An Exhibition of Some Champions of the Stricken Lady
Close upon the hour of ten every morning the fortuitous meeting of two gentlemen at Mrs. Warwick’s housedoor was a signal for punctiliously1 stately greetings, the salutation of the raised hat and a bow of the head from a position of military erectness2, followed by the remark: ‘I trust you are well, sir’: to which the reply: ‘I am very well, sir, and trust you are the same,’ was deemed a complimentary3 fulfilment of their mutual4 obligation in presence. Mr. Sullivan Smith’s initiative imparted this exercise of formal manners to Mr. Arthur Rhodes, whose renewed appearance, at the minute of his own arrival, he viewed, as he did not conceal5, with a disappointed and a reproving eye. The inquiry7 after the state of Mrs. Warwick’s health having received its tolerably comforting answer from the footman, they left their cards in turn, then descended8 the doorsteps, faced for the performance of the salute9, and departed their contrary ways.
The pleasing intelligence refreshed them one morning, that they would be welcomed by Lady Dunstane. Thereupon Mr. Sullivan Smith wheeled about to Mr. Arthur Rhodes and observed to him: ‘Sir, I might claim, by right of seniority, to be the foremost of us two in offering my respects to the lady, but the way is open to you.’
‘Sir,’ said Mr. Arthur Rhodes, ‘permit me to defer10 to your many superior titles to that distinction.’
‘The honour, sir, lies rather in the bestowing11 than in the taking.’
‘I venture to think, sir, that though I cannot speak pure Castilian, I require no lesson from a Grandee12 of Spain in acknowledging the dues of my betters.’
‘I will avow13 myself conquered, sir, by your overpowering condescension;’ said Mr. Sullivan Smith; ‘and I entreat14 you—to ascribe my acceptance of your brief retirement15 to the urgent character of the business I have at heart.’
He laid his fingers on the panting spot, and bowed.
Mr. Arthur Rhodes, likewise bowing, deferentially16 fell to rearward.
‘If I mistake not,’ said the Irish gentleman, ‘I am indebted to Mr. Rhodes; and we have been joint17 participators in the hospitality of Mrs. Warwick’s table.’
The English gentleman replied: ‘It was there that I first had the pleasure of an acquaintance which is graven on my memory, as the words of the wise king on tablets of gold and silver.’
Mr. Sullivan Smith gravely smiled at the unwonted match he had found in ceremonious humour, in Saxonland, and saying: ‘I shall not long detain you, Mr. Rhodes,’ he passed through the doorway19.
Arthur waited for him, pacing up and down, for a quarter of an hour, when a totally different man reappeared in the same person, and was the Sullivan Smith of the rosy20 beaming features and princely heartiness21. He was accosted22: ‘Now, my dear boy, it’s your turn to try if you have a chance, and good luck go with ye. I’ve said what I could on your behalf, for you’re one of ten thousand in this country, you are.’
Mr. Sullivan Smith had solemnified himself to proffer23 a sober petition within the walls of the newly widowed lady’s house; namely, for nothing less than that sweet lady’s now unfettered hand: and it had therefore been perfectly24 natural to him, until his performance ended with the destruction of his hopes, to deliver himself in the high Castilian manner. Quite unexpected, however, was the reciprocal loftiness of tone spontaneously adopted by the young English squire25, for whom, in consequence, he conceived a cordial relish26; and as he paced in the footsteps of Arthur, anxious to quiet his curiosity by hearing how it had fared with one whom he had to suppose the second applicant27, he kept ejaculating: ‘Not a bit! The fellow can’t be Saxon! And she had a liking28 for him. She’s nigh coming of the age when a woman takes to the chicks. Better he than another, if it’s to be any one. For he’s got fun in him; he carries his own condiments29, instead of borrowing from the popular castors, as is their way over here. But I might have known there ‘s always sure to be salt and savour in the man she covers with her wing. Excepting, if you please, my dear lady, a bad shot you made at a rascal30 cur, no more worthy31 of you than Beelzebub of Paradise. No matter! The daughters’ of Erin must share the fate of their mother Isle32, that their tears may shine in the burst of sun to follow. For personal and patriotic33 motives35, I would have cheered her and been like a wild ass18 combed and groomed36 and tamed by the adorable creature. But her friend says there ‘s not a whisk of a chance for me, and I must roam the desert, kicking up, and worshipping the star I hail brightest. They know me not, who think I can’t worship. Why, what were I without my star? At best a pickled porker.’
Sullivan Smith became aware of a ravishing melodiousness37 in the soliloquy, as well as a clean resemblance in the simile38. He would certainly have proceeded to improvize impassioned verse, if he had not seen Arthur Rhodes on the pavement. ‘So, here’s the boy. Query39, the face he wears.’
‘How kind of you to wait,’ said Arthur.
‘We’ll call it sympathy, for convenience,’ rejoined Sullivan Smith. ‘Well, and what next?’
‘You know as much as I do. Thank heaven, she is recovering.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Why, what more?’
Arthur was jealously, inspected.
‘You look open-hearted, my dear boy.’ Sullivan Smith blew the sound of a reflected ahem. ‘Excuse me for cornemusing in your company,’ he said. ‘But seriously, there was only one thing to pardon your hurrying to the lady’s door at such a season, when the wind tells tales to the world. She’s down with a cold, you know.’
‘An influenza,’ said Arthur.
The simplicity40 of the acquiescence41 was vexatious to a champion desirous of hostilities42, to vindicate43 the lady, in addition to his anxiety to cloak her sad plight44.
‘She caught it from contact with one of the inhabitants of this country. ’Tis the fate of us Irish, and we’re condemned45 to it for the sin of getting tired of our own. I begin to sneeze when I land at Holyhead. Unbutton a waistcoat here, in the hope of meeting a heart, and you’re lucky in escaping a pulmonary attack of no common severity, while the dog that infected you scampers46 off, to celebrate his honeymoon47 mayhap. Ah, but call at her house in shoals, the world’ll soon be saying it’s worse than a coughing cold. If you came to lead her out of it in triumph, the laugh ‘d be with you, and the lady well covered. D’ ye understand?’
The allusion48 to the dog’s honeymoon had put Arthur Rhodes on the track of the darting49 cracker-metaphor.
‘I think I do,’ he said. ‘She will soon be at Copsley—Lady Dunstane’s house, on the hills—and there we can see her.’
‘And that’s next to the happiness of consoling—if only it had been granted! She’s not an ordinary widow, to be caught when the tear of lamentation50 has opened a practicable path or water-way to the poor nightcapped jewel within. So, and you’re a candid51 admirer, Mr. Rhodes! Well, and I’ll be one with you; for there’s not a star in the firmament52 more deserving of homage53 than that lady.’
‘Let’s walk in the park and talk of her,’ said Arthur. ‘There’s no sweeter subject to me.’
His boyish frankness rejoiced Sullivan Smith. ‘As long as you like!—nor to me!’ he exclaimed. ‘And that ever since I first beheld54 her on the night of a Ball in Dublin: before I had listened to a word of her speaking: and she bore her father’s Irish name:—none of your Warwicks and your... but let the cur go barking. He can’t tell what he’s lost; perhaps he doesn’t care. And after inflicting55 his hydrophobia on her tender fame! Pooh, sir; you call it a civilized56 country, where you and I and dozens of others are ready to start up as brothers of the lady, to defend her, and are paralyzed by the Law. ’Tis a law they’ve instituted for the protection of dirty dogs—their majority!’
‘I owe more to Mrs. Warwick than to any soul I know,’ said Arthur.
‘Let ‘s hear,’ quoth Sullivan Smith; proceeding57: ‘She’s the Arabian Nights in person, that’s sure; and Shakespeare’s Plays, tragic58 and comic; and the Book of Celtic History; and Erin incarnate—down with a cold, no matter where; but we know where it was caught. So there’s a pretty library for who’s to own her now she’s enfranchized by circumstances; and a poetical59 figure too!’
He subsided60 for his companion to rhapsodize.
Arthur was overcharged with feeling, and could say only: ‘It would be another world to me if I lost her.’
‘True; but what of the lady?’
‘No praise of mine could do her justice.’
‘That may be, but it’s negative of yourself, and not a portrait of the object. Hasn’t she the brain of Socrates—or better, say Minerva, on the bust61 of Venus, and the remainder of her finished off to an exact resemblance of her patronymic Goddess of the bow and quiver?’
‘She has a wise head and is beautiful.’
Arthur reddened: he was prepared to maintain it, could not speak it.
‘She is to us in this London, what the run of water was to Theocritus in Sicily: the nearest to the visibly divine,’ he said, and was applauded.
‘Good, and on you go. Top me a few superlatives on that, and I ‘m your echo, my friend. Isn’t the seeing and listening to her like sitting under the silvery canopy63 of a fountain in high Summer?’
‘All the comparisons are yours,’ Arthur said enviously64.
‘Mr. Rhodes, you are a poet, I believe, and all you require to loosen your tongue is a drop of Bacchus, so if you will do me the extreme honour to dine with me at my Club this evening, we’ll resume the toast that should never be uttered dry. You reprove me justly, my friend.’
Arthur laughed and accepted. The Club was named, and the hour, and some items of the little dinner: the birds and the year of the wines.
It surprised him to meet Mr. Redworth at the table of his host. A greater surprise was the partial thaw65 in Redworth’s bearing toward him. But, as it was partial, and he a youth and poor, not even the genial66 influences of Bacchus could lift him to loosen his tongue under the repressing presence of the man he knew to be his censor67, though Sullivan Smith encouraged him with praises and opportunities. He thought of the many occasions when Mrs. Warwick’s art of management had produced a tacit harmony between them. She had no peer. The dinner failed of the pleasure he had expected from it. Redworth’s bluntness killed the flying metaphors68, and at the end of the entertainment he and Sullivan Smith were drumming upon politics.
‘Fancies he has the key of the Irish difficulty!’ said the latter, clapping hand on his shoulder, by way of blessing69, as they parted at the Club-steps.
Redworth asked Arthur Rhodes the way he was going, and walked beside him.
‘I suppose you take exercise; don’t get colds and that kind of thing,’ he remarked in the old bullying70 fashion; and changed it abruptly71. ‘I am glad to have met you this evening. I hope you’ll dine with me one day next week. Have you seen Mrs. Warwick lately?’
‘She is unwell; she has been working too hard,’ said Arthur.
‘Seriously unwell, do you mean?’
‘Lady Dunstane is at her house, and speaks of her recovering.’
‘Ah. You’ve not seen her?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, good-night.’
Redworth left him, and only when moved by gratitude72 to the lad for his mention of Mrs. Warwick’s ‘working too hard,’ as the cause of her illness, recollected73 the promised dinner and the need for having his address.
He had met Sullivan Smith accidentally in the morning and accepted the invitation to meet young Rhodes, because these two, of all men living, were for the moment dearest to him, as Diana Warwick’s true and simple champions; and he had intended a perfect cordiality toward them both; the end being a semi-wrangle with the patriot34, and a patronizing bluntness with the boy; who, by the way, would hardly think him sincere in the offer of a seat at his table. He owned himself incomplete. He never could do the thing he meant, in the small matters not leading to fortune. But they led to happiness! Redworth was guilty of a sigh: for now Diana Warwick stood free; doubly free, he was reduced to reflect in a wavering dubiousness74. Her more than inclination75 for Dacier, witnessed by him, and the shot of the world, flying randomly76 on the subject, had struck this cuirassier, making light of his armour77, without causing any change of his habitual78 fresh countenance79. As for the scandal, it had never shaken his faith in her nature. He thought of the passion. His heart struck at Diana’s, and whatever might by chance be true in the scandal affected80 him little, if but her heart were at liberty. That was the prize he coveted81, having long read the nature of the woman and wedded82 his spirit to it. She would complete him.
Of course, infatuated men argue likewise, and scandal does not move them. At a glance, the lower instincts and the higher spirit appear equally to have the philosophy of overlooking blemishes83. The difference between appetite and love is shown when a man, after years of service, can hear and see, and admit the possible, and still desire in worship; knowing that we of earth are begrimed and must be cleansed84 for presentation daily on our passage through the miry ways, but that our souls, if flame of a soul shall have come of the agony of flesh, are beyond the baser mischances: partaking of them indeed, but sublimely85. Now Redworth believed in the soul of Diana. For him it burned, and it was a celestial86 radiance about her, unquenched by her shifting fortunes, her wilfulnesses and, it might be, errors. She was a woman and weak; that is, not trained for strength. She was a soul; therefore perpetually pointing to growth in purification. He felt it, and even discerned it of her, if he could not have phrased it. The something sovereignty characteristic that aspired87 in Diana enchained him. With her, or rather with his thought of her soul, he understood the right union of women and men, from the roots to the flowering heights of that rare graft88. She gave him comprehension of the meaning of love: a word in many mouths, not often explained. With her, wound in his idea of her, he perceived it to signify a new start in our existence, a finer shoot of the tree stoutly89 planted in good gross earth; the senses running their live sap, and the minds companioned, and the spirits made one by the whole-natured conjunction. In Booth, a happy prospect90 for the sons and daughters of Earth, divinely indicating more than happiness: the speeding of us, compact of what we are, between the ascetic91 rocks and the sensual whirlpools, to the creation of certain nobler races, now very dimly imagined.
Singularly enough, the man of these feelings was far from being a social rebel. His Diana conjured93 them forth94 in relation to her, but was not on his bosom95 to enlighten him generally. His notions of citizenship96 tolerated the female Pharisees, as ladies offering us an excellent social concrete where quicksands abound97, and without quite justifying98 the Lady Wathins and Constance Aspers of the world, whose virtues99 he could set down to accident or to acid blood, he considered them supportable and estimable where the Mrs. Fryar–Gunnetts were innumerable, threatening to become a majority; as they will constantly do while the sisterhood of the chaste are wattled in formalism and throned in sourness.
Thoughts of Diana made phantoms100 of the reputable and their reverse alike. He could not choose but think of her. She was free; and he too; and they were as distant as the horizon sail and the aft-floating castaway. Her passion for Dacier might have burnt out her heart. And at present he had no claim to visit her, dared not intrude101. He would have nothing to say, if he went, save to answer questions upon points of business: as to which, Lady Dunstane would certainly summon him when he was wanted.
Riding in the park on a frosty morning, he came upon Sir Lukin, who looked gloomy and inquired for news of Diana Warwick, saying that his wife had forbidden him to call at her house just yet. ‘She’s got a cold, you know,’ said Sir Lukin; adding, ‘confoundedly hard on women!—eh? Obliged to keep up a show. And I’d swear, by all that’s holy, Diana Warwick hasn’t a spot, not a spot, to reproach herself with. I fancy I ought to know women by this time. And look here, Redworth, last night—that is, I mean yesterday evening, I broke with a woman—a lady of my acquaintance, you know, because she would go on scandal-mongering about Diana Warwick. I broke with her. I told her I’d have out any man who abused Diana Warwick, and I broke with her. By Jove! Redworth, those women can prove spitfires. They’ve bags of venom102 under their tongues, barley-sugar though they look—and that’s her colour. But I broke with her for good. I doubt if I shall ever call on her again. And in point of fact, I won’t.’
Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett was described in the colouring of the lady.
Sir Lukin, after some further remarks, rode on, and Redworth mused103 on a moral world that allows a woman of Mrs. Fryar–Gunnett’s like to hang on to it, and to cast a stone at Diana; forgetful, in his championship, that Diana was not disallowed104 a similar licence.
When he saw Emma Dunstane, some days later, she was in her carriage driving, as she said, to Lawyerland, for an interview with old Mr. Braddock, on her friend’s affairs. He took a seat beside her. ‘No, Tony is not well,’ she replied to his question, under the veil of candour. ‘She is recovering, but she—you can understand—suffered a shock. She is not able to attend to business, and certain things have to be done.’
‘I used to be her man of business,’ Redworth observed.
‘She speaks of your kind services. This is mere105 matter for lawyers.’
‘She is recovering?’
‘You may see her at Copsley next week. You can come down on Wednesdays or Saturdays?’
‘Any day. Tell her I want her opinion upon the state of things.’
‘It will please her; but you will have to describe the state of things.’
Emma feared she had said too much. She tried candour again for concealment106. ‘My poor Tony has been struck down low. I suppose it is like losing a diseased limb:—she has her freedom, at the cost of a blow to the system.’
‘She may be trusted for having strength,’ said Redworth.’
‘Yes.’ Emma’s mild monosyllable was presently followed by an exclamation107: ‘One has to experience the irony108 of Fate to comprehend how cruel it is!’ Then she remembered that such language was peculiarly abhorrent109 to him.
‘Irony of Fate!’ he echoed her. ‘I thought you were above that literary jargon110.’
‘And I thought I was: or thought it would be put in a dialect practically explicable,’ she answered, smiling at the lion roused.
‘Upon my word,’ he burst out, ‘I should like to write a book of Fables111, showing how donkeys get into grinding harness, and dogs lose their bones, and fools have their sconces cracked, and all run jabbering112 of the irony of Fate, to escape the annoyance113 of tracing the causes. And what are they? nine times out of ten, plain want of patience, or some debt for indulgence. There’s a subject:—let some one write, Fables in illustration of the irony of Fate: and I’ll undertake to tack-on my grandmother’s maxims114 for a moral to teach of ’em. We prate115 of that irony when we slink away from the lesson—the rod we conjure92. And you to talk of Fate! It’s the seed we sow, individually or collectively. I’m bound-up in the prosperity of the country, and if the ship is wrecked116, it ruins my fortune, but not me, unless I’m bound-up in myself. At least I hope that’s my case.’
He apologized for intruding117 Mr. Thomas Redworth.
His hearer looked at him, thinking he required a more finely pointed6 gift of speech for the ironical118 tongue, but relishing119 the tonic120 directness of his faculty121 of reason while she considered that the application of the phrase might be brought home to him so as to render ‘my Grandmother’s moral’ a conclusion less comfortingly, if quite intelligibly122, summary. And then she thought of Tony’s piteous instance; and thinking with her heart, the tears insisted on that bitter irony of the heavens, which bestowed123 the long-withheld and coveted boon124 when it was empty of value or was but as a handful of spices to a shroud125.
Perceiving the moisture in her look, Redworth understood that it was foolish to talk rationally. But on her return to her beloved, the real quality of the man had overcome her opposing state of sentiment, and she spoke126 of him with an iteration and throb127 in the voice that set a singular query whirring round Diana’s ears. Her senses were too heavy for a suspicion.
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punctiliously
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erectness
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complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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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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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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condiments
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| n.调味品 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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melodiousness
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| n.melodious（音调悦耳的）的变形 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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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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scampers
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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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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50
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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51
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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52
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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53
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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54
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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55
inflicting
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的现在分词 ) | |
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56
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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57
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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58
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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59
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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60
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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61
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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62
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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63
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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64
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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65
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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66
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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67
censor
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| n./vt.审查，审查员；删改 | |
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68
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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69
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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70
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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71
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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72
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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73
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
dubiousness
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| n.dubious（令人怀疑的）的变形 | |
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75
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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76
randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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77
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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78
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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79
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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80
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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81
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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82
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
blemishes
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| n.（身体的）瘢点( blemish的名词复数 )；伤疤；瑕疵；污点 | |
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84
cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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86
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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87
aspired
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
graft
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| n.移植，嫁接，艰苦工作，贪污；v.移植，嫁接 | |
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89
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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91
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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92
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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93
conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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94
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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95
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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96
citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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97
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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98
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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99
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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100
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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101
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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102
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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103
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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104
disallowed
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| v.不承认（某事物）有效( disallow的过去式和过去分词 )；不接受；不准；驳回 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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107
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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108
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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109
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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110
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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111
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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112
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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113
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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114
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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115
prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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116
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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117
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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118
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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119
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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120
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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121
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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122
intelligibly
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| adv.可理解地，明了地，清晰地 | |
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123
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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125
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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126
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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127
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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