A Drive in Sunlight and a Drive in Moonlight
The fatal time to come for her was in the Summer of that year.
Emma had written her a letter of unwonted bright spirits, contrasting strangely with an inexplicable1 oppression of her own that led her to imagine her recent placid2 life the pause before thunder, and to sharp the mood of her solitary3 friend she flew to Copsley, finding Sir Lukin absent, as usual. They drove out immediately after breakfast, on one of those high mornings of the bared bosom4 of June when distances are given to our eyes, and a soft air fondles leaf and grass-blade, and beauty and peace are overhead, reflected, if we will. Rain had fallen in the night. Here and there hung a milk-white cloud with folded sail. The South-west left it in its bay of blue, and breathed below. At moments the fresh scent5 of herb and mould swung richly in warmth. The young beech-leaves glittered, pools of rain-water made the roadways laugh, the grass-banks under hedges rolled their interwoven weeds in cascades6 of many-shaded green to right and left of the pair of dappled ponies7, and a squirrel crossed ahead, a lark8 went up a little way to ease his heart, closing his wings when the burst was over, startled black-birds, darting9 with a clamour like a broken cockcrow, looped the wayside woods from hazel to oak-scrub; short flights, quick spirts everywhere, steady sunshine above.
Diana held the reins10. The whip was an ornament11, as the plume12 of feathers to the general officer. Lady Dunstane’s ponies were a present from Redworth, who always chose the pick of the land for his gifts. They joyed in their trot13, and were the very love-birds of the breed for their pleasure of going together, so like that Diana called them the Dromios. Through an old gravel-cutting a gateway14 led to the turf of the down, springy turf bordered on a long line, clear as a racecourse, by golden gorse covers, and leftward over the gorse the dark ridge15 of the fir and heath country ran companionably to the Southwest, the valley between, with undulations of wood and meadow sunned or shaded, clumps16, mounds17, promontories18, away to broad spaces of tillage banked by wooded hills, and dimmer beyond and farther, the faintest shadowiness of heights, as a veil to the illimitable. Yews19, junipers, radiant beeches21, and gleams of the service-tree or the white-beam spotted22 the semicircle of swelling23 green Down black and silver. The sun in the valley sharpened his beams on squares of buttercups, and made a pond a diamond.
‘You see, Tony,’ Emma said, for a comment on the scene, ‘I could envy Italy for having you, more than you for being in Italy.’
‘Feature and colour!’ said Diana. ‘You have them here, and on a scale that one can embrace. I should like to build a hut on this point, and wait for such a day to return. It brings me to life.’ She lifted her eyelids24 on her friend’s worn sweet face, and knowing her this friend up to death, past it in her hopes, she said bravely, ‘It is the Emma of days and scenes to me! It helps me to forget myself, as I do when I think of you, dearest; but the subject has latterly been haunting me, I don’t know why, and ominously25, as if my nature were about to horrify26 my soul. But I am not sentimentalizing, you are really this day and scene in my heart.’
Emma smiled confidingly28. She spoke29 her reflection: ‘The heart must be troubled a little to have the thought. The flower I gather here tells me that we may be happy in privation and suffering if simply we can accept beauty. I won’t say expel the passions, but keep passion sober, a trotter in harness.’
Diana caressed30 the ponies’ heads with the droop31 of her whip: ‘I don’t think I know him!’ she said.
Between sincerity32 and a suspicion so cloaked and dull that she did not feel it to be the opposite of candour, she fancied she was passionless because she could accept the visible beauty, which was Emma’s prescription33 and test; and she forced herself to make much of it, cling to it, devour34 it; with envy of Emma’s contemplative happiness, through whose grave mind she tried to get to the peace in it, imagining that she succeeded. The cloaked and dull suspicion weighed within her nevertheless. She took it for a mania35 to speculate on herself. There are states of the crimson36 blood when the keenest wits are childish, notably37 in great-hearted women aiming at the majesty38 of their sex and fearful of confounding it by the look direct and the downright word. Yet her nature compelled her inwardly to phrase the sentence: ‘Emma is a wife!’ The character of her husband was not considered, nor was the meaning of the exclamation39 pursued.
They drove through the gorse into wild land of heath and flowering hawthorn40, and along by tracts41 of yew20 and juniper to another point, jutting42 on a furzy sand-mound, rich with the mild splendour of English scenery, which Emma stamped on her friend’s mind by saying: ‘A cripple has little to envy in you who can fly when she has feasts like these at her doors.’
They had an inclination43 to boast on the drive home of the solitude44 they had enjoyed; and just then, as the road in the wood wound under great beeches, they beheld45 a London hat. The hat was plucked from its head. A clear-faced youth, rather flushed, dusty at the legs, addressed Diana.
‘Mr. Rhodes!’ she said, not discouragingly.
She was petitioned to excuse him; he thought she would wish to hear the news in town last night as early as possible; he hesitated and murmured it.
Diana turned to Emma: ‘Lord Dannisburgh!’ her paleness told the rest.
Hearing from Mr. Rhodes that he had walked the distance from town, and had been to Copsley, Lady Dunstane invited him to follow the pony-carriage thither46, where he was fed and refreshed by a tea-breakfast, as he preferred walking on tea, he said. ‘I took the liberty to call at Mrs. Warwick’s house,’ he informed her; ‘the footman said she was at Copsley. I found it on the map—I knew the directions—and started about two in the morning. I wanted a walk.’
It was evident to her that he was one of the young squires47 bewitched whom beautiful women are constantly enlisting49. There was no concealment50 of it, though he stirred a sad enviousness in the invalid51 lady by descanting on the raptures52 of a walk out of London in the youngest light of day, and on the common objects he had noticed along the roadside, and through the woods, more sustaining, closer with nature than her compulsory53 feeding on the cream of things.
‘You are not fatigued54?’ she inquired, hoping for that confession56 at least; but she pardoned his boyish vaunting to walk the distance back without any fatigue55 at all.
He had a sweeter reward for his pains; and if the business of the chronicler allowed him to become attached to pure throbbing57 felicity wherever it is encountered, he might be diverted by the blissful unexpectedness of good fortune befalling Mr. Arthur Rhodes in having the honour to conduct Mrs. Warwick to town. No imagined happiness, even in the heart of a young man of two and twenty, could have matched it. He was by her side, hearing and seeing her, not less than four hours. To add to his happiness, Lady Dunstane said she would be glad to welcome him again. She thought him a pleasant specimen58 of the self-vowed squire48.
Diana was sure that there would be a communication for her of some sort at her house in London; perhaps a message of farewell from the dying lord, now dead. Mr. Rhodes had only the news of the evening journals, to the effect that Lord Dannisburgh had expired at his residence, the Priory, Hallowmere, in Hampshire. A message of farewell from him, she hoped for: knowing him as she did, it seemed a certainty; and she hungered for that last gleam of life in her friend. She had no anticipation59 of the burden of the message awaiting her.
A consultation60 as to the despatching of the message, had taken place among the members of Lord Dannisburgh’s family present at his death. Percy Dacier was one of them, and he settled the disputed point, after some time had been spent in persuading his father to take the plain view of obligation in the matter, and in opposing the dowager countess, his grandmother, by stating that he had already sent a special messenger to London. Lord Dannisburgh on his death-bed had expressed a wish that Mrs. Warwick would sit with him for an hour one night before the nails were knocked in his coffin61. He spoke of it twice, putting it the second time to Percy as a formal request to be made to her, and Percy had promised him that Mrs. Warwick should have the message. He had done his best to keep his pledge, aware of the disrelish of the whole family for the lady’s name, to say nothing of her presence.
‘She won’t come,’ said the earl.
‘She’ll come,’ said old Lady Dacier.
‘If the woman respects herself she’ll hold off it,’ the earl insisted because of his desire that way. He signified in mutterings that the thing was improper62 and absurd, a piece of sentiment, sickly senility, unlike Lord Dannisburgh. Also that Percy had been guilty of excessive folly63.
To which Lady Dacier nodded her assent64, remarking, ‘The woman is on her mettle65. From what I’ve heard of her, she’s not a woman to stick at trifles. She’ll take it as a sort of ordeal66 by touch, and she’ll come.’
They joined in abusing Percy, who had driven away to another part of the country. Lord Creedmore, the heir of the house, was absent, hunting in America, or he might temporarily have been taken into favour by contrast. Ultimately they agreed that the woman must be allowed to enter the house, but could not be received. The earl was a widower67; his mother managed the family, and being hard to convince, she customarily carried her point, save when it involved Percy’s freedom of action. She was one of the veterans of her sex that age to toughness; and the ‘hysterical fuss’ she apprehended68 in the visit of this woman to Lord Dannisburgh’s death-bed and body, did not alarm her. For the sake of the household she determined69 to remain, shut up in her room. Before night the house was empty of any members of the family excepting old Lady Dacier and the outstretched figure on the bed.
Dacier fled to escape the hearing of the numberless ejaculations reawakened in the family by his uncle’s extraordinary dying request. They were an outrage70 to the lady, of whom he could now speak as a privileged champion; and the request itself had an air of proving her stainless71, a white soul and efficacious advocate at the celestial72 gates (reading the mind of the dying man). So he thought at one moment: he had thought so when charged with the message to her; had even thought it a natural wish that she should look once on the face she would see no more, and say farewell to it, considering that in life it could not be requested. But the susceptibility to sentimental27 emotion beside a death-bed, with a dying man’s voice in the ear, requires fortification if it is to be maintained;’ and the review of his uncle’s character did not tend to make this very singular request a proof that the lady’s innocence73 was honoured in it. His epicurean uncle had no profound esteem74 for the kind of innocence. He had always talked of Mrs. Warwick—with warm respect for her: Dacier knew that he had bequeathed her a sum of money. The inferences were either way. Lord Dannisburgh never spoke evilly of any woman, and he was perhaps bound to indemnify her materially as well as he could for what she had suffered.—On the other hand, how easy it was to be the dupe of a woman so handsome and clever.—Unlikely too that his uncle would consent to sit at the Platonic75 banquet with her.—Judging by himself, Dacier deemed it possible for man. He was not quick to kindle76, and had lately seen much of her, had found her a Lady Egeria, helpful in counsel, prompting, inspiriting, reviving as well-waters, and as temperately77 cool: not one sign of native slipperiness. Nor did she stir the mud in him upon which proud man is built. The shadow of the scandal had checked a few shifty sensations rising now and then of their own accord, and had laid them, with the lady’s benign78 connivance79. This was good proof in her favour, seeing that she must have perceived of late the besetting80 thirst he had for her company; and alone or in the medley81 equally. To see her, hear, exchange ideas with her; and to talk of new books, try to listen to music at the opera and at concerts, and admire her playing of hostess, were novel pleasures, giving him fresh notions of life, and strengthening rather than disturbing the course of his life’s business.
At any rate, she was capable of friendship. Why not resolutely82 believe that she had been his uncle’s true and simple friend! He adopted the resolution, thanking her for one recognized fact:—he hated marriage, and would by this time have been in the yoke83, but for the agreeable deviation84 of his path to her society. Since his visit to Copsley, moreover, Lady Dunstane’s idolizing, of her friend had influenced him. Reflecting on it, he recovered from the shock which his uncle’s request had caused.
Certain positive calculations were running side by side with the speculations85 in vapour. His messenger would reach her house at about four of the afternoon. If then at home, would she decide to start immediately?—Would she come? That was a question he did not delay to answer. Would she defer86 the visit? Death replied to that. She would not delay it.
She would be sure to come at once. And what of the welcome she would meet? Leaving the station at London at six in the evening, she might arrive at the Priory, all impediments counted, between ten and eleven at night. Thence, coldly greeted, or not greeted, to the chamber87 of death.
A pitiable and cruel reception for a woman upon such a mission!
His mingled88 calculations and meditations89 reached that exclamatory terminus in feeling, and settled on the picture of Diana, about as clear as light to blinking eyes, but enough for him to realize her being there and alone, woefully alone. The supposition of an absolute loneliness was most possible. He had intended to drive back the next day, when the domestic storm would be over, and take the chances of her coming. It seemed now a piece of duty to return at night, a traverse of twenty rough up and down miles from Itchenford to the heath-land rolling on the chalk wave of the Surrey borders, easily done after the remonstrances90 of his host were stopped.
Dacier sat in an open carriage, facing a slip of bright moon. Poetical91 impressions, emotions, any stirrings of his mind by the sensational92 stamp on it, were new to him, and while he swam in them, both lulled93 and pricked94 by his novel accessibility to nature’s lyrical touch, he asked himself whether, if he were near the throes of death, the thought of having Diana Warwick to sit beside his vacant semblance95 for an hour at night would be comforting. And why had his uncle specified96 an hour of the night? It was a sentiment, like the request: curious in a man so little sentimental. Yonder crescent running the shadowy round of the hoop97 roused comparisons. Would one really wish to have her beside one in death? In life—ah! But suppose her denied to us in life. Then the desire for her companionship appears passingly comprehensible. Enter into the sentiment, you see that the hour of darkness is naturally chosen. And would even a grand old Pagan crave98 the presence beside his dead body for an hour of the night of a woman he did not esteem? Dacier answered no. The negative was not echoed in his mind. He repeated it, and to the same deadness.
He became aware that he had spoken for himself, and he had a fit of sourness. For who can say he is not a fool before he has been tried by a woman! Dacier’s wretched tendency under vexation to conceive grotesque99 analogies, anti-poetic, not to say cockney similes100, which had slightly chilled Diana at Rovio, set him looking at yonder crescent with the hoop, as at the shape of a white cat climbing a wheel. Men of the northern blood will sometimes lend their assent to poetical images, even to those that do not stun101 the mind lie bludgeons and imperatively102, by much repetition, command their assent; and it is for a solid exchange and interest in usury103 with soft poetical creatures when they are so condescending104; but they are seized by the grotesque. In spite of efforts to efface105 or supplant106 it, he saw the white cat, nothing else, even to thinking that she had jumped cleverly to catch the wheel. He was a true descendant of practical hard-grained fighting Northerners, of gnarled dwarf107 imaginations, chivalrous108 though they were, and heroes to have serviceable and valiant109 gentlemen for issue. Without at all tracing back to its origin his detestable image of the white cat on the dead circle, he kicked at the links between his uncle and Diana Warwick, whatever they had been; particularly at the present revival110 of them. Old Lady Dacier’s blunt speech, and his father’s fixed111 opinion, hissed112 in his head.
They were ignorant of his autumnal visit to the Italian Lakes, after the winter’s Nile-boat expedition; and also of the degree of his recent intimacy113 with Mrs. Warwick; or else, as he knew, he would have heard more hissing114 things. Her patronage115 of Miss Paynham exposed her to attacks where she was deemed vulnerable; Lady Dacier muttered old saws as to the flocking of birds; he did not accurately116 understand it, thought it indiscreet, at best. But in regard to his experience, he could tell himself that a woman more guileless of luring117 never drew breath. On the contrary, candour said it had always been he who had schemed and pressed for the meeting. He was at liberty to do it, not being bound in honour elsewhere. Besides, despite his acknowledgement of her beauty, Mrs. Warwick was not quite his ideal of the perfectly118 beautiful woman.
Constance Asper came nearer to it. He had the English taste for red and white, and for cold outlines: he secretly admired a statuesque demeanour with a statue’s eyes. The national approbation119 of a reserved haughtiness120 in woman, a tempered disdain121 in her slightly lifted small upperlip and drooped122 eyelids, was shared by him; and Constance Asper, if not exactly aristocratic by birth, stood well for that aristocratic insular123 type, which seems to promise the husband of it a casket of all the trusty virtues124, as well as the security of frigidity125 in the casket. Such was Dacier’s native taste; consequently the attractions of Diana Warwick for him were, he thought, chiefly mental, those of a Lady Egeria. She might or might not be good, in the vulgar sense. She was an agreeable woman, an amusing companion, very suggestive, inciting126, animating127; and her past history must be left as her own. Did it matter to him? What he saw was bright, a silver crescent on the side of the shadowy ring. Were it a question of marrying her!—That was out of the possibilities. He remembered, moreover, having heard from a man, who professed128 to know, that Mrs. Warwick had started in married life by treating her husband cavalierly to an intolerable degree: ‘Such as no Englishman could stand,’ the portly old informant thundered, describing it and her in racy vernacular129. She might be a devil of a wife. She was a pleasant friend; just the soft bit sweeter than male friends which gave the flavour of sex without the artful seductions. He required them strong to move him.
He looked at last on the green walls of the Priory, scarcely supposing a fair watcher to be within; for the contrasting pale colours of dawn had ceased to quicken the brilliancy of the crescent, and summer daylight drowned it to fainter than a silver coin in water. It lay dispieced like a pulled rag. Eastward130, over Surrey, stood the full rose of morning. The Priory clock struck four. When the summons of the bell had gained him admittance, and he heard that Mrs. Warwick had come in the night, he looked back through the doorway131 at the rosy132 colour, and congratulated himself to think that her hour of watching was at an end. A sleepy footman was his informant. Women were in my lord’s dressing-room, he said. Upstairs, at the death-chamber, Dacier paused. No sound came to him. He hurried to his own room, paced about, and returned. Expecting to see no one but the dead, he turned the handle, and the two circles of a shaded lamp, on ceiling and on table, met his gaze.
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1
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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cascades
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| 倾泻( cascade的名词复数 )； 小瀑布（尤指一连串瀑布中的一支）； 瀑布状物； 倾泻（或涌出）的东西 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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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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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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horrify
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| vt.使恐怖，使恐惧，使惊骇 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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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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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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46
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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47
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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48
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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49
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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50
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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51
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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52
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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53
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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54
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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55
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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56
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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57
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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58
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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59
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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60
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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61
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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62
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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63
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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64
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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65
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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66
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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67
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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68
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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69
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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70
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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71
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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72
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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73
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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74
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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75
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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76
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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77
temperately
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| adv.节制地，适度地 | |
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78
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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connivance
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| n.纵容；默许 | |
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80
besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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81
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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82
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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83
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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84
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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85
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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86
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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87
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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88
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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89
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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90
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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91
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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93
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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94
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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95
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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96
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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97
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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98
crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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99
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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100
similes
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| （使用like或as等词语的）明喻( simile的名词复数 ) | |
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101
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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102
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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103
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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104
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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105
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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106
supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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107
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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108
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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109
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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110
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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111
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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112
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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113
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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114
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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115
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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116
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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117
luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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118
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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119
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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120
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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121
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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122
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
insular
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| adj.岛屿的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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124
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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125
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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126
inciting
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| 刺激的，煽动的 | |
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127
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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128
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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129
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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130
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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131
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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132
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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