“Come out with me, Miss Tarrant; come out with me. Do come out with me.” That was what Basil Ransom1 had been saying to Verena when they stood where Olive perceived them, in the embrasure of the window. It had of course taken considerable talk to lead up to this; for the tone, even more than the words, indicated a large increase of intimacy2. Verena was mindful of this when he spoke3; and it frightened her a little, made her uneasy, which was one of the reasons why she got up from her chair and went to the window — an inconsequent movement, inasmuch as her wish was to impress upon him that it was impossible she should comply with his request. It would have served this end much better for her to sit, very firmly, in her place. He made her nervous and restless; she was beginning to perceive that he produced a peculiar4 effect upon her. Certainly, she had been out with him at home the very first time he called upon her; but it seemed to her to make an important difference that she herself should then have proposed the walk — simply because it was the easiest thing to do when a person came to see you in Monadnoc Place.
They had gone out that time because she wanted to, not because he did. And then it was one thing for her to stroll with him round Cambridge, where she knew every step and had the confidence and freedom which came from being on her own ground, and the pretext5, which was perfectly6 natural, of wanting to show him the colleges, and quite another thing to go wandering with him through the streets of this great strange city, which, attractive, delightful7 as it was, had not the suitableness even of being his home, not his real one. He wanted to show her something, he wanted to show her everything; but she was not sure now — after an hour’s talk — that she particularly wanted to see anything more that he could show her. He had shown her a great deal while he sat there, especially what balderdash he thought it — the whole idea of women’s being equal to men. He seemed to have come only for that, for he was all the while revolving8 round it; she couldn’t speak of anything but what he brought it back to the question of some new truth like that. He didn’t say so in so many words; on the contrary, he was tremendously insinuating9 and satirical, and pretended to think she had proved all and a great deal more than she wanted to prove; but his exaggeration, and the way he rung all the changes on two or three of the points she had made at Mrs. Burrage’s, were just the sign that he was a scoffer10 of scoffers. He wouldn’t do anything but laugh; he seemed to think that he might laugh at her all day without her taking offence. Well, he might if it amused him; but she didn’t see why she should ramble11 round New York with him to give him his opportunity.
She had told him, and she had told Olive, that she was determined12 to produce some effect on him; but now, suddenly, she felt differently about that — she ceased to care whether she produced any effect or not. She didn’t see why she should take him so seriously, when he wouldn’t take her so; that is, wouldn’t take her ideas. She had guessed before that he didn’t want to discuss them; this had been in her mind when she said to him at Cambridge that his interest in her was personal, not controversial. Then she had simply meant that, as an inquiring young Southerner, he had wanted to see what a bright New England girl was like; but since then it had become a little more clear to her — her short talk with Ransom at Mrs. Burrage’s threw some light upon the question — what the personal interest of a young Southerner (however inquiring merely) might amount to. Did he too want to make love to her? This idea made Verena rather impatient, weary in advance. The thing she desired least in the world was to be put into the wrong with Olive; for she had certainly given her ground to believe (not only in their scene the night before, which was a simple repetition, but all along, from the very first) that she really had an interest which would transcend14 any attraction coming from such a source as that. If yesterday it seemed to her that she should like to struggle with Mr. Ransom, to refute and convince him, she had this morning gone into the parlour to receive him with the idea that, now they were alone together in a quiet, favourable15 place, he would perhaps take up the different points of her address one by one, as several gentlemen had done after hearing her on other occasions. There was nothing she liked so well as that, and Olive never had anything to say against it. But he hadn’t taken up anything; he had simply laughed and chaffed, and unrolled a string of queer fancies about the delightful way women would fix things when, as she said in her address, they should get out of their box. He kept talking about the box; he seemed as if he wouldn’t let go that simile16. He said that he had come to look at her through the glass sides, and if he wasn’t afraid of hurting her he would smash them in. He was determined to find the key that would open it, if he had to look for it all over the world; it was tantalising only to be able to talk to her through the keyhole. If he didn’t want to take up the subject, he at least wanted to take her up — to keep his hand upon her as long as he could. Verena had had no such sensation since the first day she went in to see Olive Chancellor17, when she felt herself plucked from the earth and borne aloft.
“It’s the most lovely day, and I should like so much to show you New York, as you showed me your beautiful Harvard,” Basil Ransom went on, pressing her to accede18 to his proposal. “You said that was the only thing you could do for me then, and so this is the only thing I can do for you here. It would be odious19 to see you go away, giving me nothing but this stiff little talk in a boarding-house parlour.”
“Mercy, if you call this stiff!” Verena exclaimed, laughing, while at that moment Olive passed out of the house and descended20 the steps before her eyes.
“My poor cousin’s stiff; she won’t turn her head a hair’s breadth to look at us,” said the young man. Olive’s figure, as she went by, was, for Verena, full of a queer, touching21, tragic22 expression, saying ever so many things, both familiar and strange; and Basil Ransom’s companion privately23 remarked how little men knew about women, or indeed about what was really delicate, that he, without any cruel intention, should attach an idea of ridicule24 to such an incarnation of the pathetic, should speak rough, derisive25 words about it. Ransom, in truth, today, was not disposed to be very scrupulous26, and he only wanted to get rid of Olive Chancellor, whose image, at last, decidedly bothered and bored him. He was glad to see her go out; but that was not sufficient, she would come back quick enough; the place itself contained her, expressed her. For today he wanted to take possession of Verena, to carry her to a distance, to reproduce a little the happy conditions they had enjoyed the day of his visit to Cambridge. And the fact that in the nature of things it could only be for today made his desire more keen, more full of purpose. He had thought over the whole question in the last forty-eight hours, and it was his belief that he saw things in their absolute reality. He took a greater interest in her than he had taken in any one yet, but he proposed, after today, not to let that accident make any difference. This was precisely27 what gave its high value to the present limited occasion. He was too shamefully28 poor, too shabbily and meagrely equipped, to have the right to talk of marriage to a girl in Verena’s very peculiar position. He understood now how good that position was, from a worldly point of view; her address at Mrs. Burrage’s gave him something definite to go upon, showed him what she could do, that people would flock in thousands to an exhibition so charming (and small blame to them); that she might easily have a big career, like that of a distinguished29 actress or singer, and that she would make money in quantities only slightly smaller than performers of that kind. Who wouldn’t pay half a dollar for such an hour as he had passed at Mrs. Burrage’s? The sort of thing she was able to do, to say, was an article for which there was more and more demand — fluent, pretty, third-rate palaver30, conscious or unconscious perfected humbug31; the stupid, gregarious32, gullible33 public, the enlightened democracy of his native land, could swallow unlimited34 draughts35 of it. He was sure she could go, like that, for several years, with her portrait in the druggists’ windows and her posters on the fences, and during that time would make a fortune sufficient to keep her in affluence36 for evermore. I shall perhaps expose our young man to the contempt of superior minds if I say that all this seemed to him an insuperable impediment to his making up to Verena. His scruples38 were doubtless begotten39 of a false pride, a sentiment in which there was a thread of moral tinsel, as there was in the Southern idea of chivalry40; but he felt ashamed of his own poverty, the positive flatness of his situation, when he thought of the gilded41 nimbus that surrounded the protégée of Mrs. Burrage. This shame was possible to him even while he was conscious of what a mean business it was to practise upon human imbecility, how much better it was even to be seedy and obscure, discouraged about one’s self. He had been born to the prospect42 of a fortune, and in spite of the years of misery43 that followed the war had never rid himself of the belief that a gentleman who desired to unite himself to a charming girl couldn’t yet ask her to come and live with him in sordid44 conditions. On the other hand it was no possible basis of matrimony that Verena should continue for his advantage the exercise of her remunerative45 profession; if he should become her husband he should know a way to strike her dumb. In the midst of this an irrepressible desire urged him on to taste, for once, deeply, all that he was condemned46 to lose, or at any rate forbidden to attempt to gain. To spend a day with her and not to see her again — that presented itself to him at once as the least and the most that was possible. He did not need even to remind himself that young Mr. Burrage was able to offer her everything he lacked, including the most amiable47 adhesion to her views.
“It will be charming in the Park today. Why not take a stroll with me there as I did with you in the little park at Harvard?” he asked, when Olive had disappeared.
“Oh, I have seen it, very well, in every corner. A friend of mine kindly48 took me to drive there yesterday,” Verena said.
“A friend?— do you mean Mr. Burrage?” And Ransom stood looking at her with his extraordinary eyes. “Of course, I haven’t a vehicle to drive you in; but we can sit on a bench and talk.” She didn’t say it was Mr. Burrage, but she was unable to say it was not, and something in her face showed him that he had guessed. So he went on: “Is it only with him you can go out? Won’t he like it, and may you only do what he likes? Mrs. Luna told me he wants to marry you, and I saw at his mother’s how he stuck to you. If you are going to marry him, you can drive with him every day in the year, and that’s just a reason for your giving me an hour or two now, before it becomes impossible.” He didn’t mind much what he said — it had been his plan not to mind much today — and so long as he made her do what he wanted he didn’t care much how he did it. But he saw that his words brought the colour to her face; she stared, surprised at his freedom and familiarity. He went on, dropping the hardness, the irony49 of which he was conscious, out of his tone. “I know it’s no business of mine whom you marry, or even whom you drive with, and I beg your pardon if I seem indiscreet and obtrusive50; but I would give anything just to detach you a little from your ties, your belongings51, and feel for an hour or two, as if — as if ——” And he paused.
“As if what?” she asked, very seriously.
“As if there were no such person as Mr. Burrage — as Miss Chancellor — in the whole place.” This had not been what he was going to say; he used different words.
“I don’t know what you mean, why you speak of other persons. I can do as I like, perfectly. But I don’t know why you should take so for granted that that would be it!” Verena spoke these words not out of coquetry, or to make him beg her more for a favour, but because she was thinking, and she wanted to gain a moment. His allusion52 to Henry Burrage touched her, his belief that she had been in the Park under circumstances more agreeable than those he proposed. They were not; somehow, she wanted him to know that. To wander there with a companion, slowly stopping, lounging, looking at the animals as she had seen the people do the day before; to sit down in some out-of-the-way part where there were distant views, which she had noticed from her high perch53 beside Henry Burrage — she had to look down so, it made her feel unduly54 fine: that was much more to her taste, much more her idea of true enjoyment55. It came over her that Mr. Ransom had given up his work to come to her at such an hour; people of his kind, in the morning, were always getting their living, and it was only for Mr. Burrage that it didn’t matter, inasmuch as he had no profession. Mr. Ransom simply wanted to give up his whole day. That pressed upon her; she was, as the most good-natured girl in the world, too entirely56 tender not to feel any sacrifice that was made for her; she had always done everything that people asked. Then, if Olive should make that strange arrangement for her to go to Mrs. Burrage’s he would take it as a proof that there was something serious between her and the gentleman of the house, in spite of anything she might say to the contrary; moreover, if she should go she wouldn’t be able to receive Mr. Ransom there. Olive would trust her not to, and she must certainly, in future, not disappoint Olive nor keep anything back from her, whatever she might have done in the past. Besides, she didn’t want to do that; she thought it much better not. It was this idea of the episode which was possibly in store for her in New York, and from which her present companion would be so completely excluded, that worked upon her now with a rapid transition, urging her to grant him what he asked, so that in advance she should have made up for what she might not do for him later. But most of all she disliked his thinking she was engaged to some one. She didn’t know, it is true, why she should mind it; and indeed, at this moment, our young lady’s feelings were not in any way clear to her. She did not see what was the use of letting her acquaintance with Mr. Ransom become much closer (since his interest did really seem personal); and yet she presently asked him why he wanted her to go out with him, and whether there was anything particular he wanted to say to her (there was no one like Verena for making speeches apparently57 flirtatious58, with the best faith and the most innocent intention in the world); as if that would not be precisely a reason to make it well she should get rid of him altogether.
“Of course I have something particular to say to you — I have a tremendous lot to say to you!” the young man exclaimed. “Far more than I can say in this stuck-up, confined room, which is public, too, so that any one may come in from one moment to another. Besides,” he added sophistically, “it isn’t proper for me to pay a visit of three hours.”
Verena did not take up the sophistry59, nor ask him whether it would be more proper for her to ramble about the city with him for an equal period; she only said, “Is it something that I shall care to hear, or that will do me any good?”
“Well, I hope it will do you good; but I don’t suppose you will care much to hear it.” Basil Ransom hesitated a moment, smiling at her; then he went on: “It’s to tell you, once for all, how much I really do differ from you!” He said this at a venture, but it was a happy inspiration.
If it was only that, Verena thought she might go, for that was not personal. “Well, I’m glad you care so much,” she answered musingly60. But she had another scruple37 still, and she expressed it in saying that she should like Olive very much to find her when she came in.
“That’s all very well,” Ransom returned; “but does she think that she only has a right to go out? Does she expect you to keep the house because she’s abroad? If she stays out long enough, she will find you when she comes in.”
“Her going out that way — it proves that she trusts me,” Verena said, with a candour which alarmed her as soon as she had spoken.
Her alarm was just, for Basil Ransom instantly caught up her words, with a great mocking amazement61. “Trusts you? and why shouldn’t she trust you? Are you a little girl of ten and she your governess? Haven’t you any liberty at all, and is she always watching you and holding you to an account? Have you such vagabond instincts that you are only thought safe when you are between four walls?” Ransom was going on to speak, in the same tone, of her having felt it necessary to keep Olive in ignorance of his visit to Cambridge — a fact they had touched on, by implication, in their short talk at Mrs. Burrage’s; but in a moment he saw that he had said enough. As for Verena, she had said more than she meant, and the simplest way to unsay it was to go and get her bonnet63 and jacket and let him take her where he liked. Five minutes later he was walking up and down the parlour, waiting while she prepared herself to go out.
They went up to the Central Park by the elevated railway, and Verena reflected, as they proceeded, that anyway Olive was probably disposing of her somehow at Mrs. Burrage’s, and that therefore there wasn’t much harm in her just taking this little run on her own responsibility, especially as she should only be out an hour — which would be just the duration of Olive’s absence. The beauty of the “elevated” was that it took you up to the Park and brought you back in a few minutes, and you had all the rest of the hour to walk about and see the place. It was so pleasant now that one was glad to see it twice over. The long, narrow enclosure, across which the houses in the streets that border it look at each other with their glittering windows, bristled64 with the raw delicacy65 of April, and, in spite of its rockwork grottoes and tunnels, its pavilions and statues, its too numerous paths and pavements, lakes too big for the landscape and bridges too big for the lakes, expressed all the fragrance66 and freshness of the most charming moment of the year. Once Verena was fairly launched the spirit of the day took possession of her; she was glad to have come, she forgot about Olive, enjoyed the sense of wandering in the great city with a remarkable67 young man who would take beautiful care of her, while no one else in the world knew where she was. It was very different from her drive yesterday with Mr. Burrage, but it was more free, more intense, more full of amusing incident and opportunity. She could stop and look at everything now, and indulge all her curiosities, even the most childish; she could feel as if she were out for the day, though she was not really — as she had not done since she was a little girl, when in the country, once or twice, when her father and mother had drifted into summer quarters, gone out of town like people of fashion, she had, with a chance companion, strayed far from home, spent hours in the woods and fields, looking for raspberries and playing she was a gipsy. Basil Ransom had begun with proposing, strenuously68, that she should come somewhere and have luncheon69; he had brought her out half an hour before that meal was served in West Tenth Street, and he maintained that he owed her the compensation of seeing that she was properly fed; he knew a very quiet, luxurious70 French restaurant, near the top of the Fifth Avenue: he didn’t tell her that he knew it through having once lunched there in company with Mrs. Luna. Verena for the present declined his hospitality — said she was going to be out so short a time that it wasn’t worth the trouble; she should not be hungry, luncheon to her was nothing, she would eat when she went home. When he pressed her she said she would see later, perhaps, if she should find she wanted something. She would have liked immensely to go with him to an eating-house, and yet, with this, she was afraid, just as she was rather afraid, at bottom, and in the intervals71 of her quick pulsations of amusement, of the whole expedition, not knowing why she had come, though it made her happy, and reflecting that there was really nothing Mr. Ransom could have to say to her that would concern her closely enough. He knew what he intended about her sharing the noon-day repast with him somehow; it had been part of his plan that she should sit opposite him at a little table, taking her napkin out of its curious folds — sit there smiling back at him while he said to her certain things that hummed, like memories of tunes72, in his fancy, and they waited till something extremely good, and a little vague, chosen out of a French carte, was brought them. That was not at all compatible with her going home at the end of half an hour, as she seemed to expect to. They visited the animals in the little zoological garden which forms one of the attractions of the Central Park; they observed the swans in the ornamental73 water, and they even considered the question of taking a boat for half an hour, Ransom saying that they needed this to make their visit complete. Verena replied that she didn’t see why it should be complete, and after having threaded the devious74 ways of the Ramble, lost themselves in the Maze62, and admired all the statues and busts75 of great men with which the grounds are decorated, they contented76 themselves with resting on a sequestered77 bench, where, however, there was a pretty glimpse of the distance and an occasional stroller creaked by on the asphalt walk.
They had had by this time a great deal of talk, none of which, nevertheless, had been serious to Verena’s view. Mr. Ransom continued to joke about everything, including the emancipation78 of women; Verena, who had always lived with people who took the world very earnestly, had never encountered such a power of disparagement79 or heard so much sarcasm80 levelled at the institutions of her country and the tendencies of the age. At first she replied to him, contradicted, showed a high spirit of retort, turning his irreverence81 against himself; she was too quick and ingenious not to be able to think of something to oppose — talking in a fanciful strain — to almost everything he said. But little by little she grew weary and rather sad; brought up, as she had been, to admire new ideas, to criticise82 the social arrangements that one met almost everywhere, and to disapprove83 of a great many things, she had yet never dreamed of such a wholesale84 arraignment85 as Mr. Ransom’s, so much bitterness as she saw lurking86 beneath his exaggerations, his misrepresentations. She knew he was an intense conservative, but she didn’t know that being a conservative could make a person so aggressive and unmerciful. She thought conservatives were only smug and stubborn and self-complacent, satisfied with what actually existed; but Mr. Ransom didn’t seem any more satisfied with what existed than with what she wanted to exist, and he was ready to say worse things about some of those whom she would have supposed to be on his own side than she thought it right to say about almost any one. She ceased after a while to care to argue with him, and wondered what could have happened to him to make him so perverse87. Probably something had gone wrong in his life — he had had some misfortune that coloured his whole view of the world. He was a cynic; she had often heard about that state of mind, though she had never encountered it, for all the people she had seen only cared, if possible, too much. Of Basil Ransom’s personal history she knew only what Olive had told her, and that was but a general outline, which left plenty of room for private dramas, secret disappointments and sufferings. As she sat there beside him she thought of some of these things, asked herself whether they were what he was thinking of when he said, for instance, that he was sick of all the modern cant88 about freedom and had no sympathy with those who wanted an extension of it. What was needed for the good of the world was that people should make a better use of the liberty they possessed89. Such declarations as this took Verena’s breath away; she didn’t suppose you could hear any one say such a thing as that in the nineteenth century, even the least advanced. It was of a piece with his denouncing the spread of education; he thought the spread of education a gigantic farce90 — people stuffing their heads with a lot of empty catchwords that prevented them from doing their work quietly and honestly. You had a right to an education only if you had an intelligence, and if you looked at the matter with any desire to see things as they are you soon perceived that an intelligence was a very rare luxury, the attribute of one person in a hundred. He seemed to take a pretty low view of humanity, anyway. Verena hoped that something really bad had happened to him — not by way of gratifying any resentment91 he aroused in her nature, but to help herself to forgive him for so much contempt and brutality92. She wanted to forgive him, for after they had sat on their bench half an hour and his jesting mood had abated93 a little, so that he talked with more consideration (as it seemed) and more sincerity94, a strange feeling came over her, a perfect willingness not to keep insisting on her own side and a desire not to part from him with a mere13 accentuation of their differences. Strange I call the nature of her reflexions, for they softly battled with each other as she listened, in the warm, still air, touched with the far-away hum of the immense city, to his deep, sweet, distinct voice, expressing monstrous95 opinions with exotic cadences96 and mild, familiar laughs, which, as he leaned towards her, almost tickled97 her cheek and ear. It seemed to her strangely harsh, almost cruel, to have brought her out only to say to her things which, after all, free as she was to contradict them and tolerant as she always tried to be, could only give her pain; yet there was a spell upon her as she listened; it was in her nature to be easily submissive, to like being overborne. She could be silent when people insisted, and silent without acrimony. Her whole relation to Olive was a kind of tacit, tender assent98 to passionate99 insistence100, and if this had ended by being easy and agreeable to her (and indeed had never been anything else), it may be supposed that the struggle of yielding to a will which she felt to be stronger even than Olive’s was not of long duration. Ransom’s will had the effect of making her linger even while she knew the afternoon was going on, that Olive would have come back and found her still absent, and would have been submerged again in the bitter waves of anxiety. She saw her, in fact, as she must be at that moment, posted at the window of her room in Tenth Street, watching for some sign of her return, listening for her step on the staircase, her voice in the hall. Verena looked at this image as at a painted picture, perceived all it represented, every detail. If it didn’t move her more, make her start to her feet, dart101 away from Basil Ransom and hurry back to her friend, this was because the very torment102 to which she was conscious of subjecting that friend made her say to herself that it must be the very last. This was the last time she could ever sit by Mr. Ransom and hear him express himself in a manner that interfered103 so with her life; the ordeal104 had been so personal and so complete that she forgot, for the moment, it was also the first time it had occurred. It might have been going on for months. She was perfectly aware that it could bring them to nothing, for one must lead one’s own life; it was impossible to lead the life of another, especially when that other was so different, so arbitrary and unscrupulous.
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ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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transcend
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| vt.超出，超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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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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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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derisive
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| adj.嘲弄的 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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27
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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28
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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29
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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30
palaver
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| adj.壮丽堂皇的；n.废话，空话 | |
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31
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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32
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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33
gullible
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| adj.易受骗的；轻信的 | |
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34
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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35
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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36
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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37
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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40
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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41
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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42
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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43
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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44
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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45
remunerative
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| adj.有报酬的 | |
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46
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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47
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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48
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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49
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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50
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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51
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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52
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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53
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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54
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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55
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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56
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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57
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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58
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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59
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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60
musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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61
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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63
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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bristled
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| adj. 直立的，多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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66
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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67
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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69
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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72
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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73
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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75
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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76
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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77
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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78
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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79
disparagement
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| n.轻视，轻蔑 | |
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80
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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81
irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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82
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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83
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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84
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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85
arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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86
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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87
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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88
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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89
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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90
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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91
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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92
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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93
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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94
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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95
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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96
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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97
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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98
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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99
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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100
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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101
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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102
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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103
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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104
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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