The spring sunlight did not discriminate1 against these “thickets deep.” But Nakanokimi, still benumbed with grief, could only wonder that so much time had gone by and she had not joined her sister. The two of them had responded as one to the passing seasons, the color of the blossoms and the songs of the birds. Some triviality would bring from one of them a verse, and the other would promptly2 have a capping verse. There had been sorrows, there had been times of gloom; but there had always been the comfort of having her sister beside her. Something might interest her or amuse her even now, but she had no one to share it with. Her days were bleak3, unbroken solitude4. The sorrow was if anything more intense than when her father had died. Yearning5 and loneliness left day scarcely distinguishable from night. Well, she had to live out her time, and it did little good to complain that the end did not come at her summons.
There was a letter from the abbot for one of her women: “And how will matters be with our lady now that the New Year has come? I have allowed no lapse6 in my prayers for her. She is, in fact, my chief worry. These are the earliest fern shoots, offerings from certain of our acolytes7.” The note came with shoots of bracken and fern, arranged rather elegantly in a very pretty basket. There was also a poem, in a bad hand, set apart purposely, it seemed, from the text of the letter.
“Through many a spring we plucked these shoots for him.
Today remembrance bids us do as well.
Please show this to your lady.”
Nakanokimi was much moved. The old man was not one to compose poems for every occasion, and these few syllables8 said more to her than all the splendid words, overlooking no device for pleasing her, of a certain gentleman who, though ardent9 enough to appearances, did not really seem to care very much. Tears came to her eyes. She sent a reply through one of her women:
“And to whom shall I show these early ferns from the mountain,
Plucked. in remembrance of one who is no more?”
She rewarded the messenger liberally.
Still in the full bloom of her youth, she had lost weight, and the effect was to deepen her beauty, and to remind one of her sister. Side by side, the two sisters had not seemed particularly alike; but now one could almost forget for a moment that Oigimi was dead, so striking was the resemblance. Kaoru had lamented10 that he could not keep their older lady with him, the women remembered, even as he might have kept a locust11 shell. Since either of the princesses would have been right for him, it was cruel of fate not to have let him have the younger.
Certain of his men continued to visit Uji, having made the acquaintance of women there. Through them the princess and Kaoru had occasional word of each other. Time had done nothing to dispel12 his grief, she learned, nor had the coming of the New Year stanched13 the flow of his tears. It had been no passing infatuation, she could see now. He had been honest in his avowals of love.
Niou was chafing14 at the restrictions15 his rank placed upon him, and the evidence was that they would only be more burdensome as time went by. He thought constantly about bringing Nakanokimi to the city.
When the busiest days were over, the time of the grand levee and the like, Kaoru found himself with heavy heart and no one who understood. He paid Niou a visit. It was an evening for melancholy16 thoughts. Niou was seated at the veranda17, gazing out at the garden and plucking a few notes now and then on the koto beside him. He had always loved the scent18 of plum blossoms. Kaoru broke off an underbranch still in bud and brought it to him, and he found the fragrance19 so in harmony with his mood that he was stirred to poetry:
“This branch seems much in accord with him who breaks it.
I catch a secret scent beneath the surface.”
“I should have been more careful with my blossoms.
I offer fragrance, get imputations back.
You do not make things easy for me.”
They seemed the most lighthearted of companions as they exchanged sallies.
When they settled down to serious matters, they were soon talking of Uji. And how would Nakanokimi and her women be? asked Niou. Kaoru told of his own unquenchable sorrow, of the memories that had tormented20 him since Oigimi’s death, of the amusing and moving things that had been part of their times together — of all the laughter and tears, so to speak. And his philandering21 friend, quicker to weep than anyone even when the matter did not immediately concern him, was now weeping most generously. He was exactly the sort of companion Kaoru needed. The sky misted over, as if it too understood. In the night a high wind came up, and the bite in the air was like a return of winter. They decided22, after the lamp had blown out several times, that darkness would do as well. Though of course it destroyed the color of the blossoms, it did not put an end to the conversation. The hours passed, and still they had not talked themselves out.
“Ah, yes,” said Niou. “Yes indeed — purity such as the world is seldom privileged to behold23. But come, now, surely it cannot have been just that?”
He had a way of assuming that something had been left out, no doubt because he suspected in others a volatility24 like his own. Yet he was a man of sympathy and understanding. So skillfully did he manage the conversation as he moved from subject to subject, now seeking to console his friend,
now seeking to make him forget, trying this way and that to offer an outlet25, for the pent-up anguish26 — so skillfully that Kaoru, led on step by step, poured forth27 the whole store of thoughts that had been too much for him. The relief was enormous.
Niou told of his plans for bringing Nakanokimi into the city.
“I thoroughly28 approve. As a matter of fact, I had been blaming myself for her difficulties and telling myself that I ought to be looking after her as a sort of legacy29 of the one — I am repeating myself — I shall go on mourning forever. But it is so easy to be misunderstood.”
He went on to describe briefly30 how Oigimi had begged him to make no distinction between the two of them, and had asked him to marry her sister. He did not go so far as to speak of the night that called to mind the cuckoo of the grove31 of Iwase.
In his heart, all the while, the chagrin32 and regret were mounting. He should himself have done as Niou was doing with the memento33 she had left behind. But it was too late. He was skirting dangerous ground, in the direction of which lay unpleasantness for everyone. He tried to think of other matters. Yet there was this consideration: who if not he was to take her father’s place in arranging the move to the city? He turned his mind to the preparations.
At Uji, attractive women and girls were being added to Nakanokimi’s retinue34, and the air was alive with anticipation35. Nakanokimi alone stood apart from it. Now that the time had come, the thought of abandoning this “Fushimi” of hers, letting it go to ruin, seemed intensely sad. Her sorrow would not end, but her prospects36 would be very poor indeed if she were to stand her ground and insist on staying in remote Uji. How could she even think, protested Niou, and there was much to be said for the view, of living in a place where the promises they had made must certainly be broken? It was a dilemma38.
Finally the move was set for early in the Second Month. As the day approached, Nakanokimi looked out at the buds on the cherry trees, and thought how very difficult it would be to leave them, and the mountain mists too. And she would be homeless, a lodger39 at an inn, facing she could not know what humiliation40 and ridicule41. Each new thought, as she brooded the days away, brought new misgivings42 and reservations. She presently emerged from mourning, and the lustration seemed altogether too cursory43 and casual. She had not known her mother, and had not mourned for her. She thought how much she would have preferred to put on the deeper weeds with which one mourned a parent, but she kept the thought to herself, for it went against custom. Kaoru sent a carriage and outrunners for the lustration ceremony, and learned soothsayers as well.
He also sent a poem:
“How quickly time does pass. You made and donned
Your mourning robes, and now the blossoms open.”
And he sent numerous flowery robes, for the ceremony and for the move to the city, none of them gaudy44 or ostentatious, each appropriate to the rank of the recipient45.
“You see how it is,” said the women to their mistress. “He never misses a chance to show us he has not forgotten. How very kind of him. Even if you had a brother, we can assure you, he could not possibly do more for you.”
The older ones, no longer as interested in bright colors as they once had been, were moved by the kindness itself. And the younger ones said: “He’s been coming all these years, and now we’re running off. She will miss him, make no mistake about that.”
On the day before the move, early in the morning, Kaoru appeared at Uji. Shown to the usual sitting room, he thought how Oigimi, had she lived, would by now have relented, and he would even now be setting an example for his friend Niou to follow. The image of the dead lady came back, and memories of things she had said. She had not really given herself to him, it was true, but neither had she put him off in a way that could be called cruel or insulting. He must continue to regret that his own eccentricities46 had helped keep the distance between them.
He went to the door and looked for the hole through which he had once peeped in upon the two sisters, but there were blinds and curtains beyond.
In the other room women were weeping softly and exchanging sad memories of their dead lady. The tears flowed on, and especially Nakanokimi’s, as if to wash away murky47 forebodings.
As she lay gazing vacantly out at the garden, a message was brought from Kaoru: “Memories of these months have no order and form, but they are more than I can keep to myself. It would be a very great comfort to let you have a tiny fragment of them. Do not, please, treat me with the coldness that has been yours in the past. You make me feel as if I had been banished48 to some remote island.”
“I certainly would not wish you to think me unkind,” she replied, though the effort was almost too much for her;” but I am really not myself. Indeed, I am so unsettled that I fear I might say things both stupid and rude.”
But her women argued his case, and at length she received him at the door to her room. His good looks had always been somewhat intimidating49, and she thought that he had improved and matured in the time since she had last seen him. Along with remarkable50 grace and elegance51, he had an air of composure, of deliberation, such as few men could have imitated. Altogether a remarkable young man, and the knowledge that her sister had meant so much to him made the effect quite overpowering.
“It would be unlucky on such an occasion, I suppose, to speak of the lady I shall go on speaking of forever.” He broke off and began again. “I shall soon be moving to a house not far from the one where you will be. ‘Any time of the day or night,’ the devotees and experts would say — but please do let me see you. I shall want to hear from you whenever I can be of service, and I shall be at your command for as long as I live. No two people are alike, of course, and it is possible that you find the prospect37 offensive. What might your own thoughts be?”
“I have not wanted to leave home, and I still do not want to. Now that you tell me you are moving too — my thoughts are too much for me. I am afraid I am not making sense.”
Her voice faltered52, and her very evident distress53 so reminded him of her sister that he was left berating54 himself for having generously handed her over to Niou. But all that was past. He made no mention of their night together, and his frankness in other matters was almost enough to make her think he had forgotten. The scent and color of the rose plum below the veranda brought poignant55 memories. The warblers seemed unable to pass without a song; and this mark of “the spring of old” was the more moving for the memories they shared. The fragrance of the blossoms came in on the breeze to mingle56 with Kaoru’s own fragrance. Orange blossoms could not have been more effective in summoning back the past. Her sister, she remembered, had been especially fond of the plum blossom, and had made use of it for this or that little pleasantry, and sought consolation57 from it in difficult times as well. The memories too much for her, she recited a poem in a tiny voice that wavered at the point of disappearing:
“Here where no visitor comes save only the tempest,
The scent of blossoms brings thoughts of days now gone.”
Kaoru whispered a reply:
“The fragrance lasts of the plum my sleeve has brushed.
Uprooted58 now, must it dwell in a distant land?”
He brushed his tears away and left after a few words more. “There will be chances, I am sure, for a good, quiet talk.”
He went out to give orders for the next day. Wigbeard and others would stay behind as caretakers; and (for nothing escaped his attention) he left orders with the people at his manor59 to see to their general needs.
Bennokimi had made it known that she would not go along. Through no desire of her own, she had lived this shamefully60 long life, and the others would think it bad luck to have an old crone with them; and so she had resolved that she was no longer to be considered a part of the world. Kaoru asked to see her. The nun61’s habit and tonsure62 again brought him to the point of tears.
They talked of old times. “I shall of course be stopping by occasionally,” he concluded, his voice faltering63, “and I had feared that no one would be here to receive me. I am sorry that you have decided to stay behind, but I know that you will be a great comfort.”
“I have lived too long. Life has a way of becoming more stubborn the more you hate it. I find it hard to forgive my older lady for leaving me behind, and though I know it is wrong of me I am resentful of the whole wide world.”
She was becoming querulous, pouring forth the complaints as they came to her; but his efforts to comfort her were on the whole successful. Her hair still had traces of its youthful beauty, and her forehead, now shorn, seemed younger than before, and even somewhat distinguished64. Overcome with longing65 for Oigimi, he asked why she could not have stayed with him even thus, as a nun. He might at least have had the comfort of quiet, leisurely66 conversation. Though the old woman was an improbable object for envy, he was somehow envious67 of her. He pulled her curtain slightly aside, that she might seem a little nearer. She really was very old, and yet her speech and manner aroused little of the revulsion one expects from advanced age. She must once have been a woman of considerable beauty.
Her face was contorted with sorrow.
“Tears came first. I should have flung myself into
A stream of tears that would not have left me behind.”
“But that, of course, would have made the sin graver,” said Kaoru. “People do sometimes reach the far shore, I suppose, but everything considered I doubt that you would have succeeded. We would not want to have lost you in midstream. No, you must remind yourself how empty and useless it all is.
“Deep though one plunges68 into the river of tears,
One comes upon occasional snags of remembrance.
“When, I wonder, and where will there be relief?” But he knew the answer: never and nowhere.
He did not want to leave, though it was evening. But an unscheduled night’s lodging69 might arouse suspicions. Presently he set out for the city.
She told the other women of his remarks, and her own grief was beyond consoling. She found them engrossed70 in preparations for their departure, oblivious71 to the incongruity72 their twisted old figures emphasized; and her nun’s robes seemed drabber for all the happy confusion.
“And there they are, so busy getting ready,
And wet are the sleeves of the solitary73 fishwife.”
Nakanokimi answered:
“Is it drier, my sleeve, than the brine-wet sleeve of the fishwife?
Sodden74 it is, from the waves upon which it floats.
“I do not expect to take to this new life. I may well be back after I have given it a try, and so I do not really feel that I am going away. We will meet again. But I do not like the thought of leaving you here by yourself for even a little while. Nuns75 do not have to cut themselves off completely, you know. Do as all of them do — come and see me occasionally.”
Affection welled up as she spoke76. She had arranged to leave behind such of her sister’s combs and brushes as she thought a nun could use.
“You seem so much more deeply affected77 than the others,” she went on. “It makes me feel sure that there was a bond between us in another life. And you seem even nearer now.”
The old woman was weeping quite helplessly, like a child that has lost its mother.
The rooms were swept, things put away, carriages drawn78 up. Among the outrunners were numbers of medium-ranking courtiers. Niou had wanted desperately79 to come for her himself. Since unnecessary display was to be avoided, however, he ordered that the procession be a quiet one, and, intensely impatient, awaited her at Nijō. Kaoru too had sent retainers in large numbers. Niou had taken care of the broader plans and Kaoru of all the small and intimate details. Nakanokimi’s women joined the men from the city in warning her that it would soon be dark. Utterly80 confused, scarcely knowing in which direction the city lay, she finally got into a carriage. She was all alone, and defenseless.
Beside her, a woman called Tayū was smiling happily.
“You have lived to come upon these joyous81 days,
And are you not glad Old Gloomy did not get you?”
Nakanokimi was not pleased. What a vast difference, she thought, between this person and the nun Bennokimi.
Another woman had a poem ready:
“We do not forget to look back at one now gone;
But this day, of all, our hearts must look ahead.”
Both of them had long been in service at Uji, and both had seemed fond of Oigimi. And now they had left her behind. The very fact that they refrained from mentioning her name added to Nakanokimi’s bitterness and sorrow. She did not answer.
The road was long and it led through precipitous mountains. She had been deeply resentful of Niou’s neglect, but now she began to see why his visits had been infrequent. The bright half-moon was softened82 and made more mysteriously beautiful by a mist. Unaccustomed to travel, alone with her thoughts, she was soon exhausted83.
“The moon comes forth from the mountain upon a world
That offers no home. It goes again to the mountain.”
The future was too uncertain. What would become of her if anything in this precarious84 balance should change? She longed to return to days when, she knew now, she had been very silly to feel sorry for herself.
It was late in the night when they arrived at the Nijō mansion85. The splendor86 quite blinded her. The carriage was pulled up at one of the “threefold, fourfold” halls, and an impatient Niou came out. Her apartments, she saw, and those of her attendants as well, were beautifully appointed. They had obviously benefited from Niou’s personal attention. No detail had been overlooked.
It was matter for much astonishment87 that he who had been the cause of so many rumors88 and worries should now, quite suddenly, have found himself a wife. There was nothing ambiguous about what had happened this time, people said, hoping for a glimpse of the hidden princess.
Kaoru was to move into his Sanjō mansion, now near completion, towards the end of the month. He went every day to see how it was progressing. Since Nijō was not far away, he mounted a lookout89 to see how things would be with Nakanokimi. Presently the men he had sent to Uji came back to report that Niou seemed much taken with the lady, and had been very attentive90. Kaoru was pleased, of course; and at the same time he felt a wave of something like resentment91. It was senseless, he knew, for his circumstances had, after all, been of his own devising.
“Might I have it back again?” he whispered to himself.
“The boat setting forth on the undulant Lake of Loons,
Though badly rigged, did somehow make a landfall.”
Yūgiri had fixed92 upon this month for marrying his daughter Rokunokimi to Niou. And now, quite as if to announce that he had priorities of his own, Niou had brought a stranger into his house. Worse, he had stopped calling at Rokujō. Niou felt a little guilty at news of his uncle’s displeasure, and sent a note to Rokunokimi from time to time. The whole world knew that plans were being rushed ahead for her initiation93, and to postpone94 it would be to invite derision; and so it took place toward the end of the month. Yūgiri thought of marrying her to Kaoru instead, unexciting though a wedding within the family would be. It seemed a pity to let someone else have him. He was evidently grieving for a lady he had loved in secret over the years. Through a suitable agent, Yūgiri sought to determine how he might respond to a proposal.
The answer was not encouraging. “I know how useless and insubstantial things are. I have had evidence before my very eyes, such strong evidence that my own existence seems stupid and even revolting.”
Yūgiri was deeply offended. Could the young man not see that the proposal had been a difficult one to make? But Kaoru was not a man with whom even an older brother took liberties, and Yūgiri made no further advances.
Gazing in the direction of the Nijō mansion, where the cherries were in full bloom, Kaoru thought of the cherries, now masterless, at the Uji villa95. He might have gone on to ask how they would be responding to the winds, but the old poem did not offer much comfort.
He went to visit Niou, who was spending most of his time at Nijō and seemed to have settled down happily with his princess. Kaoru had no further cause, it would seem, for worry. That other strange question persisted all the same: why had he brought them together? But his deeper feelings were wholly admirable. He rejoiced that Nakanokimi’s affairs had turned out well. The two friends talked of various small matters, and presently, in the evening, servants came to prepare the carriage that was to take Niou to court. A large retinue assembled. Kaoru withdrew to Nakanokimi’s wing of the house.
The rude life of the mountain village had been changed for richly curtained luxury. Catching96 a glimpse of a pretty little girl, Kaoru asked her to convey word of his presence. He was offered a cushion, and a woman apparently97 familiar with the events at Uji came to bring Nakanokimi’s reply.
“I am so near,” he said, admitted to her presence, “that I was sure it would be like having you beside me all hours of the day and night; but I have had to keep my distance. I have not wanted to intrude98, and I have had no real business. Somehow things seem utterly changed. From my garden I look through the mists at the trees in yours, and they bring the fondest memories.”
He fell silent, lost in the memories. It was true, thought Nakanokimi: if Oigimi had lived, they would be visiting each other, she and her sister, and finding their happiness, as the seasons went by, in the same blossoms, the same songs of birds. The sadness, the longing, the regrets were even sharper than they had been at Uji, far away from the world.
My lady, my lady,” urged her women. “He is not an ordinary guest. He has done everything for you, and now is the time to let him see that you are grateful.”
But Nakanokimi could not bring herself to address him directly.
Presently Niou, a splendid figure in full court regalia, came to say goodbye. “Well, now. There he is sitting outside all by himself. It seems very odd, really, after all you owe him. I am the one who should be afraid of him, and here I am telling you how rude and even sinful it is not to invite him inside. Be a little friendlier, have a good talk about the old days.” And abruptly99 he reversed himself: “Of course I wouldn’t want you to let him have too free a rein100. You can never be quite sure what he is up to.”
And so she was left not knowing what to do. She was in Kaoru’s debt, that much was clear, for he had been very kind; and she could not dismiss him. He had ventured a hope that she might in some measure fill the emptiness left by her sister. She would ask the same of him. She did want him to know that she understood. But the situation was certainly awkward, with Niou casting these insinuations about.
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discriminate
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| v.区别，辨别，区分；有区别地对待 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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acolytes
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| n.助手( acolyte的名词复数 )；随从；新手；（天主教）侍祭 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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locust
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| n.蝗虫；洋槐，刺槐 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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stanched
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| v.使（伤口）止血( stanch的过去式 )；止（血）；使不漏；使不流失 | |
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chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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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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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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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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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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volatility
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| n.挥发性，挥发度，轻快，（性格）反复无常 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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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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berating
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| v.严厉责备，痛斥( berate的现在分词 ) | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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uprooted
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| v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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tonsure
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| n.削发；v.剃 | |
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faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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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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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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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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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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95
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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