Things had changed greatly since last Cowperwood had talked with Butler. Although most friendly at the time the proposition was made that he should combine with Mollenhauer and Simpson to sustain the market, alas1, now on this Monday morning at nine o’clock, an additional complication had been added to the already tangled2 situation which had changed Butler’s attitude completely. As he was leaving his home to enter his runabout, at nine o’clock in the morning of this same day in which Cowperwood was seeking Stener’s aid, the postman, coming up, had handed Butler four letters, all of which he paused for a moment to glance at. One was from a sub-contractor by the name of O’Higgins, the second was from Father Michel, his confessor, of St. Timothy’s, thanking him for a contribution to the parish poor fund; a third was from Drexel & Co. relating to a deposit, and the fourth was an anonymous3 communication, on cheap stationery4 from some one who was apparently5 not very literate6 — a woman most likely — written in a scrawling7 hand, which read:
DEAR SIR— This is to warn you that your daughter Aileen is running around with a man that she shouldn’t, Frank A. Cowperwood, the banker. If you don’t believe it, watch the house at 931 North Tenth Street. Then you can see for yourself.
There was neither signature nor mark of any kind to indicate from whence it might have come. Butler got the impression strongly that it might have been written by some one living in the vicinity of the number indicated. His intuitions were keen at times. As a matter of fact, it was written by a girl, a member of St. Timothy’s Church, who did live in the vicinity of the house indicated, and who knew Aileen by sight and was jealous of her airs and her position. She was a thin, anemic, dissatisfied creature who had the type of brain which can reconcile the gratification of personal spite with a comforting sense of having fulfilled a moral duty. Her home was some five doors north of the unregistered Cowperwood domicile on the opposite side of the street, and by degrees, in the course of time, she made out, or imagined that she had, the significance of this institution, piecing fact to fancy and fusing all with that keen intuition which is so closely related to fact. The result was eventually this letter which now spread clear and grim before Butler’s eyes.
The Irish are a philosophic8 as well as a practical race. Their first and strongest impulse is to make the best of a bad situation — to put a better face on evil than it normally wears. On first reading these lines the intelligence they conveyed sent a peculiar9 chill over Butler’s sturdy frame. His jaw10 instinctively11 closed, and his gray eyes narrowed. Could this be true? If it were not, would the author of the letter say so practically, “If you don’t believe it, watch the house at 931 North Tenth Street”? Wasn’t that in itself proof positive — the hard, matter-of-fact realism of it? And this was the man who had come to him the night before seeking aid — whom he had done so much to assist. There forced itself into his naturally slow-moving but rather accurate mind a sense of the distinction and charm of his daughter — a considerably12 sharper picture than he had ever had before, and at the same time a keener understanding of the personality of Frank Algernon Cowperwood. How was it he had failed to detect the real subtlety13 of this man? How was it he had never seen any sign of it, if there had been anything between Cowperwood and Aileen?
Parents are frequently inclined, because of a time-flattered sense of security, to take their children for granted. Nothing ever has happened, so nothing ever will happen. They see their children every day, and through the eyes of affection; and despite their natural charm and their own strong parental14 love, the children are apt to become not only commonplaces, but ineffably15 secure against evil. Mary is naturally a good girl — a little wild, but what harm can befall her? John is a straight-forward, steady-going boy — how could he get into trouble? The astonishment16 of most parents at the sudden accidental revelation of evil in connection with any of their children is almost invariably pathetic. “My John! My Mary! Impossible!” But it is possible. Very possible. Decidedly likely. Some, through lack of experience or understanding, or both, grow hard and bitter on the instant. They feel themselves astonishingly abased18 in the face of notable tenderness and sacrifice. Others collapse19 before the grave manifestation20 of the insecurity and uncertainty21 of life — the mystic chemistry of our being. Still others, taught roughly by life, or endowed with understanding or intuition, or both, see in this the latest manifestation of that incomprehensible chemistry which we call life and personality, and, knowing that it is quite vain to hope to gainsay22 it, save by greater subtlety, put the best face they can upon the matter and call a truce23 until they can think. We all know that life is unsolvable — we who think. The remainder imagine a vain thing, and are full of sound and fury signifying nothing.
So Edward Butler, being a man of much wit and hard, grim experience, stood there on his doorstep holding in his big, rough hand his thin slip of cheap paper which contained such a terrific indictment24 of his daughter. There came to him now a picture of her as she was when she was a very little girl — she was his first baby girl — and how keenly he had felt about her all these years. She had been a beautiful child — her red-gold hair had been pillowed on his breast many a time, and his hard, rough fingers had stroked her soft cheeks, lo, these thousands of times. Aileen, his lovely, dashing daughter of twenty-three! He was lost in dark, strange, unhappy speculations25, without any present ability to think or say or do the right thing. He did not know what the right thing was, he finally confessed to himself. Aileen! Aileen! His Aileen! If her mother knew this it would break her heart. She mustn’t! She mustn’t! And yet mustn’t she?
The heart of a father! The world wanders into many strange by-paths of affection. The love of a mother for her children is dominant26, leonine, selfish, and unselfish. It is concentric. The love of a husband for his wife, or of a lover for his sweetheart, is a sweet bond of agreement and exchange trade in a lovely contest. The love of a father for his son or daughter, where it is love at all, is a broad, generous, sad, contemplative giving without thought of return, a hail and farewell to a troubled traveler whom he would do much to guard, a balanced judgment27 of weakness and strength, with pity for failure and pride in achievement. It is a lovely, generous, philosophic blossom which rarely asks too much, and seeks only to give wisely and plentifully28. “That my boy may succeed! That my daughter may be happy!” Who has not heard and dwelt upon these twin fervors of fatherly wisdom and tenderness?
As Butler drove downtown his huge, slow-moving, in some respects chaotic29 mind turned over as rapidly as he could all of the possibilities in connection with this unexpected, sad, and disturbing revelation. Why had Cowperwood not been satisfied with his wife? Why should he enter into his (Butler’s) home, of all places, to establish a clandestine30 relationship of this character? Was Aileen in any way to blame? She was not without mental resources of her own. She must have known what she was doing. She was a good Catholic, or, at least, had been raised so. All these years she had been going regularly to confession31 and communion. True, of late Butler had noticed that she did not care so much about going to church, would sometimes make excuses and stay at home on Sundays; but she had gone, as a rule. And now, now — his thoughts would come to the end of a blind alley32, and then he would start back, as it were, mentally, to the center of things, and begin all over again.
He went up the stairs to his own office slowly. He went in and sat down, and thought and thought. Ten o’clock came, and eleven. His son bothered him with an occasional matter of interest, but, finding him moody33, finally abandoned him to his own speculations. It was twelve, and then one, and he was still sitting there thinking, when the presence of Cowperwood was announced.
Cowperwood, on finding Butler not at home, and not encountering Aileen, had hurried up to the office of the Edward Butler Contracting Company, which was also the center of some of Butler’s street-railway interests. The floor space controlled by the company was divided into the usual official compartments34, with sections for the bookkeepers, the road-managers, the treasurer35, and so on. Owen Butler, and his father had small but attractively furnished offices in the rear, where they transacted36 all the important business of the company.
During this drive, curiously37, by reason of one of those strange psychologic intuitions which so often precede a human difficulty of one sort or another, he had been thinking of Aileen. He was thinking of the peculiarity38 of his relationship with her, and of the fact that now he was running to her father for assistance. As he mounted the stairs he had a peculiar sense of the untoward39; but he could not, in his view of life, give it countenance40. One glance at Butler showed him that something had gone amiss. He was not so friendly; his glance was dark, and there was a certain sternness to his countenance which had never previously41 been manifested there in Cowperwood’s memory. He perceived at once that here was something different from a mere42 intention to refuse him aid and call his loan. What was it? Aileen? It must be that. Somebody had suggested something. They had been seen together. Well, even so, nothing could be proved. Butler would obtain no sign from him. But his loan — that was to be called, surely. And as for an additional loan, he could see now, before a word had been said, that that thought was useless.
“I came to see you about that loan of yours, Mr. Butler,” he observed, briskly, with an old-time, jaunty43 air. You could not have told from his manner or his face that he had observed anything out of the ordinary.
Butler, who was alone in the room — Owen having gone into an adjoining room — merely stared at him from under his shaggy brows.
“I’ll have to have that money,” he said, brusquely, darkly.
An old-time Irish rage suddenly welled up in his bosom44 as he contemplated45 this jaunty, sophisticated undoer of his daughter’s virtue46. He fairly glared at him as he thought of him and her.
“I judged from the way things were going this morning that you might want it,” Cowperwood replied, quietly, without sign of tremor47. “The bottom’s out, I see.”
“The bottom’s out, and it’ll not be put back soon, I’m thinkin’. I’ll have to have what’s belongin’ to me to-day. I haven’t any time to spare.”
“Very well,” replied Cowperwood, who saw clearly how treacherous48 the situation was. The old man was in a dour49 mood. His presence was an irritation50 to him, for some reason — a deadly provocation51. Cowperwood felt clearly that it must be Aileen, that he must know or suspect something.
He must pretend business hurry and end this. “I’m sorry. I thought I might get an extension; but that’s all right. I can get the money, though. I’ll send it right over.”
He turned and walked quickly to the door.
Butler got up. He had thought to manage this differently.
He had thought to denounce or even assault this man. He was about to make some insinuating52 remark which would compel an answer, some direct charge; but Cowperwood was out and away as jaunty as ever.
The old man was flustered53, enraged54, disappointed. He opened the small office door which led into the adjoining room, and called, “Owen!”
“Yes, father.”
“Send over to Cowperwood’s office and get that money.”
“You decided17 to call it, eh?”
“I have.”
Owen was puzzled by the old man’s angry mood. He wondered what it all meant, but thought he and Cowperwood might have had a few words. He went out to his desk to write a note and call a clerk. Butler went to the window and stared out. He was angry, bitter, brutal55 in his vein56.
“The dirty dog!” he suddenly exclaimed to himself, in a low voice. “I’ll take every dollar he’s got before I’m through with him. I’ll send him to jail, I will. I’ll break him, I will. Wait!”
He clinched57 his big fists and his teeth.
“I’ll fix him. I’ll show him. The dog! The damned scoundrel!”
Never in his life before had he been so bitter, so cruel, so relentless58 in his mood.
He walked his office floor thinking what he could do. Question Aileen — that was what he would do. If her face, or her lips, told him that his suspicion was true, he would deal with Cowperwood later. This city treasurer business, now. It was not a crime in so far as Cowperwood was concerned; but it might be made to be.
So now, telling the clerk to say to Owen that he had gone down the street for a few moments, he boarded a street-car and rode out to his home, where he found his elder daughter just getting ready to go out. She wore a purple-velvet street dress edged with narrow, flat gilt59 braid, and a striking gold-and-purple turban. She had on dainty new boots of bronze kid and long gloves of lavender suede60. In her ears was one of her latest affectations, a pair of long jet earrings61. The old Irishman realized on this occasion, when he saw her, perhaps more clearly than he ever had in his life, that he had grown a bird of rare plumage.
“Where are you going, daughter?” he asked, with a rather unsuccessful attempt to conceal62 his fear, distress63, and smoldering64 anger.
“To the library,” she said easily, and yet with a sudden realization65 that all was not right with her father. His face was too heavy and gray. He looked tired and gloomy.
“Come up to my office a minute,” he said. “I want to see you before you go.”
Aileen heard this with a strange feeling of curiosity and wonder. It was not customary for her father to want to see her in his office just when she was going out; and his manner indicated, in this instance, that the exceptional procedure portended66 a strange revelation of some kind. Aileen, like every other person who offends against a rigid67 convention of the time, was conscious of and sensitive to the possible disastrous68 results which would follow exposure. She had often thought about what her family would think if they knew what she was doing; she had never been able to satisfy herself in her mind as to what they would do. Her father was a very vigorous man. But she had never known him to be cruel or cold in his attitude toward her or any other member of the family, and especially not toward her. Always he seemed too fond of her to be completely alienated69 by anything that might happen; yet she could not be sure.
Butler led the way, planting his big feet solemnly on the steps as he went up. Aileen followed with a single glance at herself in the tall pier-mirror which stood in the hall, realizing at once how charming she looked and how uncertain she was feeling about what was to follow. What could her father want? It made the color leave her cheeks for the moment, as she thought what he might want.
Butler strolled into his stuffy70 room and sat down in the big leather chair, disproportioned to everything else in the chamber71, but which, nevertheless, accompanied his desk. Before him, against the light, was the visitor’s chair, in which he liked to have those sit whose faces he was anxious to study. When Aileen entered he motioned her to it, which was also ominous72 to her, and said, “Sit down there.”
She took the seat, not knowing what to make of his procedure. On the instant her promise to Cowperwood to deny everything, whatever happened, came back to her. If her father was about to attack her on that score, he would get no satisfaction, she thought. She owed it to Frank. Her pretty face strengthened and hardened on the instant. Her small, white teeth set themselves in two even rows; and her father saw quite plainly that she was consciously bracing73 herself for an attack of some kind. He feared by this that she was guilty, and he was all the more distressed74, ashamed, outraged75, made wholly unhappy. He fumbled76 in the left-hand pocket of his coat and drew forth77 from among the various papers the fatal communication so cheap in its physical texture78. His big fingers fumbled almost tremulously as he fished the letter-sheet out of the small envelope and unfolded it without saying a word. Aileen watched his face and his hands, wondering what it could be that he had here. He handed the paper over, small in his big fist, and said, “Read that.”
Aileen took it, and for a second was relieved to be able to lower her eyes to the paper. Her relief vanished in a second, when she realized how in a moment she would have to raise them again and look him in the face.
DEAR SIR— This is to warn you that your daughter Aileen is running around with a man that she shouldn’t, Frank A. Cowperwood, the banker. If you don’t believe it, watch the house at 931 North Tenth Street. Then you can see for yourself.
In spite of herself the color fled from her cheeks instantly, only to come back in a hot, defiant79 wave.
“Why, what a lie!” she said, lifting her eyes to her father’s. “To think that any one should write such a thing of me! How dare they! I think it’s a shame!”
Old Butler looked at her narrowly, solemnly. He was not deceived to any extent by her bravado80. If she were really innocent, he knew she would have jumped to her feet in her defiant way. Protest would have been written all over her. As it was, she only stared haughtily81. He read through her eager defiance82 to the guilty truth.
“How do ye know, daughter, that I haven’t had the house watched?” he said, quizzically. “How do ye know that ye haven’t been seen goin’ in there?”
Only Aileen’s solemn promise to her lover could have saved her from this subtle thrust. As it was, she paled nervously83; but she saw Frank Cowperwood, solemn and distinguished84, asking her what she would say if she were caught.
“It’s a lie!” she said, catching85 her breath. “I wasn’t at any house at that number, and no one saw me going in there. How can you ask me that, father?”
In spite of his mixed feelings of uncertainty and yet unshakable belief that his daughter was guilty, he could not help admiring her courage — she was so defiant, as she sat there, so set in her determination to lie and thus defend herself. Her beauty helped her in his mood, raised her in his esteem86. After all, what could you do with a woman of this kind? She was not a ten-year-old girl any more, as in a way he sometimes continued to fancy her.
“Ye oughtn’t to say that if it isn’t true, Aileen,” he said. “Ye oughtn’t to lie. It’s against your faith. Why would anybody write a letter like that if it wasn’t so?”
“But it’s not so,” insisted Aileen, pretending anger and outraged feeling, “and I don’t think you have any right to sit there and say that to me. I haven’t been there, and I’m not running around with Mr. Cowperwood. Why, I hardly know the man except in a social way.”
Butler shook his head solemnly.
“It’s a great blow to me, daughter. It’s a great blow to me,” he said. “I’m willing to take your word if ye say so; but I can’t help thinkin’ what a sad thing it would be if ye were lyin’ to me. I haven’t had the house watched. I only got this this mornin’. And what’s written here may not be so. I hope it isn’t. But we’ll not say any more about that now. If there is anythin’ in it, and ye haven’t gone too far yet to save yourself, I want ye to think of your mother and your sister and your brothers, and be a good girl. Think of the church ye was raised in, and the name we’ve got to stand up for in the world. Why, if ye were doin’ anything wrong, and the people of Philadelphy got a hold of it, the city, big as it is, wouldn’t be big enough to hold us. Your brothers have got a reputation to make, their work to do here. You and your sister want to get married sometime. How could ye expect to look the world in the face and do anythin’ at all if ye are doin’ what this letter says ye are, and it was told about ye?”
The old man’s voice was thick with a strange, sad, alien emotion. He did not want to believe that his daughter was guilty, even though he knew she was. He did not want to face what he considered in his vigorous, religious way to be his duty, that of reproaching her sternly. There were some fathers who would have turned her out, he fancied. There were others who might possibly kill Cowperwood after a subtle investigation87. That course was not for him. If vengeance88 he was to have, it must be through politics and finance — he must drive him out. But as for doing anything desperate in connection with Aileen, he could not think of it.
“Oh, father,” returned Aileen, with considerable histrionic ability in her assumption of pettishness89, “how can you talk like this when you know I’m not guilty? When I tell you so?”
The old Irishman saw through her make-believe with profound sadness — the feeling that one of his dearest hopes had been shattered. He had expected so much of her socially and matrimonially. Why, any one of a dozen remarkable90 young men might have married her, and she would have had lovely children to comfort him in his old age.
“Well, we’ll not talk any more about it now, daughter,” he said, wearily. “Ye’ve been so much to me during all these years that I can scarcely belave anythin’ wrong of ye. I don’t want to, God knows. Ye’re a grown woman, though, now; and if ye are doin’ anythin’ wrong I don’t suppose I could do so much to stop ye. I might turn ye out, of course, as many a father would; but I wouldn’t like to do anythin’ like that. But if ye are doin’ anythin’ wrong”— and he put up his hand to stop a proposed protest on the part of Aileen —“remember, I’m certain to find it out in the long run, and Philadelphy won’t be big enough to hold me and the man that’s done this thing to me. I’ll get him,” he said, getting up dramatically. “I’ll get him, and when I do —” He turned a livid face to the wall, and Aileen saw clearly that Cowperwood, in addition to any other troubles which might beset91 him, had her father to deal with. Was this why Frank had looked so sternly at her the night before?
“Why, your mother would die of a broken heart if she thought there was anybody could say the least word against ye,” pursued Butler, in a shaken voice. “This man has a family — a wife and children, Ye oughtn’t to want to do anythin’ to hurt them. They’ll have trouble enough, if I’m not mistaken — facin’ what’s comin’ to them in the future,” and Butler’s jaw hardened just a little. “Ye’re a beautiful girl. Ye’re young. Ye have money. There’s dozens of young men’d be proud to make ye their wife. Whatever ye may be thinkin’ or doin’, don’t throw away your life. Don’t destroy your immortal92 soul. Don’t break my heart entirely93.”
Aileen, not ungenerous — fool of mingled94 affection and passion — could now have cried. She pitied her father from her heart; but her allegiance was to Cowperwood, her loyalty95 unshaken. She wanted to say something, to protest much more; but she knew that it was useless. Her father knew that she was lying.
“Well, there’s no use of my saying anything more, father,” she said, getting up. The light of day was fading in the windows. The downstairs door closed with a light slam, indicating that one of the boys had come in. Her proposed trip to the library was now without interest to her. “You won’t believe me, anyhow. I tell you, though, that I’m innocent just the same.”
Butler lifted his big, brown hand to command silence. She saw that this shameful96 relationship, as far as her father was concerned, had been made quite clear, and that this trying conference was now at an end. She turned and walked shamefacedly out. He waited until he heard her steps fading into faint nothings down the hall toward her room. Then he arose. Once more he clinched his big fists.
“The scoundrel!” he said. “The scoundrel! I’ll drive him out of Philadelphy, if it takes the last dollar I have in the world.”
收听单词发音 |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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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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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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instinctively
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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gainsay
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| v.否认，反驳 | |
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truce
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indictment
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speculations
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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judgment
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plentifully
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chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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clandestine
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| adj.秘密的，暗中从事的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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compartments
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treasurer
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transacted
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| v.办理（业务等）( transact的过去式和过去分词 )；交易，谈判 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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43
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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44
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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48
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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dour
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| adj.冷酷的，严厉的；（岩石）嶙峋的；顽强不屈 | |
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50
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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51
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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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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53
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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60
suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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61
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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portended
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| v.预示( portend的过去式和过去分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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70
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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71
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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73
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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74
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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75
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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76
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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80
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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81
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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82
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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83
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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84
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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85
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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86
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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87
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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88
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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89
pettishness
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90
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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91
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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92
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
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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95
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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96
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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