm, “never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.”
And Mr. Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again. And so, while he promised amendment93 and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama94 which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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grandees
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| n.贵族，大公，显贵者( grandee的名词复数 ) | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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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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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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immediate
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rustling
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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consorted
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squire
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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36
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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37
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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38
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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plebeians
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| n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 )；庶民；平民百姓；平庸粗俗的人 | |
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patricians
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| n.（古罗马的）统治阶层成员( patrician的名词复数 )；贵族，显贵 | |
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43
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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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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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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graphically
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| adv.通过图表；生动地，轮廓分明地 | |
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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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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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instigated
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| v.使（某事物）开始或发生，鼓动( instigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disabuse
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| v.解惑；矫正 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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81
surmises
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的第三人称单数 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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83
traducing
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| v.诋毁( traduce的现在分词 )；诽谤；违反；背叛 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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86
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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87
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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88
defalcation
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| n.盗用公款，挪用公款，贪污 | |
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89
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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90
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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92
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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93
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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