Basil Ransom1 lived in New York, rather far to the eastward2, and in the upper reaches of the town; he occupied two small shabby rooms in a somewhat decayed mansion3 which stood next to the corner of the Second Avenue. The corner itself was formed by a considerable grocer’s shop, the near neighbourhood of which was fatal to any pretensions4 Ransom and his fellow-lodgers might have had in regard to gentility of situation. The house had a red, rusty5 face, and faded green shutters6, of which the slats were limp and at variance7 with each other. In one of the lower windows was suspended a fly-blown card, with the words “Table Board” affixed8 in letters cut (not very neatly) out of coloured paper, of graduated tints10, and surrounded with a small band of stamped gilt11. The two sides of the shop were protected by an immense pent-house shed, which projected over a greasy12 pavement and was supported by wooden posts fixed9 in the curbstone. Beneath it, on the dislocated flags, barrels and baskets were freely and picturesquely13 grouped; an open cellarway yawned beneath the feet of those who might pause to gaze too fondly on the savoury wares14 displayed in the window; a strong odour of smoked fish, combined with a fragrance15 of molasses, hung about the spot; the pavement, toward the gutters16, was fringed with dirty panniers, heaped with potatoes, carrots, and onions; and a smart, bright waggon17, with the horse detached from the shafts18, drawn19 up on the edge of the abominable20 road (it contained holes and ruts a foot deep, and immemorial accumulations of stagnant21 mud), imparted an idle, rural, pastoral air to a scene otherwise perhaps expressive22 of a rank civilisation23. The establishment was of the kind known to New Yorkers as a Dutch grocery; and red-faced, yellow-haired, bare-armed vendors24 might have been observed to lounge in the doorway25. I mention it not on account of any particular influence it may have had on the life or the thoughts of Basil Ransom, but for old acquaintance sake and that of local colour; besides which, a figure is nothing without a setting, and our young man came and went every day, with rather an indifferent, unperceiving step, it is true, among the objects I have briefly26 designated. One of his rooms was directly above the street-door of the house; such a dormitory, when it is so exiguous27, is called in the nomenclature of New York a “hall bedroom.” The sitting-room28, beside it, was slightly larger, and they both commanded a row of tenements29 no less degenerate30 than Ransom’s own habitation — houses built forty years before, and already sere31 and superannuated32. These were also painted red, and the bricks were accentuated33 by a white line; they were garnished34, on the first floor, with balconies covered with small tin roofs, striped in different colours, and with an elaborate iron lattice-work, which gave them a repressive, cage-like appearance, and caused them slightly to resemble the little boxes for peeping unseen into the street, which are a feature of oriental towns. Such posts of observation commanded a view of the grocery on the corner, of the relaxed and disjointed roadway, enlivened at the curbstone with an occasional ash-barrel or with gas-lamps drooping35 from the perpendicular36, and westward37, at the end of the truncated38 vista39, of the fantastic skeleton of the Elevated Railway, overhanging the transverse longitudinal street, which it darkened and smothered40 with the immeasurable spinal41 column and myriad42 clutching paws of an antediluvian43 monster. If the opportunity were not denied me here, I should like to give some account of Basil Ransom’s interior, of certain curious persons of both sexes, for the most part not favourites of fortune, who had found an obscure asylum44 there; some picture of the crumpled45 little table d’h?te, at two dollars and a half a week, where everything felt sticky, which went forward in the low-ceiled basement, under the conduct of a couple of shuffling46 negresses, who mingled47 in the conversation and indulged in low, mysterious chuckles48 when it took a facetious49 turn. But we need, in strictness, concern ourselves with it no further than to gather the implication that the young Mississippian, even a year and a half after that momentous50 visit of his to Boston, had not made his profession very lucrative51.
He had been diligent52, he had been ambitious, but he had not yet been successful. During the few weeks preceding the moment at which we meet him again, he had even begun to lose faith altogether in his earthly destiny. It became much of a question with him whether success in any form was written there; whether for a hungry young Mississippian, without means, without friends, wanting, too, in the highest energy, the wisdom of the serpent, personal arts and national prestige, the game of life was to be won in New York. He had been on the point of giving it up and returning to the home of his ancestors, where, as he heard from his mother, there was still just a sufficient supply of hot corn-cake to support existence. He had never believed much in his luck, but during the last year it had been guilty of aberrations53 surprising even to a constant, an imperturbable54, victim of fate. Not only had he not extended his connexion, but he had lost most of the little business which was an object of complacency to him a twelvemonth before. He had had none but small jobs, and he had made a mess of more than one of them. Such accidents had not had a happy effect upon his reputation; he had been able to perceive that this fair flower may be nipped when it is so tender a bud as scarcely to be palpable. He had formed a partnership55 with a person who seemed likely to repair some of his deficiencies — a young man from Rhode Island, acquainted, according to his own expression, with the inside track. But this gentleman himself, as it turned out, would have been better for a good deal of remodelling56, and Ransom’s principal deficiency, which was, after all, that of cash, was not less apparent to him after his colleague, prior to a sudden and unexplained departure for Europe, had drawn the slender accumulations of the firm out of the bank. Ransom sat for hours in his office, waiting for clients who either did not come, or, if they did come, did not seem to find him encouraging, as they usually left him with the remark that they would think what they would do. They thought to little purpose, and seldom reappeared, so that at last he began to wonder whether there were not a prejudice against his Southern complexion57. Perhaps they didn’t like the way he spoke58. If they could show him a better way, he was willing to adopt it; but the manner of New York could not be acquired by precept59, and example, somehow, was not in this case contagious60. He wondered whether he were stupid and unskilled, and he was finally obliged to confess to himself that he was unpractical.
This confession61 was in itself a proof of the fact, for nothing could be less fruitful than such a speculation62, terminating in such a way. He was perfectly63 aware that he cared a great deal for the theory, and so his visitors must have thought when they found him, with one of his long legs twisted round the other, reading a volume of De Tocqueville. That was the land of reading he liked; he had thought a great deal about social and economical questions, forms of government and the happiness of peoples. The convictions he had arrived at were not such as mix gracefully64 with the time-honoured verities65 a young lawyer looking out for business is in the habit of taking for granted; but he had to reflect that these doctrines66 would probably not contribute any more to his prosperity in Mississippi than in New York. Indeed, he scarcely could think of the country where they would be a particular advantage to him. It came home to him that his opinions were stiff, whereas in comparison his effort was lax; and he accordingly began to wonder whether he might not make a living by his opinions. He had always had a desire for public life; to cause one’s ideas to be embodied67 in national conduct appeared to him the highest form of human enjoyment68. But there was little enough that was public in his solitary69 studies, and he asked himself what was the use of his having an office at all, and why he might not as well carry on his profession at the Astor Library, where, in his spare hours and on chance holidays, he did an immense deal of suggestive reading. He took copious70 notes and memoranda71, and these things sometimes shaped themselves in a way that might possibly commend them to the editors of periodicals. Readers perhaps would come, if clients didn’t; so he produced, with a great deal of labour, half-a-dozen articles, from which, when they were finished, it seemed to him that he had omitted all the points he wished most to make, and addressed them to the powers that preside over weekly and monthly publications. They were all declined with thanks, and he would have been forced to believe that the accent of his languid clime brought him luck as little under the pen as on the lips, had not another explanation been suggested by one of the more explicit72 of his oracles73, in relation to a paper on the rights of minorities. This gentleman pointed74 out that his doctrines were about three hundred years behind the age; doubtless some magazine of the sixteenth century would have been very happy to print them. This threw light on his own suspicion that he was attached to causes that could only, in the nature of things, be unpopular. The disagreeable editor was right about his being out of date, only he had got the time wrong. He had come centuries too soon; he was not too old, but too new. Such an impression, however, would not have prevented him from going into politics, if there had been any other way to represent constituencies than by being elected. People might be found eccentric enough to vote for him in Mississippi, but meanwhile where should he find the twenty-dollar greenbacks which it was his ambition to transmit from time to time to his female relations, confined so constantly to a farinaceous diet? It came over him with some force that his opinions would not yield interest, and the evaporation75 of this pleasing hypothesis made him feel like a man in an open boat, at sea, who should just have parted with his last rag of canvas.
I shall not attempt a complete description of Ransom’s ill-starred views, being convinced that the reader will guess them as he goes, for they had a frolicsome76, ingenious way of peeping out of the young man’s conversation. I shall do them sufficient justice in saying that he was by natural disposition77 a good deal of a stoic78, and that, as the result of a considerable intellectual experience, he was, in social and political matters, a reactionary79. I suppose he was very conceited80, for he was much addicted81 to judging his age. He thought it talkative, querulous, hysterical82, maudlin83, full of false ideas, of unhealthy germs, of extravagant84, dissipated habits, for which a great reckoning was in store. He was an immense admirer of the late Thomas Carlyle, and was very suspicious of the encroachments of modern democracy. I know not exactly how these queer heresies85 had planted themselves, but he had a longish pedigree (it had flowered at one time with English royalists and cavaliers), and he seemed at moments to be inhabited by some transmitted spirit of a robust86 but narrow ancestor, some broad-faced wig-wearer or sword-bearer, with a more primitive87 conception of manhood than our modern temperament88 appears to require, and a programme of human felicity much less varied89. He liked his pedigree, he revered90 his forefathers91, and he rather pitied those who might come after him. In saying so, however, I betray him a little, for he never mentioned such feelings as these. Though he thought the age too talkative, as I have hinted, he liked to talk as well as any one; but he could hold his tongue, if that were more expressive, and he usually did so when his perplexities were greatest. He had been sitting for several evenings in a beer-cellar, smoking his pipe with a profundity92 of reticence93. This attitude was so unbroken that it marked a crisis — the complete, the acute consciousness of his personal situation. It was the cheapest way he knew of spending an evening. At this particular establishment the Schoppen were very tall and the beer was very good; and as the host and most of the guests were German, and their colloquial94 tongue was unknown to him, he was not drawn into any undue95 expenditure96 of speech. He watched his smoke and he thought, thought so hard that at last he appeared to himself to have exhausted97 the thinkable. When this moment of combined relief and dismay arrived (on the last of the evenings that we are concerned with), he took his way down Third Avenue and reached his humble98 dwelling99. Till within a short time there had been a resource for him at such an hour and in such a mood; a little variety-actress, who lived in the house, and with whom he had established the most cordial relations, was often having her supper (she took it somewhere, every night, after the theatre) in the dim, close dining-room, and he used to drop in and talk to her. But she had lately married, to his great amusement, and her husband had taken her on a wedding-tour, which was to be at the same time professional. On this occasion he mounted, with rather a heavy tread, to his rooms, where (on the rickety writing-table in the parlour) he found a note from Mrs. Luna. I need not reproduce it in extenso; a pale reflexion of it will serve. She reproached him with neglecting her, wanted to know what had become of him, whether he had grown too fashionable for a person who cared only for serious society. She accused him of having changed, and inquired as to the reason of his coldness. Was it too much to ask whether he could tell her at least in what manner she had offended him? She used to think they were so much in sympathy — he expressed her own ideas about everything so vividly100. She liked intellectual companionship, and she had none now. She hoped very much he would come and see her — as he used to do six months before — the following evening; and however much she might have sinned or he might have altered, she was at least always his affectionate cousin Adeline.
“What the deuce does she want of me now?” It was with this somewhat ungracious exclamation101 that he tossed away his cousin Adeline’s missive. The gesture might have indicated that he meant to take no notice of her; nevertheless, after a day had elapsed, he presented himself before her. He knew what she wanted of old — that is, a year ago; she had wanted him to look after her property and to be tutor to her son. He had lent himself, good-naturedly, to this desire — he was touched by so much confidence — but the experiment had speedily collapsed102. Mrs. Luna’s affairs were in the hands of trustees, who had complete care of them, and Ransom instantly perceived that his function would be simply to meddle103 in things that didn’t concern him. The levity104 with which she had exposed him to the derision of the lawful105 guardians106 of her fortune opened his eyes to some of the dangers of cousinship; nevertheless he said to himself that he might turn an honest penny by giving an hour or two every day to the education of her little boy. But this, too, proved a brief illusion. Ransom had to find his time in the afternoon; he left his business at five o’clock and remained with his young kinsman107 till the hour of dinner. At the end of a few weeks he thought himself lucky in retiring without broken shins. That Newton’s little nature was remarkable108 had often been insisted on by his mother; but it was remarkable, Ransom saw, for the absence of any of the qualities which attach a teacher to a pupil. He was in truth an insufferable child, entertaining for the Latin language a personal, physical hostility109, which expressed itself in convulsions of rage. During these paroxysms he kicked furiously at every one and everything — at poor “Rannie,” at his mother, at Messrs. Andrews and Stoddard, at the illustrious men of Rome, at the universe in general, to which, as he lay on his back on the carpet, he presented a pair of singularly active little heels. Mrs. Luna had a way of being present at his lessons, and when they passed, as sooner or later they were sure to, into the stage I have described, she interceded110 for her overwrought darling, reminded Ransom that these were the signs of an exquisite111 sensibility, begged that the child might be allowed to rest a little, and spent the remainder of the time in conversation with the preceptor. It came to seem to him, very soon, that he was not earning his fee; besides which, it was disagreeable to him to have pecuniary112 relations with a lady who had not the art of concealing113 from him that she liked to place him under obligations. He resigned his tutorship, and drew a long breath, having a vague feeling that he had escaped a danger. He could not have told you exactly what it was, and he had a certain sentimental114, provincial115 respect for women which even prevented him from attempting to give a name to it in his own thoughts. He was addicted with the ladies to the old forms of address and of gallantry; he held that they were delicate, agreeable creatures, whom Providence116 had placed under the protection of the bearded sex; and it was not merely a humorous idea with him that whatever might be the defects of Southern gentlemen, they were at any rate remarkable for their chivalry117. He was a man who still, in a slangy age, could pronounce that word with a perfectly serious face.
This boldness did not prevent him from thinking that women were essentially118 inferior to men, and infinitely119 tiresome120 when they declined to accept the lot which men had made for them. He had the most definite notions about their place in nature, in society, and was perfectly easy in his mind as to whether it excluded them from any proper homage121. The chivalrous122 man paid that tax with alacrity123. He admitted their rights; these consisted in a standing124 claim to the generosity125 and tenderness of the stronger race. The exercise of such feelings was full of advantage for both sexes, and they flowed most freely, of course, when women were gracious and grateful. It may be said that he had a higher conception of politeness than most of the persons who desired the advent126 of female law-makers. When I have added that he hated to see women eager and argumentative, and thought that their softness and docility127 were the inspiration, the opportunity (the highest) of man, I shall have sketched128 a state of mind which will doubtless strike many readers as painfully crude. It had prevented Basil Ransom, at any rate, from putting the dots on his i’s, as the French say, in this gradual discovery that Mrs. Luna was making love to him. The process went on a long time before he became aware of it. He had perceived very soon that she was a tremendously familiar little woman — that she took, more rapidly than he had ever known, a high degree of intimacy129 for granted. But as she had seemed to him neither very fresh nor very beautiful, so he could not easily have represented to himself why she should take it into her head to marry (it would never have occurred to him to doubt that she wanted marriage) an obscure and penniless Mississippian, with womenkind of his own to provide for. He could not guess that he answered to a certain secret ideal of Mrs. Luna’s, who loved the landed gentry130 even when landless, who adored a Southerner under any circumstances, who thought her kinsman a fine, manly131, melancholy132, disinterested133 type, and who was sure that her views of public matters, the questions of the age, the vulgar character of modern life, would meet with a perfect response in his mind. She could see by the way he talked that he was a conservative, and this was the motto inscribed134 upon her own silken banner. She took this unpopular line both by temperament and by reaction from her sister’s “extreme” views, the sight of the dreadful people that they brought about her. In reality, Olive was distinguished135 and discriminating136, and Adeline was the dupe of confusions in which the worse was apt to be mistaken for the better. She talked to Ransom about the inferiority of republics, the distressing137 persons she had met abroad in the legations of the United States, the bad manners of servants and shopkeepers in that country, the hope she entertained that “the good old families” would make a stand; but he never suspected that she cultivated these topics (her treatment of them struck him as highly comical) for the purpose of leading him to the altar, of beguiling138 the way. Least of all could he suppose that she would be indifferent to his want of income — a point in which he failed to do her justice; for, thinking the fact that he had remained poor a proof of delicacy139 in that shopkeeping age, it gave her much pleasure to reflect that, as Newton’s little property was settled on him (with safeguards which showed how long-headed poor Mr. Luna had been, and large-hearted, too, since to what he left her no disagreeable conditions, such as eternal mourning, for instance, were attached)— that as Newton, I say, enjoyed the pecuniary independence which befitted his character, her own income was ample even for two, and she might give herself the luxury of taking a husband who should owe her something. Basil Ransom did not divine all this, but he divined that it was not for nothing that Mrs. Luna wrote him little notes every other day, that she proposed to drive him in the Park at unnatural140 hours, and that when he said he had his business to attend to, she replied: “Oh, a plague on your business! I am sick of that word — one hears of nothing else in America. There are ways of getting on without business, if you would only take them!” He seldom answered her notes, and he disliked extremely the way in which, in spite of her love of form and order, she attempted to clamber in at the window of one’s house when one had locked the door; so that he began to interspace his visits considerably141, and at last made them very rare. When I reflect on his habits of almost superstitious142 politeness to women, it comes over me that some very strong motive143 must have operated to make him give his friendly — his only too friendly — cousin the cold shoulder. Nevertheless, when he received her reproachful letter (after it had had time to work a little), he said to himself that he had perhaps been unjust and even brutal144, and as he was easily touched by remorse145 of this kind, he took up the broken thread.
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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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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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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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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picturesquely
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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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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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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exiguous
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| adj.不足的，太少的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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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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truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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antediluvian
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| adj.史前的，陈旧的 | |
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asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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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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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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47
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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48
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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49
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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50
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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51
lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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52
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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53
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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54
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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55
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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56
remodelling
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| v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的现在分词 ) | |
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57
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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58
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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59
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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60
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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61
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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62
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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63
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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64
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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65
verities
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| n.真实( verity的名词复数 )；事实；真理；真实的陈述 | |
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66
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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67
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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68
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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69
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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70
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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71
memoranda
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| n. 备忘录, 便条 名词memorandum的复数形式 | |
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72
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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73
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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74
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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75
evaporation
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| n.蒸发，消失 | |
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76
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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77
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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78
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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79
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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80
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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81
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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82
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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83
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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84
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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85
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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86
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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87
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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88
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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89
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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90
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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92
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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93
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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94
colloquial
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| adj.口语的，会话的 | |
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95
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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96
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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97
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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98
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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99
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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100
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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101
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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102
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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103
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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104
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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105
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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106
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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107
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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108
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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109
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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110
interceded
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| v.斡旋，调解( intercede的过去式和过去分词 )；说情 | |
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111
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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112
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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113
concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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114
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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115
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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116
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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117
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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118
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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119
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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120
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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121
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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122
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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123
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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124
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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125
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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126
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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127
docility
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| n.容易教，易驾驶，驯服 | |
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128
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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129
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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130
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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131
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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132
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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133
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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134
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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135
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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136
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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137
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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138
beguiling
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| adj.欺骗的，诱人的v.欺骗( beguile的现在分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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139
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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140
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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141
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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142
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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143
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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144
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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145
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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