Mrs. Tracy’s forgiveness turned out harder to win than they had imagined. When they came on her that evening clearing away her lonely supper, as Laura Lou had predicted, their arrival provoked a burst of tears and an embrace in which Vance managed to get included. But the rousing of Mrs. Tracy’s emotions did not affect her judgment1. The exchange of acrimonious2 letters between Paul’s Landing and Euphoria, at the time when she had ordered Vance out of her house, had sown ineradicable seeds. Even had her son-in-law’s prospects3 impressed her as much as he had hoped, her view would not have changed; but, as Vance soon perceived, she remained unimpressed by the documents so proudly spread before her. “I guess newspaper work’s more reliable than magazines,” she merely remarked, no doubt mindful of the dizzy heights to which journalism5 had lifted Bunty Hayes.
But these were secondary considerations; for she now regarded Vance as the corrupter6 of both her children. Vance had taken Upton to a “bad house” (so Upton, the sneak8, had never shouldered his part of the blame!); Vance had made Laura Lou deceive her mother and break her promise to Bunty Hayes, the promise on the strength of which Mrs. Tracy had accepted a loan that it might take years to repay. Vance had wounded her in her pride and her affection; and the double humiliation9 was not effaced10 by this vague talk about a review that was going to give him a hundred dollars a piece for articles he hadn’t even written.
“Mr. Hayes wanted she should be brought up like a lady, as her father’s daughter ought to be,” Mrs. Tracy said over and over again, during her first private talk with Vance, on the day after their return to Paul’s Landing.
“She doesn’t have to be in Hayes’s pay to learn to be a lady — I guess God made her that,” Vance retorted. Mrs. Tracy, with a cold patience, said he knew well enough what she meant — she meant, educated like a lady, the way all the Lorburns had been; the way she couldn’t afford to educate her children because of her husband’s misfortunes, and his dying just when things were going against them. . . . Mr. Hayes had understood, and had wanted to help them, and had acted as a gentleman would . . . .
“Well, I guess you can trust me to act as well as he did,” Vance said, too happy not to be generous, and feeling how poor a case he could make out for his own behaviour. But Mrs. Tracy only answered that, whatever she might feel about the matter, Laura Lou was not free to break her engagement till that thousand dollars was paid back.
“Why, see here, there’s been a law in the United States for some years now against trading in flesh and blood,” Vance broke out, his irritation11 rising again; but the resentment12 in Mrs. Tracy’s eyes showed him the uselessness of irony13.
“I guess I understand well enough how you feel,” he began humbly14. “But Laura Lou loved me, and didn’t love Hayes; that’s about the only answer. Anyhow, I’ve told you I mean to pay back that loan as soon as ever I can. I’ve got the promise of a salary of fifteen hundred dollars, and I’m going to get right to work earning it, and as much over it as I can; and every cent I can put by each month will go to paying off Hayes. You couldn’t seriously expect Laura Lou and me to let a thousand dollars separate us, could you?”
Mrs. Tracy replied, obliquely15, that she supposed he knew by this time what his own folks intended to do for him; and this brought Vance up with a jerk, for he had not yet told his parents of his marriage. He stood before Mrs. Tracy flushed and irresolute16 while she added: “I guess a thousand dollars isn’t the mountain to them it is to me. But maybe they don’t fancy your getting married so young.”
“I— I haven’t heard yet,” Vance stammered17, and she said, evidently perceiving her advantage, and enjoying the chance to exercise a grim magnanimity: “Well, I guess you and Laura Lou’d better stay here till you hear what your family mean to do.”
Vance and Laura Lou knew she was secretly thankful to have them there. Upton’s new job made it impossible for him to live at Paul’s Landing, and his mother was nervous alone in the house, yet reluctant to leave because of her monthly allowance for the care of the Willows18; so that, her resentment once expressed, she found it easier to keep the offenders19 than to send them away.
Vance, when he carried off Laura Lou, had never thought of the possibility of having to live at Paul’s Landing. Vague visions of life in a New York boarding house had flitted through his mind, or rather lurked20 scarce-visible on its edge; but till he had persuaded Laura Lou to come to him nothing had seemed real or near at hand save the bliss21 he craved22, and before four days of that bliss were over he understood that he lacked the experience and the money to make any sort of home for her. They were lucky to have Mrs. Tracy to turn to; her conditional23 forgiveness, and the shelter of her tumbledown roof, were the best they could expect — unless Mapledale Avenue should intervene. But Vance had small expectation of help from home. He had been startled back to a sense of reality by Mrs. Tracy’s question; for he had not meant to conceal24 his marriage from his parents, but had simply forgotten all about them. From the very moment — less than a fortnight ago — when he had stepped out of the Grand Central and seen Laura Lou in the rubberneck car, he had thought of nothing else — hardly even of his art. The sight of her, the sound of her voice, the touch of her hand had rapt him away from common values and dimensions into that mystic domain25 to which he sometimes escaped from the pressure of material things. To that domain Laura Lou at the moment held the key, as hitherto great poetry had held it, the sunrise from Thundertop, his first sight of the sea, his plunge26 into the past in the library at the Willows, or any of the other imaginative shocks that flung open the gates of wonder. But the world to which Laura Lou admitted him seemed to comprise all the others, and it was not till he woke from his first ecstasy27 that he saw she herself was not an extra-terrestrial joy but a solid earthly fact, capable of apprehending28 only the earthly bounds out of which her beauty had lifted him. Laura Lou, dispenser of raptures29, was merely a human being to be fed, clothed, cherished — what was it the minister had said? — in sickness and in health, till death should them part. And as long as they were together it could be only (to her at least) in the world of food, clothes, salary, sickness or health, prosperity or failure, mothers~in-law or boarding houses. As Vance went up to bed, after a drawn30 battle in the cold dimly lit dining room with his first “Cocoanut Tree” article, he reflected: “Well, anyway, I know it makes her happy to be back here,” and bent31 his impetuous neck to the yoke32.
At first the yoke proved less heavy than he had expected. While he was at work Laura Lou had her mother’s companionship. During their brief days alone his wife’s tenderness had begun to frighten him, not its ardour but its submissiveness. He had not imagined that one human life could be so swiftly and completely absorbed into another. It was like a blood transfusion33: body and soul, he seemed to have taken her into himself; whenever he returned, after an absence of a few hours, only her lovely ghost awaited him, and his presence had to warm her back to life. Now it was different. Her love was quieted by the return to the daily routine in familiar surroundings. She, who had formerly34 done so little to help her mother, was now eager to share in the household labours; Vance guessed that she was trying to learn how to make a home for him. Already she sternly defended his working hours, and had once or twice reproved Mrs. Tracy for asking him to bring up the coal or clear out the roof gutter35. Luckily, if clumsy he was willing, and had no objection to undertaking36 the tasks which had been Upton’s, if only the women would let him alone while he wrote. This was not very difficult, since he worked in the afternoon and after they had gone to bed; and the first weeks at Paul’s Landing passed peacefully.
One day Upton came over. He had grown broader and stronger, and his new job had given him an air of importance which at first amused and then irritated Vance, to whom he was still the shifty boy of three years ago. Upton did not appear much more pleased with Laura Lou’s marriage than his mother, nor more impressed by Vance’s literary credentials37. While the women were in the kitchen he followed Vance back to the dining room, where the latter had been given a corner for his desk and papers, shut the door solemnly, and asked: What about Bunty Hayes? Vance laughed, and said he guessed Bunty Hayes wasn’t going to bother them much, and anyhow he’d had three weeks now to stir things up, and they hadn’t heard from him.
“Oh, but you will,” Upton said, a little apprehensively38. “He was in California when Laura Lou and you went off, and I don’t believe he knows anything yet. His job in New York ended after Thanksgiving, and the firm that employs him sent him West to look over some winter and spring routes. I guess he’ll be back any day,” he added.
Vance laughed again. “Well, what do you think he’ll do?” Upton coloured uncomfortably, and said: “I’d feel better if Mother hadn’t taken the money.” Vance rejoined that he would too, but as it had been taken the only thing was to pay it back. He understood Saint Elfrida’s School wouldn’t refund39 an advance if the pupil had taken part of the course, and he was going to do his best to get the loan paid off as quickly as his earnings40 permitted. He was getting bored with the subject, and tried to change it, but Upton, scratching his head, insisted dubiously41: “I wish’t you could have raised the whole thousand right away. He’s the kind to turn ugly.”
“Oh, I thought he was a friend of yours,” Vance rapped back, exasperated42; but Upton answered: “Well, I guess you’d better try and stay friends with him too, if you don’t want him coming round and raising hell.”
Vance would have been angry if he had not seen that Upton, under his commanding manner, was still the scared boy of old. The discovery made him smile, and rejoin: “Well, I guess I’d better get to work right now, and try to earn some money for him,” — at which Upton sulkily withdrew.
Vance became aware, after this, that the only thing to restore his credit with Mrs. Tracy would be the approval of his family. If they were pleased with his marriage they would do something handsome; and the something handsome would help to wipe out the Hayes loan. Vance shared her view, but not her hope; he knew what his family would think. The exchange of acrimonious letters had left traces no less deep in Mapledale Avenue than at Paul’s Landing. His people would regard it as folly43 for him to marry at his age, and be indignant with him for marrying the Tracy girl after the way the Tracys had treated him. These considerations weighted his pen when he wrote home to announce his marriage; and he was less surprised than Mrs. Tracy at the time which elapsed before he had an answer.
The first sign came from Grandma Scrimser, who sent him a beautiful letter, a Bible, and a year’s subscription44 to Spirit Light, to which she and her daughter Saidie Toler were now regular contributors. Grandma thought it lovely and brave of him to get married right off. She hoped that Laura Lou was as pretty and high~minded as her mother, when Mrs. Tracy had come out to see them years ago, on her wedding tour, and that Vanny would bring his bride to Euphoria right away, and that their married life would be full of spiritual benedictions45.
A few days later Mrs. Weston wrote. She said they had been so taken aback by Vance’s news that they didn’t know what to say. They’d all supposed Vance would have too much pride ever to set foot in Mrs. Tracy’s house again, and now first thing they knew he’d married her daughter, without even telling them, or asking their advice or approval. His father had been so hurt and upset that at first she didn’t know how she’d ever bring him round, and even now he couldn’t make up his mind to write; but she, Mrs. Weston, had finally persuaded him to let her do so, and he had told her to say that if Vance chose to bring his wife out to Euphoria and get a job there, the couple would be welcome to the spare room to live in, and Mr. Weston would see what he could do to get Vance taken back on the Free Speaker, though of course he couldn’t guarantee anything — only Vance might be able to do something if he was on the spot, so Mrs. Weston thought they’d better come out as soon as they could. She added in a postscript46 that Mr. Weston had showed the terms of Vance’s contract with The Hour to the celebrated47 authoress, Yula Marphy, who was over from Dakin visiting with friends at Euphoria, and Miss Marphy had said, why it looked to her like a downright swindle, for she could get five hundred dollars any day for a story in the big magazines, and she’d never heard of The Hour anyhow, and she guessed it was one of those highbrow papers that run at a loss for a year or so, and then fizzle out. And what she advised was for Vance to come straight back West, where he belonged, and take up newspaper work again, and write pure manly48 stories about young fellows prospecting49 in the Yukon, or that sort of thing, because the big reading public was fed up with descriptions of corrupt7 society people, like there was a demand for in the East. Mrs. Weston added that his sisters sent him their love, and hoped his marriage would make him very happy; and would he be sure and telegraph when to expect him, as they presumed Mrs. Tracy was still without a telephone?
The sting of this did not escape Vance. The social classifications of Euphoria were based on telephones and bathtubs; but he had already guessed that elsewhere other categories prevailed. His irritation made it easier to answer than if the letter had been more cordial. He wrote that he didn’t suppose his father would seriously advise him, even if he were willing to break his contract, to give up a good opening in New York for a problematic job at Euphoria. He thanked his parents for offering his wife and himself a room, but added that his mother-in-law had already given them a home at Paul’s Landing. And he posted this letter without telling either Mrs. Tracy or Laura Lou that he had heard from his mother. To his grandmother he wrote affectionately; he knew that a Bible and a year’s subscription to Spirit Light were the best she could afford, and the tone of her letter touched him. She was the one human being at Euphoria who had dimly guessed what he was groping for: their souls had brushed wings in the twilight50 . . . .
The weeks passed. He took his first article — “Coleridge Today” — to The Hour, and Eric Rauch was enthusiastic, but said Vance must tackle a contemporary next time. Rauch suggested his own volume of poems, Voodoo, and Vance reddened and mumbled51 at the suggestion. The little book had interested and puzzled him; he was surprised to watch, under its modern bluster52, so many half-familiar notes. He said he didn’t believe he was ready yet to tackle the new poetry; hadn’t read enough or understood enough of it; Eric Rauch rejoined, with his compelling smile: “Why, that’s just what we’re after for The Hour: a fellow’s first reactions, BEFORE he’s ready. We want to wipe out the past and get a fresh eye on things. We can get standardized53 reviewing by the bushel.” Vance travelled home heavyhearted, trying on the way to distract his thoughts by thinking up subjects for his next story.
Not subjects: they abounded54 — swarmed55 like bees, hummed in his ears like mosquitoes. There were times when he could hardly see the real world for his crowding visions of it. What he sought was rather the development of these visions; to discover where they led to. His imagination worked slowly, except in the moments of burning union with the power that fed it. In the intervals56 he needed time to brood on his themes, to let them round themselves within him. And he felt also increasingly, as his life widened, how small his provision of experience was. He needed time for himself — time to let his mind ripen57, to have things happen to himself, and watch them happen about him, without being in haste to interpret or develop what he saw. He did not want to cut down all his trees for firewood. All this was still confused and unexpressed in him; he felt it most clearly when, after his imagination had seized on a subject and was preparing to plunge to its heart, he was brought up short by inexperience, by his inability to relate the thing he had fastened on to the rest of the world. Experiences, for him, were not separable entities58; everything he saw, and took into himself, came with a breaking away of tendrils, a rending59 of filaments60 to which the soil of life still clung — and he was familiar, as yet, with so few inches of that soil. The rest was alien territory. He never seemed able to get to the heart of his subjects. . . . And then, when he got out of the train at Paul’s Landing, there was Laura Lou in the winter dusk, a little pinched by the cold, but with eyes of blue fire, lips that burned on his — and he wondered if he hadn’t been meant to be a poet . . . .
Two or three times a week he went up to the office of The Hour. Tarrant would have liked him to come every day; but that would have put an end to his writing. He had never been able to work except in solitude61; and besides, the journey back and forth62 was a clear waste of time and money.
He soon found that even these absences preyed63 on Laura Lou. She did not reproach him; she simply pined when he was not there. When he got back he had to tell her everything that had happened to him, describe the people he had met, repeat everything that everyone had said or done; and in doing so he measured again her mental limits, and saw that the things which counted for him would never count for her. She smiled them away as oddities, like a wise little wife humouring a cranky husband; and her smile almost made him feel that endearments64 were enough for a soul to live on. Almost, not quite. From his childhood there had been in him an irreducible core of selfness (he found no other word for it), a hidden cave in which he hoarded65 his secretest treasures as a child hoards66 stony67 dead starfish and dull shells of which he has once seen the sea glitter, though he can make no one else believe in it. Even Laura Lou’s ignorance, even Laura Lou’s embraces, could not cheapen that treasure.
He had been coming and going in this way for about three weeks when one evening, on his return from town, not finding his wife below stairs, he ran up to her. She lay on the bed, asleep, in the attitude of trustful composure which had moved him on their first wedded68 morning. Near the bed he saw a crumpled69 paper on the floor. Laura Lou’s sleep was so sound that he picked up the paper and smoothed it out under the lamp without waking her. It was a letter, bearing the address of a drummer’s hotel at Seattle, and it began: “Well, in a few more days now, little sweet, I’ll be back home again, and I guess we’ll have some good times round about Christmas, if Bunty Hayes is the man I take him for. Say, honey, how long do they let you off that school for the holidays . . .?”
Vance read no further. He stood motionless, looking at his wife. She had not told Bunty Hayes; Mrs. Tracy had not told him. Vance saw that both women had been afraid, and pity and wrath70 struggled in him, the wrath mostly for Mrs. Tracy, the pity — well, yes, the pity for Bunty Hayes. The women hadn’t treated him squarely. . . . Vance let the letter fall where he had found it . . . .
The next day — his last at the office before Christmas — he handed in his article on Eric Rauch’s Voodoo. He wasn’t satisfied with it; he knew it wasn’t good. And he hated it because it was part of what he was expected to do for The Hour in return for the salary he had to have.
Tarrant, evidently, didn’t care for the article either; though he was prepared to do so later, Vance suspected, if good reasons were forthcoming. Vance had already learned that his chief’s opinions were always twenty-four hours late. At first he had thought it was because they matured as slowly as his own; but he had begun to suspect a different reason. Somebody, not always immediately available, did Tarrant’s thinking for him — Vance wondered if it were his wife. He had not had much time to think of Mrs. Tarrant since his encounter with her on the afternoon when she had offered to read Dante with him. He had heard no more of her since; she never came to the office, and he had no time to go and see her, even had the idea occurred to him — which it never did. At most, he thought enviously71 now and then of the rows and rows of books in the room where she had received him . . . .
“Of course,” Tarrant said, “there are things about it . . . certainly. . . . Only, perhaps . . . well, I see you’re a traditionalist at heart . . . .” He wavered. “Not a bad thing, perhaps . . . the tabula rasa’s getting to be an old story, eh? Well, I don’t deny . . .”
“Somebody asking for Mr. Weston,” a voice came through the door of the editorial retreat. Tarrant looked relieved at not being obliged to commit himself farther, and Vance, surprised at the summons, went back to the outer office.
Bunty Hayes stood there. He was crimson72 and shiny in the face, as if from cold or drink, and looked larger than life in the cramped73 space. He glared at Vance furiously. “That you, is it? Doing the highbrow act, eh? Call yourself a magazine editor, do you? Well, I’ll tell you what I call you.” He did so, in a rush of oaths and imprecations.
Vance received them in silence, and his silence had the effect of increasing the other’s exasperation74. “Well, haven’t you got anything to say, take it all lying down, will you? Well, I’ll give you something that’ll keep you from getting up again . . . .” His fist, red and shiny as his face, flew out and caught Vance under the ear. . . . The blow was violent but unsteady — Vance noticed that at once. The fellow was half drunk — drunk enough to be pitiable, though not (Vance also perceived) to be undangerous. But to Vance he would have been pitiable even if he had been sober.
“You damn dirty thief, you . . . Steal women, do you?” Vance saw him squaring himself for another blow, and his own fighting instinct flamed up. By this time Bunty’s denunciations had summoned the slender staff of The Hour to the outer office. The typewriter girl wailed75, “It’s a holdup,” but the men laughed and reassured76 her. . . . “Let ’em alone — it’s their funeral,” Vance heard, as Bunty’s fist leapt out at him again. His own was raised to parry it. He was the lighter77 and swifter, and he was sober — he had all the advantages. His arm dropped, and he drew back against the wall. “Better go home now — I’ll see you wherever you want,” he said, his hands in his pockets, the welt of his first blow spreading up his cheek like fire.
“Ho, a coward too, are you? Standing78 there to take your licking as if you were sitting for your portrait? I’ll make a portrait of you, by God. . . . See me do it, boys . . . .”
Tarrant’s door opened and he came out. He was very pale, and his thin lips were drawn together in a narrow line of disdain79.
“Weston — what’s all this? I’ll thank you to do your fighting elsewhere . . . .”
Bunty Hayes broke into a rusty80 laugh. “Fighting? He won’t fight. This is a licking he’s going to get . . . .” Somebody echoed the laugh, and Tarrant’s cold eyes turned again to Vance. “Do you know this man?”
“Yes,” said Vance.
“Know me? God, that’s the trouble with him. And I’ve given him a chance at a stand-up fight, and he won’t take it. That so?” he challenged Vance. Vance, his hands in his pockets, repeated: “That’s so.” He saw the disdain on Tarrant’s lips turn to contempt, and his blood leapt up again. But inwardly he still knew that, even if Hayes had been completely sober, he would not have fought him.
Tarrant turned toward the intruder. “You get out of here,” he said.
“Get out of here? I’ll see you to hell first — I’ll . . .”
Eric Rauch, who had not been in the office, came running up the stairs. He glanced about the group, bewildered, and turned to Vance. “What’s up?” he asked. Bunty shouted back: “He’s taken my girl and he won’t fight me for her,” and there was another snicker among the lookers-on. It was manifest that sympathy was veering81 away from Vance.
Vance felt Rauch’s luminous82 eyes rest curiously83 and not unkindly on his white face with the burning welt. Rauch smiled a little and put his hand on Hayes’s arm. “If you’ll step this way,” he said, with a faint wink84 at the spectators, “I’ll take you down to my private office, and you can tell me what it’s all about.” He drew Hayes across the threshold, with a quick sign to the office boy to follow. But Hayes had already collapsed85 — the tears were running down his face, and he was putting his arm about Rauch’s neck as the door closed on them.
Tarrant turned back to his private room. His hand on the door he paused to say to Vance: “I don’t care for any explanation. But you understand, of course, that if this sort of thing happens again . . . I can’t have . . .”
“Oh, of course not,” Vance stammered, half dazed.
In a few moments Rauch came back, unconcerned, and lighting86 a cigarette. His eloquent87 eyes rested again on Vance. “You must have been reading the Russians lately,” he said with his soft incisiveness88. He nodded and passed on to his desk.
Vance sat down at his, and began to write furiously. But he was merely making meaningless scratches on the paper. These people had of course realized that Hayes was half drunk, and would no doubt think he had been unwilling89 to fight him at a disadvantage. And on the whole, they would regard this as being to his credit. But Vance knew that the real reason was different: he had refused to fight Hayes because he had read his letter. And that was something he would never be able to explain.
On his desk lay a bundle of galleys90 — the proofs of “Coleridge Today.” He spread them out before him and tried to set to work revising. An hour ago each word, each syllable91, would have been subjected to the most searching scrutiny92; but now the page danced meaninglessly before him. . . . Suddenly he laid down his pen. Something of dominating importance had steadied his shaking nerves. What had Eric Rauch meant when he said: “You must have been reading the Russians lately”? Who WERE “the Russians,” and how was it that Vance had never read or even heard of them? At the mere4 thought, his mind felt firm ground under it again, and Bunty Hayes and his bluster were swept away like chaff93 on the wind.
“I’ll find out who they are before night,” Vance resolved, and settled down again to his work.
收听单词发音 |
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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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acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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corrupter
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| 堕落的，道德败坏的； 贪污的，腐败的； 腐烂的； （文献等）错误百出的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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obliquely
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| adv.斜； 倾斜； 间接； 不光明正大 | |
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irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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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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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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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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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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transfusion
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| n.输血，输液 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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refund
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| v.退还，偿还；n.归还，偿还额，退款 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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prospecting
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| n.探矿 | |
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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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mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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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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filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoards
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| n.（钱财、食物或其他珍贵物品的）储藏，积存( hoard的名词复数 )v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的第三人称单数 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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74
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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75
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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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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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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81
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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82
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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83
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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84
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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85
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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86
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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87
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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88
incisiveness
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| n.敏锐，深刻 | |
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89
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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90
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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91
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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92
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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93
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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