“I’ll do anything you like,” she said to her husband on one of the last days of the month, “if our being here, this way at this time, seems to you too absurd, or too uncomfortable, or too impossible. We’ll either take leave of them now, without waiting — or we’ll come back in time, three days before they start. I’ll go abroad with you, if you but say the word; to Switzerland, the Tyrol, the Italian Alps, to whichever of your old high places you would like most to see again — those beautiful ones that used to do you good after Rome and that you so often told me about.”
Where they were, in the conditions that prompted this offer, and where it might indeed appear ridiculous that, with the stale London September close at hand, they should content themselves with remaining, was where the desert of Portland Place looked blank as it had never looked, and where a drowsy1 cabman, scanning the horizon for a fare, could sink to oblivion of the risks of immobility. But Amerigo was of the odd opinion, day after day, that their situation couldn’t be bettered; and he even went at no moment through the form of replying that, should their ordeal2 strike her as exceeding their patience, any step they might take would be for her own relief. This was, no doubt, partly because he stood out so wonderfully, to the end, against admitting, by a weak word at least, that any element of their existence WAS, or ever had been, an ordeal; no trap of circumstance, no lapse3 of “form,” no accident of irritation4, had landed him in that inconsequence. His wife might verily have suggested that he was consequent — consequent with the admirable appearance he had from the first so undertaken, and so continued, to present — rather too rigidly6 at HER expense; only, as it happened, she was not the little person to do anything of the sort, and the strange tacit compact actually in operation between them might have been founded on an intelligent comparison, a definite collation7 positively8, of the kinds of patience proper to each. She was seeing him through — he had engaged to come out at the right end if she WOULD see him: this understanding, tacitly renewed from week to week, had fairly received, with the procession of the weeks, the consecration9 of time; but it scarce needed to be insisted on that she was seeing him on HIS terms, not all on hers, or that, in other words, she must allow him his unexplained and uncharted, his one practicably workable way. If that way, by one of the intimate felicities the liability to which was so far from having even yet completely fallen from him, happened handsomely to show him as more bored than boring (with advantages of his own freely to surrender, but none to be persuadedly indebted to others for,) what did such a false face of the matter represent but the fact itself that she was pledged? If she had questioned or challenged or interfered10 — if she had reserved herself that right — she wouldn’t have been pledged; whereas there were still, and evidently would be yet a while, long, tense stretches during which their case might have been hanging, for every eye, on her possible, her impossible defection. She must keep it up to the last, mustn’t absent herself for three minutes from her post: only on those lines, assuredly, would she show herself as with him and not against him.
It was extraordinary how scant11 a series of signs she had invited him to make of being, of truly having been at any time, “with” his wife: that reflection she was not exempt12 from as they now, in their suspense13, supremely14 waited — a reflection under the brush of which she recognised her having had, in respect to him as well, to “do all,” to go the whole way over, to move, indefatigably16, while he stood as fixed17 in his place as some statue of one of his forefathers18. The meaning of it would seem to be, she reasoned in sequestered19 hours, that he HAD a place, and that this was an attribute somehow indefeasible, unquenchable, which laid upon others — from the moment they definitely wanted anything of him — the necessity of taking more of the steps that he could, of circling round him, of remembering for his benefit the famous relation of the mountain to Mahomet. It was strange, if one had gone into it, but such a place as Amerigo’s was like something made for him beforehand by innumerable facts, facts largely of the sort known as historical, made by ancestors, examples, traditions, habits; while Maggie’s own had come to show simply as that improvised20 “post”— a post of the kind spoken of as advanced — with which she was to have found herself connected in the fashion of a settler or a trader in a new country; in the likeness22 even of some Indian squaw with a papoose on her back and barbarous bead-work to sell. Maggie’s own, in short, would have been sought in vain in the most rudimentary map of the social relations as such. The only geography marking it would be doubtless that of the fundamental passions. The “end” that the Prince was at all events holding out for was represented to expectation by his father-inlaw’s announced departure for America with Mrs. Verver; just as that prospective23 event had originally figured as advising, for discretion24, the flight of the younger couple, to say nothing of the withdrawal25 of whatever other importunate26 company, before the great upheaval27 of Fawns28. This residence was to be peopled for a month by porters, packers and hammerers, at whose operations it had become peculiarly public — public that is for Portland Place — that Charlotte was to preside in force; operations the quite awful appointed scale and style of which had at no moment loomed30 so large to Maggie’s mind as one day when the dear Assinghams swam back into her ken5 besprinkled with sawdust and looking as pale as if they had seen Samson pull down the temple. They had seen at least what she was not seeing, rich dim things under the impression of which they had retired31; she having eyes at present but for the clock by which she timed her husband, or for the glass — the image perhaps would be truer — in which he was reflected to her as HE timed the pair in the country. The accession of their friends from Cadogan Place contributed to all their intermissions, at any rate, a certain effect of resonance32; an effect especially marked by the upshot of a prompt exchange of inquiries33 between Mrs. Assingham and the Princess. It was noted34, on the occasion of that anxious lady’s last approach to her young friend at Fawns, that her sympathy had ventured, after much accepted privation, again to become inquisitive35, and it had perhaps never so yielded to that need as on this question of the present odd “line” of the distinguished36 eccentrics.
“You mean to say really that you’re going to stick here?” And then before Maggie could answer: “What on earth will you do with your evenings?”
Maggie waited a moment — Maggie could still tentatively smile. “When people learn we’re here — and of course the papers will be full of it!— they’ll flock back in their hundreds, from wherever they are, to catch us. You see you and the Colonel have yourselves done it. As for our evenings, they won’t, I dare say, be particularly different from anything else that’s ours. They won’t be different from our mornings or our afternoons — except perhaps that you two dears will sometimes help us to get through them. I’ve offered to go anywhere,” she added; “to take a house if he will. But THIS— just this and nothing else — is Amerigo’s idea. He gave it yesterday” she went on, “a name that, as, he said, described and fitted it. So you see”— and the Princess indulged again in her smile that didn’t play, but that only, as might have been said, worked —“so you see there’s a method in our madness.”
It drew Mrs. Assingham’s wonder. “And what then is the name?”
“‘The reduction to its simplest expression of what we ARE doing’— that’s what he called it. Therefore as we’re doing nothing, we’re doing it in the most aggravated37 way — which is the way he desires.” With which Maggie further said: “Of course I understand.”
“So do I!” her visitor after a moment breathed. “You’ve had to vacate the house — that was inevitable38. But at least here he doesn’t funk.”
Our young woman accepted the expression. “He doesn’t funk.”
It only, however, half contented39 Fanny, who thoughtfully raised her eyebrows40. “He’s prodigious41; but what is there — as you’ve ‘fixed’ it — TO dodge42? Unless,” she pursued, “it’s her getting near him; it’s — if you’ll pardon my vulgarity — her getting AT him. That,” she suggested, “may count with him.”
But it found the Princess prepared. “She can get near him here. She can get ‘at’ him. She can come up.”
“CAN she?” Fanny Assingham questioned.
“CAN’T she?” Maggie returned.
Their eyes, for a minute, intimately met on it; after which the elder woman said: “I mean for seeing him alone.”
“So do I,” said the Princess.
At which Fanny, for her reasons, couldn’t help smiling. “Oh, if it’s for THAT he’s staying —!”
“He’s staying — I’ve made it out — to take anything that comes or calls upon him. To take,” Maggie went on, “even that.” Then she put it as she had at last put it to herself. “He’s staying for high decency43.”
“Decency?” Mrs. Assingham gravely echoed.
“Decency. If she SHOULD try —!”
“Well —?” Mrs. Assingham urged.
“Well, I hope —!”
“Hope he’ll see her?”
Maggie hesitated, however; she made no direct reply. “It’s useless hoping,” she presently said. “She won’t. But he ought to.” Her friend’s expression of a moment before, which had been apologised for as vulgar, prolonged its sharpness to her ear — that of an electric bell under continued pressure. Stated so simply, what was it but dreadful, truly, that the feasibility of Charlotte’s “getting at” the man who for so long had loved her should now be in question? Strangest of all things, doubtless, this care of Maggie’s as to what might make for it or make against it; stranger still her fairly lapsing44 at moments into a vague calculation of the conceivability, on her own part, with her husband, of some direct sounding of the subject. Would it be too monstrous45, her suddenly breaking out to him as in alarm at the lapse of the weeks: “Wouldn’t it really seem that you’re bound in honour to do something for her, privately46, before they go?” Maggie was capable of weighing the risk of this adventure for her own spirit, capable of sinking to intense little absences, even while conversing47, as now, with the person who had most of her confidence, during which she followed up the possibilities. It was true that Mrs. Assingham could at such times somewhat restore the balance — by not wholly failing to guess her thought. Her thought, however, just at present, had more than one face — had a series that it successively presented. These were indeed the possibilities involved in the adventure of her concerning herself for the quantity of compensation that Mrs. Verver might still look to. There was always the possibility that she WAS, after all, sufficiently48 to get at him — there was in fact that of her having again and again done so. Against this stood nothing but Fanny Assingham’s apparent belief in her privation — more mercilessly imposed, or more hopelessly felt, in the actual relation of the parties; over and beyond everything that, from more than three months back, of course, had fostered in the Princess a like conviction. These assumptions might certainly be baseless — inasmuch as there were hours and hours of Amerigo’s time that there was no habit, no pretence49 of his accounting50 for; inasmuch too as Charlotte, inevitably51, had had more than once, to the undisguised knowledge of the pair in Portland Place, been obliged to come up to Eaton Square, whence so many of her personal possessions were in course of removal. She didn’t come to Portland Place — didn’t even come to ask for luncheon52 on two separate occasions when it reached the consciousness of the household there that she was spending the day in London. Maggie hated, she scorned, to compare hours and appearances, to weigh the idea of whether there hadn’t been moments, during these days, when an assignation, in easy conditions, a snatched interview, in an air the season had so cleared of prying53 eyes, mightn’t perfectly54 work. But the very reason of this was partly that, haunted with the vision of the poor woman carrying off with such bravery as she found to her hand the secret of her not being appeased55, she was conscious of scant room for any alternative image. The alternative image would have been that the secret covered up was the secret of appeasement56 somehow obtained, somehow extorted57 and cherished; and the difference between the two kinds of hiding was too great to permit of a mistake. Charlotte was hiding neither pride nor joy — she was hiding humiliation58; and here it was that the Princess’s passion, so powerless for vindictive59 flights, most inveterately60 bruised61 its tenderness against the hard glass of her question.
Behind the glass lurked62 the WHOLE history of the relation she had so fairly flattened63 her nose against it to penetrate64 — the glass Mrs. Verver might, at this stage, have been frantically65 tapping, from within, by way of supreme15, irrepressible entreaty66. Maggie had said to herself complacently67, after that last passage with her stepmother in the garden of Fawns, that there was nothing left for her to do and that she could thereupon fold her hands. But why wasn’t it still left to push further and, from the point of view of personal pride, grovel68 lower?— why wasn’t it still left to offer herself as the bearer of a message reporting to him their friend’s anguish69 and convincing him of her need?
She could thus have translated Mrs. Verver’s tap against the glass, as I have called it, into fifty forms; could perhaps have translated it most into the form of a reminder70 that would pierce deep. “You don’t know what it is to have been loved and broken with. You haven’t been broken with, because in your RELATION what can there have been, worth speaking of, to break? Ours was everything a relation could be, filled to the brim with the wine of consciousness; and if it was to have no meaning, no better meaning than that such a creature as you could breathe upon it, at your hour, for blight71, why was I myself dealt with all for deception72? why condemned73 after a couple of short years to find the golden flame — oh, the golden flame!— a mere29 handful of black ashes?” Our young woman so yielded, at moments, to what was insidious74 in these foredoomed ingenuities75 of her pity, that for minutes together, sometimes, the weight of a new duty seemed to rest upon her — the duty of speaking before separation should constitute its chasm76, of pleading for some benefit that might be carried away into exile like the last saved object of price of the emigre, the jewel wrapped in a piece of old silk and negotiable some day in the market of misery77.
This imagined service to the woman who could no longer help herself was one of the traps set for Maggie’s spirit at every turn of the road; the click of which, catching78 and holding the divine faculty79 fast, was followed inevitably by a flutter, by a struggle of wings and even, as we may say, by a scattering80 of fine feathers. For they promptly81 enough felt, these yearnings of thought and excursions of sympathy, the concussion82 that couldn’t bring them down — the arrest produced by the so remarkably83 distinct figure that, at Fawns, for the previous weeks, was constantly crossing, in its regular revolution, the further end of any watched perspective. Whoever knew, or whoever didn’t, whether or to what extent Charlotte, with natural business in Eaton Square, had shuffled84 other opportunities under that cloak, it was all matter for the kind of quiet ponderation the little man who so kept his wandering way had made his own. It was part of the very inveteracy85 of his straw hat and his white waistcoat, of the trick of his hands in his pockets, of the detachment of the attention he fixed on his slow steps from behind his secure pince-nez. The thing that never failed now as an item in the picture was that gleam of the silken noose86, his wife’s immaterial tether, so marked to Maggie’s sense during her last month in the country. Mrs. Verver’s straight neck had certainly not slipped it; nor had the other end of the long cord — oh, quite conveniently long!— disengaged its smaller loop from the hooked thumb that, with his fingers closed upon it, her husband kept out of sight. To have recognised, for all its tenuity, the play of this gathered lasso might inevitably be to wonder with what magic it was twisted, to what tension subjected, but could never be to doubt either of its adequacy to its office or of its perfect durability87. These reminded states for the Princess were in fact states of renewed gaping88. So many things her father knew that she even yet didn’t!
All this, at present, with Mrs. Assingham, passed through her in quick vibrations89. She had expressed, while the revolution of her thought was incomplete, the idea of what Amerigo “ought,” on his side, in the premises90, to be capable of, and then had felt her companion’s answering stare. But she insisted on what she had meant. “He ought to wish to see her — and I mean in some protected and independent way, as he used to — in case of her being herself able to manage it. That,” said Maggie with the courage of her conviction, “he ought to be ready, he ought to be happy, he ought to feel himself sworn — little as it is for the end of such a history!— to take from her. It’s as if he wished to get off without taking anything.”
Mrs. Assingham deferentially91 mused92. “But for what purpose is it your idea that they should again so intimately meet?”
“For any purpose they like. That’s THEIR affair.”
Fanny Assingham sharply laughed, then irrepressibly fell back to her constant position. “You’re splendid — perfectly splendid.” To which, as the Princess, shaking an impatient head, wouldn’t have it again at all, she subjoined: “Or if you’re not it’s because you’re so sure. I mean sure of HIM.”
“Ah, I’m exactly NOT sure of him. If I were sure of him I shouldn’t doubt —!” But Maggie cast about her.
“Doubt what?” Fanny pressed as she waited.
“Well, that he must feel how much less than she he pays — and how that ought to keep her present to him.”
This, in its turn, after an instant, Mrs. Assingham could meet with a smile. “Trust him, my dear, to keep her present! But trust him also to keep himself absent. Leave him his own way.”
“I’ll leave him everything,” said Maggie. “Only — you know it’s my nature — I THINK.”
“It’s your nature to think too much,” Fanny Assingham a trifle coarsely risked.
This but quickened, however, in the Princess the act she reprobated. “That may be. But if I hadn’t thought —!”
“You wouldn’t, you mean, have been where you are?”
“Yes, because they, on their side, thought of everything BUT that. They thought of everything but that I might think.”
“Or even,” her friend too superficially concurred93, “that your father might!”
As to this, at all events, Maggie discriminated94. “No, that wouldn’t have prevented them; for they knew that his first care would be not to make me do so. As it is,” Maggie added, “that has had to become his last.”
Fanny Assingham took it in deeper — for what it immediately made her give out louder. “HE’S splendid then.” She sounded it almost aggressively; it was what she was reduced to — she had positively to place it.
“Ah, that as much as you please!”
Maggie said this and left it, but the tone of it had the next moment determined95 in her friend a fresh reaction. “You think, both of you, so abysmally96 and yet so quietly. But it’s what will have saved you.”
“Oh,” Maggie returned, “it’s what — from the moment they discovered we could think at all — will have saved THEM. For they’re the ones who are saved,” she went on. “We’re the ones who are lost.”
“Lost —?”
“Lost to each other — father and I” And then as her friend appeared to demur97, “Oh yes,” Maggie quite lucidly98 declared, “lost to each other much more, really, than Amerigo and Charlotte are; since for them it’s just, it’s right, it’s deserved, while for us it’s only sad and strange and not caused by our fault. But I don’t know,” she went on, “why I talk about myself, for it’s on father it really comes. I let him go,” said Maggie.
“You let him, but you don’t make him.”
“I take it from him,” she answered.
“But what else can you do?”
“I take it from him,” the Princess repeated. “I do what I knew from the first I SHOULD do. I get off by giving him up.”
“But if he gives you?” Mrs. Assingham presumed to object. “Doesn’t it moreover then,” she asked, “complete the very purpose with which he married — that of making you and leaving you more free?”
Maggie looked at her long. “Yes — I help him to do that.”
Mrs. Assingham hesitated, but at last her bravery flared99. “Why not call it then frankly100 his complete success?”
“Well,” said Maggie, “that’s all that’s left me to do.”
“It’s a success,” her friend ingeniously developed, “with which you’ve simply not interfered.” And as if to show that she spoke21 without levity101 Mrs. Assingham went further. “He has made it a success for THEM—!”
“Ah, there you are!” Maggie responsively mused. “Yes,” she said the next moment, “that’s why Amerigo stays.”
“Let alone it’s why Charlotte goes.” that Mrs. Assingham, and emboldened102, smiled “So he knows —?”
But Maggie hung back. “Amerigo —?” After which, however, she blushed — to her companion’s recognition.
“Your father. He knows what YOU know? I mean,” Fanny faltered103 — “well, how much does he know?” Maggie’s silence and Maggie’s eyes had in fact arrested the push of the question — which, for a decent consistency104, she couldn’t yet quite abandon. “What I should rather say is does he know how much?” She found it still awkward. “How much, I mean, they did. How far”— she touched it up —“they went.”
Maggie had waited, but only with a question. “Do you think he does?”
“Know at least something? Oh, about him I can’t think. He’s beyond me,” said Fanny Assingham.
“Then do you yourself know?”
“How much —?”
“How much.”
“How far —?”
“How far.”
Fanny had appeared to wish to make sure, but there was something she remembered — remembered in time and even with a smile. “I’ve told you before that I know absolutely nothing.”
“Well — that’s what I know,” said the Princess.
Her friend again hesitated. “Then nobody knows —? I mean,” Mrs. Assingham explained, “how much your father does.”
Oh, Maggie showed that she understood. “Nobody.”
“Not — a little — Charlotte?”
“A little?” the Princess echoed. “To know anything would be, for her, to know enough.”
“And she doesn’t know anything?”
“If she did,” Maggie answered, “Amerigo would.”
“And that’s just it — that he doesn’t?”
“That’s just it,” said the Princess profoundly.
On which Mrs. Assingham reflected. “Then how is Charlotte so held?”
“Just by that.”
“By her ignorance?”
“By her ignorance.” Fanny wondered. “A torment105 —?”
“A torment,” said Maggie with tears in her eyes.
Her companion a moment watched them. But the Prince then —?”
“How is HE held?” Maggie asked.
“How is HE held?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that!” And the Princess again broke off.
收听单词发音 |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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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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irritation
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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collation
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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consecration
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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scant
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exempt
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suspense
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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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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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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improvised
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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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likeness
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prospective
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discretion
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withdrawal
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importunate
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upheaval
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fawns
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| n.（未满一岁的）幼鹿( fawn的名词复数 )；浅黄褐色；乞怜者；奉承者v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的第三人称单数 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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mere
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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retired
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resonance
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inquiries
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noted
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inquisitive
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distinguished
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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38
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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42
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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47
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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50
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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52
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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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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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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56
appeasement
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| n.平息，满足 | |
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extorted
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| v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 )；曲解 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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grovel
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| vi.卑躬屈膝，奴颜婢膝 | |
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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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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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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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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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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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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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82
concussion
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| n.脑震荡；震动 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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84
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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85
inveteracy
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| n.根深蒂固，积习 | |
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86
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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durability
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| n.经久性，耐用性 | |
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88
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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90
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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91
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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92
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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93
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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96
abysmally
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| adv.极糟地；可怕地；完全地；极端地 | |
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97
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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98
lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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99
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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100
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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101
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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102
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
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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104
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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105
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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