Three years of marriage had not been needed to teach Halo Tarrant that when her husband came home to lunch it was generally because something had gone wrong. She had long known that if he sought her out at that hour it was not to be charmed but to be tranquillized, as a man with a raging headache seeks a pillow and a darkened room. This need had been less frequent with him since he had bought The Hour and started in on the exciting task of reorganizing it. Usually he preferred to lunch near the office, at one of the Bohemian places affected1 by Frenside and his group; probably it was not indifferent to him, as he made his way among the tables, to hear: “That’s the fellow who’s bought The Hour. Lewis Tarrant; tall fair chap; yes — writes himself . . . .” Every form of external recognition, even the most casual and unimportant, was needed to fortify2 his self-confidence. Halo remembered how she had laughed when Frenside, long before her marriage, had once said: “Young Tarrant? Clever boy — but can’t rest unless the milkman knows it.” Nowadays she would not have tolerated such a comment, even from Frenside; and if she made it inwardly she tempered it by reminding herself that an exaggerated craving3 for recognition often proceeds from a morbid4 modesty5. Morbid — that was what poor Lewis was at bottom. She must never forget, when she was inclined to criticize him, that her faculty6 of rebounding7, of drawing fresh energy from discouragement, had been left out of his finer organization — for her own support she had to call it finer.
And now, on the very Friday when he was expecting his new discovery — the Tracys’ young cousin from the West — Tarrant had suddenly turned up for lunch. When his wife heard his latchkey she supposed he had brought young Weston back with him, and she had been pleased, and rather surprised, since it would have been more like him to want to parade his new friend among his colleagues. Possibly Weston had not turned out to be the kind to parade — though his young poet’s face and profound eyes had lingered rather picturesquely8 in her memory. Still, it was three years since they’d met, three years during which he’d been reporter on a smalltown newspaper. Perhaps the poetry had not survived . . . .
Her husband came in alone, late, and what she called “rumpled~looking,” though no outward disorder9 was ever visible in his carefully brushed person, and the signs she referred to lurked10 only about his mouth and eyes.
“Any lunch left? I hope there’s something hot — never mind what.” And, as he dropped into his seat, and the parlourmaid disappeared with hurried orders, he added, unfolding his napkin with a sardonic11 deliberation: “Well, your infant prodigy12 never turned up.”
Ah, how well she knew that law of his nature! Plans that didn’t come off were almost always ascribed (in all good faith) to others; and the prodigy who had failed him became hers. She smiled a little to see him so ridiculously ruffled13 by so small a contretemps. “Genius is proverbially unpunctual,” she suggested.
“Oh, GENIUS— ” He shrugged14 the epithet15 away. She might have that too, while she was about it. “After all, he may never do anything again. One good story doesn’t make a summer.”
“No, and mediocrity is apt to be unpunctual as genius.”
“UNPUNCTUAL? The fellow never came at all. Fixed16 his own hour — eleven. I put off two other important appointments and hung about the office waiting till after half-past one. I’d rather planned to take him round to the Café Jacques for lunch. A young fellow like that, from nowhere, often thaws17 out more easily if you feed him first, and encourage him to talk about himself. Vanity,” said Tarrant, as the maid approached with a smoking dish, “vanity’s always the first button to press. . . . EGGS? Good Lord, Halo, hasn’t that cook learnt yet that eggs are slow death to me? Oh, well, I’ll eat the bacon — What else? A chop she can grill18? The inevitable19 chop! Oh, of course it’ll DO.” He turned to his wife with the faint smile which etched little dry lines at the corners of his mouth. “I can’t say you’ve your mother’s culinary imagination, Halo.”
“No, I haven’t,” she answered good-humouredly; but a touch of acerbity20 made her add: “It would be rather wasted on a digestion21 like yours.”
Her husband paled a little. She so seldom said anything disagreeable that he was doubly offended when she did. “I might answer that if I had better food I should digest better,” he said.
“Yes, and I might answer that if your programme weren’t so limited I could provide more amusing food for you. But I’d sooner admit at once that I never did have Mother’s knack22 about things to eat, and I don’t wonder my menus bore you.” It was the way their small domestic squabbles usually ended — by her half contemptuously throwing him the sop23 he wanted.
He said, with the note of sulkiness that often marred24 his expiations: “No doubt I’m less easy to provide for than a glutton25 like Frenside — ” then, furtively26 abstracting an egg from the dish before him: “It’s a damned nuisance, having all my plans upset this way. . . . And a fellow I was hoping I might fit into the office permanently27 . . . .”
Halo suggested that perhaps the young man’s train had been delayed or run into — that perhaps at that very moment he was lying dead under a heap of wreckage28; but Tarrant grumbled29: “When people break appointments it’s never because they’re dead” — a statement her own experience bore out.
“He’s sure to turn up this afternoon,” she said, as one comforts a child for a deferred30 treat; but the suggestion brought no solace31 to Tarrant. He reminded her with a certain tartness32 (for he liked her to remember his engagements, if he happened to have mentioned them to her) that he was taking the three o’clock train for Philadelphia, where he had an important appointment with a firm of printers who were preparing estimates for him. There was no possibility of his returning to the office that day; he might even decide to take a night train from Philadelphia to Boston, where he would probably have to spend Saturday morning, also on business connected with the review. He didn’t know when he was going to be able to see Weston — and it was all a damned nuisance, especially as the young fool had given no New York address, and they had hoped to rush a Weston story into their coming number.
Time was when Halo, as a matter of course, would have offered to interview the delinquent33. Now she knew better. She had learned that in such matters she could be of use to her husband only indirectly34. The very tie she had most counted on in the early days of their marriage — a community of ideas and interests — had been the first to fail her. She knew now that the myth of his intellectual isolation35 was necessary to Tarrant’s pride. Nothing would have annoyed him more than to have her suggest that she might take a look at young Weston’s manuscripts. “Of course you could, my dear; it would be the greatest luck for the boy if you would — only, you know, I must reserve my independence of judgment36. And if you were to raise false hopes in the poor devil — let yourself be carried away, as I remember you were once by his poetry — it would be a beastly job for me to have to turn him down afterward37.” She could hear him saying that, and she knew that the satisfaction of asserting his superiority by depreciating38 what she had praised would outweigh39 any advantage he might miss by doing so. “Oh, young Weston will keep,” she acquiesced40 indifferently, as Tarrant got up to go.
The door closed on him, and she sat there with the golden afternoon on her hands. She said to herself: “There has never been such a beautiful November — ” and her imagination danced with visions of happy people, young, vigorous, self-confident, draining with eager lips the last drops of autumn sunshine. Always in twos they were, the people she pictured. It used not to be so; she had often had her solitary41 dreams. But now that she was hardly ever alone she was so often lonely. Lonely! It was a word she did not admit in her vocabulary — but the sensation was there, cold and a little sickening, gnawing42 at the roots of her life. . . . What nonsense! Why, she was actually robbing poor Lewis of the proud prerogative43 of isolation! As if a girl with her resources and her spirits hadn’t always more than enough to pack the hours with! She leaned in the wide window of the library and looked over the outspread city, and thought how when she had first stood there all its myriad44 pulses seemed to be beating in her blood. . . . “Am I tired? What’s wrong lately?” she wondered. . . . Should she call up the garage where her Chrysler was kept and dash out for the night to Paul’s Landing, where her family had lingered on over Thanksgiving? It would be rather jolly, arriving at Eaglewood long after dark, in the sharp November air, seeing the glitter of lights come out far ahead along the Hudson, and entering, muffled45 in furs, the shabby drawing room where Mr. and Mrs. Spear would be sitting over the fire, placidly46 denouncing outrages47 in distant lands. . . . No, not that . . . It was sweet to sit in New York dreaming of Eaglewood; but to return there now was always a pang48 . . . .
She began to muse49 on the woods in late summer, HER woods, when their foliage50 was heaviest, already yellowing a little here and there, with premature51 splashes of scarlet52 and wine colour on a still-green maple53, like the first white lock in a young woman’s hair . . . Of days on Thundertop, sunrise dips in the forest pool, long hours of dreaming on the rocky summit above the Hudson — how beautiful it had been that morning when she had stood there with young Weston, and they had watched light return to the world with a rending54 of vapours, a streaming of radiances, like the first breaking of life out of chaos55! “He felt it too — I could see it happening all over again in his eyes,” she thought; those eyes had seen it with hers. Perhaps that was why, when he recited his poetry to her, in spite of his shyness and his dreadful drawl, she had fancied she heard the authentic56 note. . . . Had she been mistaken? She didn’t know. But surely not about the story Lewis had brought home the other day. She was sure that was the real thing; and she was glad Lewis had felt it too, felt it at once — she was always glad when they saw things together. Perhaps the boy WAS going to be a great discovery; a triumph for Lewis, a triumph for The Hour! She remembered that as she leaned back against the mossy edge of the pool the pointed57 leaf shadows flickered58 across his forehead and seemed to crown it like a poet’s. . . . Poor little raw product of a standardized59 world, perhaps never to be thus laurelled again! . . .
She turned and wandered back to the fire, gazing, as she went, at the books her own hands had arranged and catalogued with such eager care. “What I want today is the book that’s never been written,” she thought; and then: “No, my child, what you really want is an object in life . . . .” She was grimly amused to find that she was talking to herself as so often, mentally, she talked to her husband . . . .
Oh, well — it was nearly dusk already; one more day to tick off the calendar; and at five there was a concert at the Vanguard Club — something new and exotic, of course; she’d mislaid the programme. . . . She went to her room and pulled out her smart black coat with the gray fur, and the close black turban that made her face look long and narrow and interesting. There were sure to be amusing people at the concert . . . .
The concert was dull; the amusing people were as boring as only the amusing can be; Halo came home late and out of sorts to find a long~distance from her husband saying he was going to Boston that night, and she was to notify the office that he would not reappear till Monday . . . .
Next morning she rang up the office and gave her message; then, after a pause, she added: “By the way, did Mr. Weston turn up yesterday — Vance Weston, the storywriter, you know?” Yes; they knew; they were expecting him. But he had not appeared, and there had been no message from him. No; they hadn’t his address. . . . She thought: “After all I was a fool not to go out to Eaglewood last night.” Another radiant day — the last before winter, perhaps! Why shouldn’t she dash out now, just for a few hours? A tramp in the woods would do her more good than anything. . . . But she lacked the energy to get into country clothes and call for the Chrysler. . . . “Besides, very likely that boy will turn up . . . .” Not that she meant to see him; but she could at least report to Lewis if he called at the office, and give whatever message he left. . . . It was rather petty of Lewis, she thought, not to have told her to see young Weston . . . .
Before twelve she rang up the office again. No; no sign of Weston; no message. How very queer. . . . Yes, it WAS queer. . . . Well, look here — that’s you, Mr. Rauch? Yes. Well, if he should turn up today after the office was closed — supposing he’d forgotten it was a Saturday — would Mr. Rauch leave word with the janitor60 to tell him to come to see her? Yes, at the flat; she’d be in all the afternoon. He was just to be told to ask for Mrs. Tarrant. (In the end, Lewis would probably be grateful — though he’d never go as far as acknowledging it.)
“I think I’ll try and do some painting,” she said to herself as she hung up. Lewis had fitted up a rather jolly room on the roof — a sort of workshop-study, in which he had reserved a corner for her modelling and painting. He always encouraged her in the practice of the arts he had himself abandoned, and while gently disparaging61 her writing was increasingly disposed to think there was “something in” her experiments with paint and clay. But it was months now since she had attempted either. . . . She mounted to the roof studio, pulled a painting apron62 over her shoulders, rummaged63 among canvases, fussed with her easel, and got out a bunch of paper flowers which she had manufactured after reading somewhere that Cézanne’s flowers were always done from paper models. “Now for a Cézanne!” she mocked.
Whenever she could persuade herself to work she still had the faculty of becoming engrossed64 in what she was doing, and the hours hurried by as she struggled with the mystery of mass and values. At that moment, really, she believed she was on the eve of learning how to paint. “Perhaps Lewis is right,” she thought.
Just as the light was failing the maid appeared. There was a gentleman downstairs — young gentleman, yes; his name was Weston. Halo dropped her brushes and wiped her hands hurriedly. She had forgotten all about young Weston! But she was glad that, now it was too dark to paint, he was there to fill in the end of the day.
Would she find him the same? Or had he changed? Would she still catch the shadow of the laurel on his forehead? As she entered the library her first impression was that he was shorter — smaller, altogether — than she had remembered; but then she had lived in the interval65 with a man of dominating height. This youth — how young he still looked! — met her eyes on a level. He had broadened a little; his brown hair with the slight wave in it had grown darker, she thought. This was all she had time to note, for before she could even greet him he had exclaimed: “There must be more books here than at the Willows66!” Ah, how that brought him back — that way of going straight to his object, dashing through all the customary preliminaries, yet so quietly, so simply, that it seemed the natural thing to do.
She looked at him with a faint smile. “You care for books as much as ever?”
Instead of answering he said: “Can I borrow some of these, do you think? I’ve got to buckle67 down to work at once. I see they’re classed by subjects; ah, here’s philosophy . . . .” Half annoyed, half amused at being treated like a librarian (an assistant librarian, she ironically corrected herself) she asked him if philosophy were what he was studying, and he said, yes, chiefly; that and Italian — so as to be able to read Dante.
“Dante?” she exclaimed. “We lived in Italy a good deal when I was a child. Perhaps I could help you with Dante.”
His face lit up. “Oh, could you? Say, could I come round evenings, three or four times a week, and read him with you after supper?”
A little taken aback she said she was not sure she could be free as often as that in the evening. They went out a good deal, she and her husband, she explained — to the theatre, to concerts . . . in a big place like New York there were always so many things to do in the evening. She forbore to mention that frequent dining-out was among them. Couldn’t he, she suggested, come in the early afternoon instead — she was often free till four. But he shook his head, obviously disappointed. “No, I couldn’t do that. I’ve got to stick to my own writing in the daytime.”
Ah, to be sure — his own writing! That was what he’d come about, she supposed, to see her husband? Her husband unluckily was away on business. He had expected Mr. Weston at the office the morning of the day before; she believed Mr. Weston had fixed his own hour for coming. And her husband had waited all the morning, and he hadn’t turned up. Her tongue stumbled over the “Mr. Weston”; it sounded stiff and affected; she remembered having called him “Vance” as a matter of course the first time she had seen him, at the Willows. But something made her feel that she was no longer in his confidence, or perhaps it was that he had simply forgotten what friends they had been. . . . The idea disconcerted her, and made her a little shy. It was as if their parts in the conversation had been reversed. “My husband expected you, but you never came,” she repeated, gently reproachful.
No, he said, he hadn’t come. He’d meant to, the day before, as soon as his train got to New York; but he hadn’t been able to. He stated the fact simply, without embarrassment69 or regret, and left it at that. Halo felt a slight flatness, an uncertainty70 as to how to proceed.
“And this morning —?”
“This morning I couldn’t either. I called round at the office half an hour ago, but it was closed, and the janitor told me to come here instead.”
“Yes, I left word — as my husband’s away.”
She suddenly perceived that they were still in the middle of the room, exchanging their explanations on the particular figure of the rug where he had been standing71 when she entered. She signed to him to take one of the armchairs by the fireplace, and herself sank into the other. Twilight72 had gathered in the corners of the bookwalled room, and the fire flowed more deeply for the shadows. Her visitor leaned to it. “I never saw such a beautiful fire — why, that’s real wood!” he exclaimed, and fell on his knees on the hearth73, as if to verify the strange discovery.
“Of course. We never burn anything else.”
This seemed to surprise him, and he lifted his firelit face to hers. “Because it’s so much more beautiful?”
“Because it’s alive.”
His gaze returned to the hearth. “That’s so; it’s alive . . . .” He stretched his hands to the flame, and as she watched him she remembered, a few days before, looking at Lewis’s hands as he held them out in the same way, and thinking: “Why isn’t he a poet?”
This boy’s hands were different: sturdier, less diaphanous74, with blunter fingertips, though the fingers were long and flexible. A worker’s hand, she thought; a maker’s hand. She wondered what he would make.
The thought reminded her once more of the object of his visit — or at least of hers in sending for him, and she said: “But you’ve brought a lot of things with you, haven’t you? I hope so. I want so much to see them.”
“Manuscripts?” He shook his head. “No, not much. But I’m going to write a lot of new stuff here.” He got to his feet and stood leaning against the mantelshelf, looking down at her with eyes which, mortifyingly75 enough, seemed to include her as merely part of the furniture. “What is he REALLY seeing at this moment?” she wondered. Aloud she said: “But my husband wrote you were to be sure to bring everything you’d written. He’s so much interested . . . we both think ‘One Day’ so wonderful. I understood he’d asked you to bring all the stories and articles The Hour had rejected. You see it’s in new hands — my husband’s — and he means to pursue a much broader policy . . . .” (Why was she talking like a magazine prospectus76? she asked herself.)
Vance Weston shook his head. “I didn’t bring any of those old things; they’re no good. The Hour was dead right to refuse them.”
“Oh — ” she exclaimed, surprised and interested. It was a new sound in that room — the voice of honest self-disparagement! She looked at him with a rising eagerness, noting again the breadth of his forehead, and the bold upward cut of the nostrils77, and the strong planting of his thickish nose between the gray eyes, set so deeply and widely apart.
“Authors are not always the best judges. Perhaps what you think no good might be just what a critic would admire.”
“No, that man Frenside’s a critic, isn’t he? Anyhow, the objections he made were right every time; I know they were.” He spoke78 firmly, but without undue79 humility80. “My head’s always full of subjects, of course. But he said I hadn’t accumulated enough life-stuff to build ’em with; and I know that’s right. And I know I can do a lot better now. That’s why I want to get to work at once.”
She felt disappointed, foreseeing her husband’s disappointment. It would have given him such acute satisfaction to reverse one of Frenside’s judgments81! “You think by this time you’ve accumulated the life-stuff?” Her tone was faintly ironical68.
“Well,” he said with simplicity82, “I guess time keeps on doing that — the months and years. They ought to. I’m three years older, and things have happened to me. I can see further into my subjects now.”
She noticed the lighting83 up of his eyes when he began to speak of his writing, and felt herself more remote from him than ever. She longed to know if he remembered nothing of their talks and she rejoined more gently: “I suppose it seems a long time to you since you read your poems to me on Thundertop.”
“Yes, it does,” he said. “But you taught me a lot that day that I haven’t forgotten — and at the Willows too.” He paused, as if groping for the right phrase. “I guess you were the first to show me what there was in books.”
The joyous84 colour rushed to her face. At last he had recovered the voice of the other Vance! “Ah, I was young then too,” she said with a wistful laugh.
“Young? I guess you’re young still.” Relapsing into friendly bluntness, he added: “I’m only twenty-two.”
“And I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“Say — I guess you’re about twenty-five, aren’t you?”
She shook her head with a mournful grimace85. “You must add one whole year to that. And such heaps and heaps of useless experience! I don’t even know how to turn it into stories. But tell me — haven’t you at least brought one with you today?”
“A story? No, I haven’t brought anything.”
She sat silent, inconceivably disappointed. “Shall I make a confession86? I hoped you’d want me to see something of yours . . . after all our talks . . . .”
“Well, I do; but I want to be sure it’s good enough.” He moved away from the fire and held out his hand. “I want to go right home now and write something. This is generally my best hour.”
She put her hand reluctantly in his. “I suppose I mustn’t keep you then. But you’ll come back? Come whenever you feel that I might help.”
“Surely,” he said with his rare smile; she was not sure she had ever seen him smile before. It made him look more boyish than ever. “I suppose I can see your husband on Monday?” he added.
Yes, she thought he could; but she repeated severely87 that he must be sure to telephone and make an appointment. “Editors are busy people, you know, Vance,” she added rather maternally88, slipping back into her old way of addressing him. “If you make another appointment you must be sure to keep it — be on the stroke, I mean. My husband was rather surprised at your not coming yesterday, at your not even sending word. His time is — precious.”
He met this with a youthful seriousness. “Yes, I presume he would be annoyed; but he won’t be when I’ve explained. I couldn’t help it, you see; I had to see the girl I’m going to marry before I did anything else.”
Halo drew back a step and looked at him with startled eyes. She felt as if something she had been resting on had given way under her. “You’re going to marry?”
“Yes,” he said, with illuminated89 eyes. “That’s the reason I’ve got to get to work as quick as I can. I guess your husband’ll understand that. And I’ll be sure to be at the office whatever time he wants me on Monday.”
When he had gone Hélo?se Tarrant sat down alone and looked into the fire.
收听单词发音 |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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faculty
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rebounding
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| 蹦跳运动 | |
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picturesquely
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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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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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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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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thaws
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| n.（足以解冻的）暖和天气( thaw的名词复数 )；（敌对国家之间）关系缓和v.（气候）解冻( thaw的第三人称单数 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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grill
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inevitable
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acerbity
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digestion
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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sop
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marred
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glutton
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furtively
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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tartness
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| n.酸，锋利 | |
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delinquent
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| adj.犯法的，有过失的；n.违法者 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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depreciating
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的现在分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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43
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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45
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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janitor
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| n.看门人，管门人 | |
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disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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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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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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mortifyingly
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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77
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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78
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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79
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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80
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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81
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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82
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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83
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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84
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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85
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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86
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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87
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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88
maternally
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89
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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