I had just received my quarter’s allowance of pocket-money, and had gone into the city to cash the cheque at my father’s bankers.
The money paid, I debated for a moment how I should return homewards. First I thought of walking: then of taking a cab. While I was considering this frivolous1 point, an omnibus passed me, going westward2. In the idle impulse of the moment, I hailed it, and got in.
It was something more than an idle impulse though. If I had at that time no other qualification for the literary career on which I was entering, I certainly had this one — an aptitude3 for discovering points of character in others: and its natural result, an unfailing delight in studying characters of all kinds, wherever I could meet with them.
I had often before ridden in omnibuses to amuse myself by observing the passengers. An omnibus has always appeared to me, to be a perambulatory exhibition-room of the eccentricities4 of human nature. I know not any other sphere in which persons of all classes and all temperaments5 are so oddly collected together, and so immediately contrasted and confronted with each other. To watch merely the different methods of getting into the vehicle, and taking their seats, adopted by different people, is to study no incomplete commentary on the infinitesimal varieties of human character — as various even as the varieties of the human face.
Thus, in addition to the idle impulse, there was the idea of amusement in my thoughts, as I stopped the public vehicle, and added one to the number of the conductor’s passengers.
There were five persons in the omnibus when I entered it. Two middle-aged7 ladies, dressed with amazing splendour in silks and satins, wearing straw-coloured kid gloves, and carrying highly-scented pocket handkerchiefs, sat apart at the end of the vehicle; trying to look as if they occupied it under protest, and preserving the most stately gravity and silence. They evidently felt that their magnificent outward adornments were exhibited in a very unworthy locality, and among a very uncongenial company.
One side, close to the door, was occupied by a lean, withered8 old man, very shabbily dressed in black, who sat eternally mumbling9 something between his toothless jaws10. Occasionally, to the evident disgust of the genteel ladies, he wiped his bald head and wrinkled forehead with a ragged11 blue cotton handkerchief, which he kept in the crown of his hat.
Opposite to this ancient sat a dignified12 gentleman and a sickly vacant-looking little girl. Every event of that day is so indelibly marked on my memory, that I remember, not only this man’s pompous13 look and manner, but even the words he addressed to the poor squalid little creature by his side. When I entered the omnibus, he was telling her in a loud voice how she ought to dispose of her frock and her feet when people got into the vehicle, and when they got out. He then impressed on her the necessity in future life, when she grew up, of always having the price of her fare ready before it was wanted, to prevent unnecessary delay. Having delivered himself of this good advice, he began to hum, keeping time by drumming with his thick Malacca cane14. He was still proceeding15 with this amusement — producing some of the most acutely unmusical sounds I ever heard — when the omnibus stopped to give admission to two ladies. The first who got in was an elderly person — pale and depressed16 — evidently in delicate health. The second was a young girl.
Among the workings of the hidden life within us which we may experience but cannot explain, are there any more remarkable17 than those mysterious moral influences constantly exercised, either for attraction or repulsion, by one human being over another? In the simplest, as in the most important affairs of life, how startling, how irresistible18 is their power! How often we feel and know, either pleasurably or painfully, that another is looking on us, before we have ascertained20 the fact with our own eyes! How often we prophesy21 truly to ourselves the approach of a friend or enemy, just before either have really appeared! How strangely and abruptly22 we become convinced, at a first introduction, that we shall secretly love this person and loathe23 that, before experience has guided us with a single fact in relation to their characters!
I have said that the two additional passengers who entered the vehicle in which I was riding, were, one of them, an elderly lady; the other, a young girl. As soon as the latter had seated herself nearly opposite to me, by her companion’s side, I felt her influence on me directly — an influence that I cannot describe — an influence which I had never experienced in my life before, which I shall never experience again.
I had helped to hand her in, as she passed me; merely touching24 her arm for a moment. But how the sense of that touch was prolonged! I felt it thrilling through me — thrilling in every nerve, in every pulsation25 of my fast-throbbing heart.
Had I the same influence over her? Or was it I that received, and she that conferred, only? I was yet destined26 to discover; but not then — not for a long, long time.
Her veil was down when I first saw her. Her features and her expression were but indistinctly visible to me. I could just vaguely27 perceive that she was young and beautiful; but, beyond this, though I might imagine much, I could see little.
From the time when she entered the omnibus, I have no recollection of anything more that occurred in it. I neither remember what passengers got out, or what passengers got in. My powers of observation, hitherto active enough, had now wholly deserted28 me. Strange! that the capricious rule of chance should sway the action of our faculties29 that a trifle should set in motion the whole complicated machinery30 of their exercise, and a trifle suspend it.
We had been moving onward31 for some little time, when the girl’s companion addressed an observation to her. She heard it imperfectly, and lifted her veil while it was being repeated. How painfully my heart beat! I could almost hear it — as her face was, for the first time, freely and fairly disclosed!
She was dark. Her hair, eyes, and complexion32 were darker than usual in English women. The form, the look altogether, of her face, coupled with what I could see of her figure, made me guess her age to be about twenty. There was the appearance of maturity33 already in the shape of her features; but their expression still remained girlish, unformed, unsettled. The fire in her large dark eyes, when she spoke34, was latent. Their languor35, when she was silent — that voluptuous36 languor of black eyes — was still fugitive37 and unsteady. The smile about her full lips (to other eyes, they might have looked too full) struggled to be eloquent38, yet dared not. Among women, there always seems something left incomplete — a moral creation to be superinduced on the physical — which love alone can develop, and which maternity39 perfects still further, when developed. I thought, as I looked on her, how the passing colour would fix itself brilliantly on her round, olive cheek; how the expression that still hesitated to declare itself, would speak out at last, would shine forth40 in the full luxury of its beauty, when she heard the first words, received the first kiss, from the man she loved!
While I still looked at her, as she sat opposite speaking to her companion, our eyes met. It was only for a moment — but the sensation of a moment often makes the thought of a life; and that one little instant made the new life of my heart. She put down her veil again immediately; her lips moved involuntarily as she lowered it: I thought I could discern, through the lace, that the slight movement ripened41 to a smile.
Still there was enough left to see — enough to charm. There was the little rim42 of delicate white lace, encircling the lovely, dusky throat; there was the figure visible, where the shawl had fallen open, slender, but already well developed in its slenderness, and exquisitely43 supple44; there was the waist, naturally low, and left to its natural place and natural size; there were the little millinery and jewellery ornaments45 that she wore — simple and common-place enough in themselves — yet each a beauty, each a treasure, on her. There was all this to behold47, all this to dwell on, in spite of the veil. The veil! how little of the woman does it hide, when the man really loves her!
We had nearly arrived at the last point to which the omnibus would take us, when she and her companion got out. I followed them, cautiously and at some distance.
She was tall — tall at least for a woman. There were not many people in the road along which we were proceeding; but even if there had been, far behind as I was walking, I should never have lost her — never have mistaken any one else for her. Already, strangers though we were, I felt that I should know her, almost at any distance, only by her walk.
They went on, until we reached a suburb of new houses, intermingled with wretched patches of waste land, half built over. Unfinished streets, unfinished crescents, unfinished squares, unfinished shops, unfinished gardens, surrounded us. At last they stopped at a new square, and rang the bell at one of the newest of the new houses. The door was opened, and she and her companion disappeared. The house was partly detached. It bore no number; but was distinguished49 as North Villa50. The square — unfinished like everything else in the neighbourhood — was called Hollyoake Square.
I noticed nothing else about the place at that time. Its newness and desolateness51 of appearance revolted me, just then. I had satisfied myself about the locality of the house, and I knew that it was her home; for I had approached sufficiently52 near, when the door was opened, to hear her inquire if anybody had called in her absence. For the present, this was enough. My sensations wanted repose53; my thoughts wanted collecting. I left Hollyoake Square at once, and walked into the Regent’s Park, the northern portion of which was close at hand.
Was I in love?— in love with a girl whom I had accidentally met in an omnibus? Or, was I merely indulging a momentary54 caprice — merely feeling a young man’s hot, hasty admiration55 for a beautiful face? These were questions which I could not then decide. My ideas were in utter confusion, all my thoughts ran astray. I walked on, dreaming in full day — I had no distinct impressions, except of the stranger beauty whom I had just seen. The more I tried to collect myself, to resume the easy, equable feelings with which I had set forth in the morning, the less self-possessed I became. There are two emergencies in which the wisest man may try to reason himself back from impulse to principle; and try in vain:— the one when a woman has attracted him for the first time; the other, when, for the first time, also, she has happened to offend him.
I know not how long I had been walking in the park, thus absorbed yet not thinking, when the clock of a neighbouring church struck three, and roused me to the remembrance that I had engaged to ride out with my sister at two o’clock. It would be nearly half-an-hour more before I could reach home. Never had any former appointment of mine with Clara been thus forgotten! Love had not yet turned me selfish, as it turns all men, and even all women, more or less. I felt both sorrow and shame at the neglect of which I had been guilty; and hastened homeward.
The groom56, looking unutterably weary and discontented, was still leading my horse up and down before the house. My sister’s horse had been sent back to the stables. I went in; and heard that, after waiting for me an hour, Clara had gone out with some friends, and would not be back before dinner.
No one was in the house but the servants. The place looked dull, empty, inexpressibly miserable57 to me; the distant roll of carriages along the surrounding streets had a heavy boding58 sound; the opening and shutting of doors in the domestic offices below, startled and irritated me; the London air seemed denser59 to breathe than it had ever seemed before. I walked up and down one of the rooms, fretful and irresolute60. Once I directed my steps towards my study; but retraced61 them before I had entered it. Reading or writing was out of the question at that moment.
I felt the secret inclination62 strengthening within me to return to Hollyoake Square; to try to see the girl again, or at least to ascertain19 who she was. I strove — yes, I can honestly say, strove to repress the desire. I tried to laugh it off, as idle and ridiculous; to think of my sister, of the book I was writing, of anything but the one subject that pressed stronger and stronger on me, the harder I struggled against it. The spell of the syren was over me. I went out, hypocritically persuading myself, that I was only animated63 by a capricious curiosity to know the girl’s name, which once satisfied, would leave me at rest on the matter, and free to laugh at my own idleness and folly64 as soon as I got home again.
I arrived at the house. The blinds were all drawn65 down over the front windows, to keep out the sun. The little slip of garden was left solitary66 — baking and cracking in the heat. The square was silent; desolately67 silent, as only a suburban68 square can be. I walked up and down the glaring pavement, resolved to find out her name before I quitted the place. While still undecided how to act, a shrill69 whistling — sounding doubly shrill in the silence around — made me look up.
A tradesman’s boy — one of those town Pucks of the highway; one of those incarnations of precocious70 cunning, inveterate71 mischief72, and impudent73 humour, which great cities only can produce — was approaching me with his empty tray under his arm. I called to him to come and speak to me. He evidently belonged to the neighbourhood, and might be made of some use.
His first answer to my inquiries74, showed that his master served the household at North Villa. A present of a shilling secured his attention at once to the few questions of any importance which I desired to put to him. I learned from his replies, that the name of the master of the house was “Sherwin:” and that the family only consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Sherwin, and the young lady, their daughter.
My last inquiry75 addressed to the boy was the most important of all. Did he know what Mr. Sherwin’s profession or employment was?
His answer startled me into perfect silence. Mr. Sherwin kept a large linen-draper’s shop in one of the great London thoroughfares! The boy mentioned the number, and the side of the way on which the house stood — then asked me if I wanted to know anything more. I could only tell him by a sign that he might leave me, and that I had heard enough.
Enough? If he had spoken the truth, I had heard too much.
A linen-draper’s shop — a linen-draper’s daughter! Was I still in love?— I thought of my father; I thought of the name I bore; and this time, though I might have answered the question, I dared not.
But the boy might be wrong. Perhaps, in mere6 mischief, he had been deceiving me throughout. I determined76 to seek the address he had mentioned, and ascertain the truth for myself.
I reached the place: there was the shop, and there the name “Sherwin” over the door. One chance still remained. This Sherwin and the Sherwin of Hollyoake Square might not be the same.
I went in and purchased something. While the man was tying up the parcel, I asked him whether his master lived in Hollyoake Square. Looking a little astonished at the question, he answered in the affirmative.
“There was a Mr. Sherwin I once knew,” I said, forging in those words the first link in the long chain of deceit which was afterwards to fetter77 and degrade me —“a Mr. Sherwin who is now, as I have heard, living somewhere in the Hollyoake Square neighbourhood. He was a bachelor — I don’t know whether my friend and your master are the same?”
“Oh dear no, Sir! My master is a married man, and has one daughter — Miss Margaret — who is reckoned a very fine young lady, Sir!” And the man grinned as he spoke — a grin that sickened and shocked me.
I was answered at last: I had discovered all. Margaret!— I had heard her name, too. Margaret!— it had never hitherto been a favourite name with me. Now I felt a sort of terror as I detected myself repeating it, and finding a new, unimagined poetry in the sound.
Could this be love?— pure, first love for a shopkeeper’s daughter, whom I had seen for a quarter of an hour in an omnibus, and followed home for another quarter of an hour? The thing was impossible. And yet, I felt a strange unwillingness78 to go back to our house, and see my father and sister, just at that moment.
I was still walking onward slowly, but not in the direction of home, when I met an old college friend of my brother’s, and an acquaintance of mine — a reckless, good-humoured, convivial79 fellow. He greeted me at once, with uproarious cordiality; and insisted on my accompanying him to dine at his club.
If the thoughts that still hung heavy on my mind were only the morbid80, fanciful thoughts of the hour, here was a man whose society would dissipate them. I resolved to try the experiment, and accepted his invitation.
At dinner, I tried hard to rival him in jest and joviality81; I drank much more than my usual quantity of wine — but it was useless. The gay words came fainting from my heart, and fell dead on my lips. The wine fevered, but did not exhilarate me. Still, the image of the dark beauty of the morning was the one reigning82 image of my thoughts — still, the influence of the morning, at once sinister83 and seductive, kept its hold on my heart.
I gave up the struggle. I longed to be alone again. My friend soon found that my forced spirits were flagging; he tried to rouse me, tried to talk for two, ordered more wine, but everything failed. Yawning at last, in undisguised despair, he suggested a visit to the theatre.
I excused myself — professed84 illness — hinted that the wine had been too much for me. He laughed, with something of contempt as well as good-nature in the laugh; and went away to the play by himself evidently feeling that I was still as bad a companion as he had found me at college, years ago.
As soon as we parted I felt a sense of relief. I hesitated, walked backwards85 and forwards a few paces in the street; and then, silencing all doubts, leaving my inclinations86 to guide me as they would — I turned my steps for the third time in that one day to Hollyoake Square.
The fair summer evening was tending towards twilight87; the sun stood fiery88 and low in a cloudless horizon; the last loveliness of the last quietest daylight hour was fading on the violet sky, as I entered the square.
I approached the house. She was at the window — it was thrown wide open. A bird-cage hung rather high up, against the shutter-panel. She was standing89 opposite to it, making a plaything for the poor captive canary of a piece of sugar, which she rapidly offered and drew back again, now at one bar of the cage, and now at another. The bird hopped90 and fluttered up and down in his prison after the sugar, chirping91 as if he enjoyed playing his part of the game with his mistress. How lovely she looked! Her dark hair, drawn back over each cheek so as just to leave the lower part of the ear visible, was gathered up into a thick simple knot behind, without ornament46 of any sort. She wore a plain white dress fastening round the neck, and descending92 over the bosom93 in numberless little wavy94 plaits. The cage hung just high enough to oblige her to look up to it. She was laughing with all the glee of a child; darting95 the piece of sugar about incessantly96 from place to place. Every moment, her head and neck assumed some new and lovely turn — every moment her figure naturally fell into the position which showed its pliant97 symmetry best. The last-left glow of the evening atmosphere was shining on her — the farewell pause of daylight over the kindred daylight of beauty and youth.
I kept myself concealed98 behind a pillar of the garden-gate; I looked, hardly daring either to move or breathe; for I feared that if she saw or heard me, she would leave the window. After a lapse99 of some minutes, the canary touched the sugar with his beak100.
“There, Minnie!” she cried laughingly, “you have caught the runaway101 sugar, and now you shall keep it!”
For a moment more, she stood quietly looking at the cage; then raising herself on tip-toe, pouted102 her lips caressingly103 to the bird, and disappeared in the interior of the room.
The sun went down; the twilight shadows fell over the dreary104 square; the gas lamps were lighted far and near; people who had been out for a breath of fresh air in the fields, came straggling past me by ones and twos, on their way home — and still I lingered near the house, hoping she might come to the window again; but she did not re-appear. At last, a servant brought candles into the room, and drew down the Venetian blinds. Knowing it would be useless to stay longer, I left the square.
I walked homeward joyfully105. That second sight of her completed what the first meeting had begun. The impressions left by it made me insensible for the time to all boding reflections, careless of exercising the smallest self-restraint. I gave myself up to the charm that was at work on me. Prudence106, duty, memories and prejudices of home, were all absorbed and forgotten in love — love that I encouraged, that I dwelt over in the first reckless luxury of a new sensation.
I entered our house, thinking of nothing but how to see her, how to speak to her, on the morrow; murmuring her name to myself; even while my hand was on the lock of my study door. The instant I was in the room, I involuntarily shuddered107 and stopped speechless. Clara was there! I was not merely startled; a cold, faint sensation came over me. My first look at my sister made me feel as if I had been detected in a crime.
She was standing at my writing-table, and had just finished stringing together the loose pages of my manuscript, which had hitherto laid disconnectedly in a drawer. There was a grand ball somewhere, to which she was going that night. The dress she wore was of pale blue crape (my father’s favourite colour, on her). One white flower was placed in her light brown hair. She stood within the soft steady light of my lamp, looking up towards the door from the leaves she had just tied together. Her slight figure appeared slighter than usual, in the delicate material that now clothed it. Her complexion was at its palest: her face looked almost statue-like in its purity and repose. What a contrast to the other living picture which I had seen at sunset!
The remembrance of the engagement that I had broken came back on me avengingly, as she smiled, and held my manuscript up before me to look at. With that remembrance there returned, too — darker than ever — the ominous108 doubts which had depressed me but a few hours since. I tried to steady my voice, and felt how I failed in the effort, as I spoke to her:
“Will you forgive me, Clara, for having deprived you of your ride to-day? I am afraid I have but a bad excuse —”
“Then don’t make it, Basil; or wait till papa can arrange it for you, in a proper parliamentary way, when he comes back from the House of Commons to-night. See how I have been meddling109 with your papers; but they were in such confusion I was really afraid some of these leaves might have been lost.”
“Neither the leaves nor the writer deserve half the pains you have taken with them; but I am really sorry for breaking our engagement. I met an old college friend — there was business too, in the morning — we dined together — he would take no denial.”
“Basil, how pale you look! Are you ill?”
“No; the heat has been a little too much for me — nothing more.”
“Has anything happened? I only ask, because if I can be of any use — if you want me to stay at home —”
“Certainly not, love. I wish you all success and pleasure at the ball.”
For a moment she did not speak; but fixed110 her clear, kind eyes on me more gravely and anxiously than usual. Was she searching my heart, and discovering the new love rising, an usurper111 already, in the place where the love of her had reigned112 before?
Love! love for a shopkeeper’s daughter! That thought came again, as she looked at me! and, strangely mingled48 with it, a maxim113 I had often heard my father repeat to Ralph —“Never forget that your station is not yours, to do as you like with. It belongs to us, and belongs to your children. You must keep it for them, as I have kept it for you.”
“I thought,” resumed Clara, in rather lower tones than before, “that I would just look into your room before I went to the ball, and see that everything was properly arranged for you, in case you had any idea of writing tonight; I had just time to do this while my aunt, who is going with me, was upstairs altering her toilette. But perhaps you don’t feel inclined to write?”
“I will try at least.”
“Can I do anything more? Would you like my nosegay left in the room?— the flowers smell so fresh! I can easily get another. Look at the roses, my favourite white roses, that always remind me of my own garden at the dear old Park!”
“Thank you, Clara; but I think the nosegay is fitter for your hand than my table.”
“Good night, Basil.”
“Good night.”
She walked to the door, then turned round, and smiled as if she were about to speak again; but checked herself, and merely looked at me for an instant. In that instant, however, the smile left her face, and the grave, anxious expression came again. She went out softly. A few minutes afterwards the roll of the carriage which took her and her companion to the ball, died away heavily on my ear. I was left alone in the house — alone for the night.
收听单词发音 |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prophesy
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| v.预言；预示 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pulsation
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| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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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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35
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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36
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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37
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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38
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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39
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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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41
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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43
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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45
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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47
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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48
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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51
desolateness
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| 孤独 | |
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52
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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desolately
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| 荒凉地，寂寞地 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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82
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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86
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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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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hopped
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| 跳上[下]( hop的过去式和过去分词 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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91
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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92
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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93
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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96
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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97
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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98
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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99
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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100
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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101
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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102
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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104
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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105
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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106
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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107
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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108
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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109
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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110
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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111
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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112
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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113
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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