At the “Loafers’” Vance had felt the relief of a familiar atmosphere. In the low-ceilinged noisy room he found several of the fellows to whom Rauch had introduced him at the Cocoanut Tree, and with them the sculptress girl, Rebecca Stram, in a dirty yellow sweater and a cloud of smoke. They all hailed him joyfully1, the Stram girl besought2 him anew to sit for his bust3, and the talk rambled4 on, much as it did in his father’s office at Euphoria on idle winter afternoons, go as you please, leaning back with your feet up and developing what you had in your mind while the others smoked and swung their legs and listened: all as easy and intelligible5 as could be.
Yet that was not the impression that lasted. What Vance carried back to Paul’s Landing was his bewildering adventure at the Tarrants’, where everybody talked and nobody listened, or said anything particularly worth hearing, if you thought it over — but where the look of the rooms and the people had something harmonious6 and long-related, suggesting a mysterious intelligence between persons and things, an atmosphere as heavy with the Past as that of the library at the Willows7.
Vance couldn’t, for the moment, define it more clearly; but it was something impossible to shake off, close and haunting as a scent8 or a cadence9, like the perfume in Mrs. Pulsifer’s clothes, or her curious unfinished ejaculations. It made him want to lie and stare at the sky and dream, or else start up and write poetry; not a big sweeping11 thing, such as he had dreamed of by the winter ocean, but the wistful fragments that used to chant in his brain during his solitary12 sessions at the Willows. Yes . . . poetry: that was what was stirring and murmuring in him again.
When these impulses came they were overmastering. As he walked through the still-torpid town and out to Mrs. Tracy’s, lines and images rose in his glowing mind like sea gods out of a summer sea. He had forgotten where he was, or to whom he was returning. The morning was gray and cold, and when he got out of the town he started on a run, and reached the house out of breath. At the door he was met by Laura Lou, wide-eyed and trembling a little, but forcing a smile of welcome. “Oh, Vanny — ” He caught her to him, and cried out: “Give me some coffee quick, darling, and fix it up so I won’t be bothered for the rest of the day, can’t you? I’ve got to write a poem straight off . . . a long one . . . before the light fades.”
“Light fades? Why, it’s early morning,” she rejoined with bewildered eyes.
“Yes, but not that light,” he said, loosening her arms and smiling at her as if she were a remote memory, and not a sentient13 creature on his breast.
Mrs. Tracy emerged from the kitchen. “I’ll get your coffee for you. I guess you’ll need it, after one of your nights,” she said severely14. “Laura Lou, you better go straight up now and try and get a little sleep,” she added in the same tone to her daughter.
They had not understood; they would never understand, these women. Mrs. Tracy, he was sure, was recalling that other night, his night of dissipation with Upton after the ball game; and Laura Lou perhaps had the same suspicion, though she would never own to it. And he knew he could never make either of them understand that what he was drunk with now was poetry. . . . Mrs. Tracy brought his coffee into the dining room (piping hot, he had to admit); then she poked15 up the fire, and left him at his writing table. His head dropped between his hands, and he murmured to himself: “Gold upon gold, like trumpets16 in the sunrise . . . .” It had sounded glorious as he crooned it over, drowsing in the train; but now he was not so sure. . . . When Mrs. Tracy, four hours later, came in to set the table for the midday dinner he started up out of a deep sleep on the springless divan17. “No — she’s more beautiful than that . . . .” he stammered18; and his mother-in-law admonished19 him, as she set down the plates: “Well, I guess you better not say anything more about that; and I’ll hold my tongue if you do.”
Vance stared and pushed back his rumpled20 hair. “It was somebody — in a poem . . . .” he said; and Mrs. Tracy responded with her mirthless laugh: “That what they call it in New York? I guess you better go up and get washed now,” she added; and looking at the blank sheets scattered21 over his desk, Vance saw that he must have fallen asleep directly after she had left him, without writing a line of his poem.
He had no difficulty in reassuring22 Laura Lou. She saw that, as one of the staff of the New Hour, he had to be present at the Tarrants’ party; he even coaxed23 a laugh from her about his having missed his train. She wanted to know where he had gone after leaving the Tarrants’, and whether he wasn’t worn out, waiting around so long in the station; and he said evasively, no, he hadn’t minded, feeling that the mention of the “Loafers’” would only unsettle her again. His own mind was unsettled enough. He was tormented24 with the poem he wanted to write, and exasperated25 at the thought of being chained up to his next monthly article (they had to be ready a month ahead), and then to a short story, and eventually to a novel, none of which, at the moment, he felt the least desire to write. How could he ever have been fool enough to run his head into such a noose26? He remembered Frenside’s warning, and cursed himself for not having heeded27 it. What he earned at the New Hour (supposing he were able to fulfill28 his contract) wasn’t enough to keep him and his wife, if ever they had to leave Paul’s Landing — and to leave Paul’s Landing had become his overmastering desire. He wanted, worse than ever, to be back in New York, back among all those fellows he could talk to. He wanted to be able to spend an evening at the Tarrants’ — or at the “Loafers’,” for that matter — without being confronted at dawn by two haggard women who thought themselves magnanimous because they didn’t cross-examine him like a truant29 schoolboy. He wanted to see whom he pleased, go where he chose, write what he wanted — be free, free, free, in body as well as mind, yes, and in heart as well as soul. That was the worst of it: if life went on like this much longer his love for Laura Lou would fade to a pitying fondness, and then there would be no meaning in anything.
The afternoon trailed on. Vance could not write; the poem had vanished like a puff30 of mist. He sat staring at the paper, and smoking one cigarette after another. Suddenly he remembered that he had promised, that very afternoon, to call on Mrs. Pulsifer and on Tristram Fynes. And here he sat in Mrs. Tracy’s dining room, looking out on her frozen garden patch and the cold purple of the hills, and doing nothing and seeing no light ahead. Toward dusk he was seized with the impulse to sprint31 down to the station, jump into the first train for New York, and pay his two visits. Then he remembered that city people were always full of engagements, and could not be found without an appointment — or might be annoyed if a fellow barged in when he wasn’t expected. Besides, he didn’t particularly want to see either Fynes or the Pulsifer woman — what he really wanted was to breathe the atmosphere they breathed. But that was another difference that Laura Lou would never understand . . . .
The next morning was his regular day at the office. But an obscure reluctance32 kept him from going back to New York. When he got there Eric Rauch would ask him for his next article, of which he hadn’t written the first line, the subject of which he hadn’t yet chosen. And Tarrant would call him in to his sanctum, and want to know if they couldn’t announce the title of his next short story while “Unclaimed” was fresh in people’s minds. And he hadn’t even settled on a subject for his story either — there were so many to choose from, and none that he felt ready to tackle. Poetry . . . poetry was what he was full of now . . . .
He got up early from Laura Lou’s side, flung open the window, and leaned out quaffing33 the wintry gold and scarlet34 of the sunrise. The sky looked immeasurably far-off, pure and cold above the hills; but against their edge the gold and scarlet bubbled up in plumy clouds like the down from a fabulous35 bird’s breast. What had the city to give compared with that? Vance recalled the summer sunrise seen from Thundertop with Halo Spear. Then he had stood so high that he had seen the new day flood the earth below him in all its folds and depths and dimmest penetralia; and beauty had brimmed his soul with the same splendour. But now he could only look out through the narrow opening of a cottage window to a patch of currant bushes and a squat36 range of hills behind which the sun seemed imprisoned37 — as he himself was imprisoned by fate. Fate? Nonsense — by his own headlong folly38. Only, when the sirens sang, could a fellow help listening? And how could he distinguish between the eternal beauty and its false images, the brief creatures it lit up in passing? Something whispered: “Create the eternal beauty yourself — then you’ll know . . .” and he shut the window and turned back into the low-ceilinged room where his life belonged.
But life was not always such a baffled business. The second night after Vance’s return there was a belated snowfall, and the next morning when he opened the shutters39 he looked out on a world of white ablaze40 under a spring sun. It was a Saturday, thank heaven, and there could be no question of going to the office. For forty~eight hours he and Laura Lou could range as they willed through this new world. The winter, so far, had been harsh but almost snowless; now, in early March, with the smell of buds in the air, Vance was seeing for the first time the magic of a snowstorm on the Hudson. If only they could climb to Thundertop! Was it possible, he wondered? The snow was not so deep, after all; it would be melting soon, under such a sun. What did Laura Lou think? She thought as he did: anything that seemed possible to him always seemed so to her. She had never before regarded a snowstorm as something to be admired, but merely as an opportunity for fun; staying away from school, sleighing, snowballing, and coasting. But now that he pointed42 out its beauties he could see she was ashamed of having looked upon them as created for her own amusement — as if she had stripped the hangings from a sanctuary43 to dress herself up in. Vance was touched by her compliance44, her passionate45 eagerness to see what he saw, hear what he heard — and then, in spite of himself, irritated by her inability to be more than his echo. But today the glory was so searching and miraculous46 that he was sure she must feel it. “Come, wrap up warm and we’ll take some hot coffee and sandwiches, and see how high we can scramble47 up the mountain.” Mrs. Tracy had gone off to spend a night with Upton, and they had the freedom of the little house, and felt like lovers honeymooning48 again. Laura Lou filled the thermos49 with boiling coffee, made some sandwiches with the cold meat Mrs. Tracy had left for dinner, and got into her rubber boots and her thickest coat. Vance wanted to hire their neighbour’s cutter; but Laura Lou was frightened lest her mother should hear of this extravagance, so they set out on foot, laughing and swinging their joined hands like schoolchildren. The snow was soft — too soft for easy walking. But Vance’s feet were winged, as they had been when he first saw the sea; and Laura Lou sprang on after him, exulting50 and admiring. “Oh, Vanny — do look! Isn’t it just like powdered sugar? Or one of those lovely Christmas cards with the stuff that sparkles?” Luckily he hardly heard her, saw only the radiant oval of her face under the shaggy knitted cap pulled down over crimson51 ear-tips.
The snow clung downy to the hemlocks52, rolled blinding white over meadow and pasture, gloomed indigo53 blue on the edges of the forest, flashed with prismatic lights where a half-caught brook54 fringed it with icicles. And bordering the lane, as they climbed, how each shoot of bracken, each bramble and dry branch glittered and quivered with white fire! How the blue air, purified by all the whiteness, soared over them on invisible wings! How the far-off sky curved a clear dome55 above an earth with all its sins and uglinesses blotted56 out, an earth renewed, redeemed57 in some great final absolution!
A man passed in a sleigh and offered them a lift. He was going to a farm up Thundertop way; and presently they were gliding58 by the gateposts of Eaglewood, and Vance remembered how he had passed them for the first time with Miss Spear, motoring up the mountain in the summer dawn. The sight of the padlocked gates, the snow-choked drive, the hemlocks trailing white branches with sapphire59 shadows, swept him back into that world to which Halo Spear had given him the key: the world of beauty, poetry, knowledge, of all the marvels61 now forever shut off from him. He was glad when they mounted higher, and the man, turning in at a farmyard, left them to scramble on alone. . . . “Better make the most of it — there’ll be a thaw62 by night!” he called back, his runners cutting black grooves63 in the whiteness.
They climbed on, laughing and chattering64. It was so good to look at Laura Lou, and feel her warm hand in his, that Vance, as was his way when he was enjoying anything she could share, glowed with a sense of well-being65. At length their ascent66 brought them to a deserted67 shed standing68 on a sunny ledge60 by the roadside. There was some hay on its dry floor, and in this shelter they unpacked69 their lunch, and comforted themselves with hot coffee. Laura Lou, curling up against the hay in the warmest corner, tossed off her cap, and Vance, stretched out at her feet, watched the sun turn her hair to golden filigree70, and her lips to jewels. “Happy?” he queried71; and her eyes rained down acquiescence72 . . . .
He had never spoken to her of Bunty Hayes’ visit; she had never spoken to him of the letter he had picked up and read. She had doubtless answered it, or in some way made the truth known to Hayes; that was probably the cause of the scene in the office. . . . Vance, as he looked up at her, was obscurely troubled by the thought that behind that low round forehead with its straying curls there lurked73 a whole hidden world. This little creature, who seemed as transparent74 as a crystal cup (his little cup, he had once called her) — this Laura Lou, like all her kind, was a painted veil over the unknown. And to her no doubt he was the same; and she knew infinitely75 less of him than he of her, if only because there was so much more to know. As he lay and brooded on these mysteries he wondered if this were not the moment to speak. He was not in the least sorry for what they had done to Bunty Hayes. In that respect neither Vance nor Laura Lou had been at fault; the pressure of destiny had been too strong for them. But the way they had treated him since was not pleasant to remember. Vance had never been able to get that poor love letter out of his head; and he wanted to find out if Laura Lou remembered it too. If he could have been sure that her silence was due to the same feeling as his, and not to some mean instinct of concealment76, it would have drawn77 them so much closer. . . . But as he continued to lie there and to drink her drowsy78 smile, he felt in himself the same reluctance that he suspected in her . . . a reluctance to mar41 the perfect hour. Why not suffer the episode to bury itself? There were things in the lives of the most decent people that left raw edges, that gave you the feeling you had when you’d abandoned a wounded bird in a thicket79 . . . .
“Come along!” Vance cried, jumping up. “I’d like to get to the next ridge80, wouldn’t you? We’d see all the world from there. . . . Let’s try.” And she sprang to her feet echoing joyfully: “Yes — let’s!”
After that the day seemed to rush by on silver wings. Such sparkling tumultuous hours, sunlit, shadow-flecked, whirling past like the spray of racing81 waves. . . . Vance could hardly believe it when the twilight82 shut in without a warning, the twilight with its bleak83 shadows and the deathlike pallor of unlit snow . . . .
Not till then did it occur to him that Laura Lou must be dreadfully tired. He ought to have thought of it before. He was dismayed to see how high they had climbed; but as they set out on the long descent her gay voice kept on assuring him that, no, she was feeling first-rate, that she’d loved every minute of it, she had, really . . . and, oh, Vanny, look, there was the new moon: did he see it? Like a diamond brooch, up in the branches there — and over their right shoulders too! What luck! . . . Her tone reassured84 him, and he laughed and kissed her, slipping his arm about her to help her down the endless windings85. It was dark night when they reached the cottage, cold and hungry. Vance fumbled86 under the mat for the key and pushed her into the passage. How black the inside of the house was, and how cold! It had been fun, having the place all to themselves that morning; but now even Mrs. Tracy’s dry disapproval87 would have been bearable, for the sake of a fire and supper.
Vance struck a match and reached for the hall lamp. As he turned back after lighting88 it he saw on the floor a telegram which had been thrust under the door in their absence. Laura Lou bent89 to pick it up. “I guess it’s from Mother, to say what train she’ll be back by.” She opened the telegram, and stood looking at it with a puzzled frown. Then she read aloud: “‘Dreadfully upset not seeing you yesterday what happened waited till nine must see you count on you same hour Monday. Please telegraph. Jet.’ What a funny name!” she commented.
Vance put his hand out hastily. “Say — I guess that’s mine.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Oh, just somebody I had an appointment with. I guess I forgot.” She looked relieved, and he added: “Say — it’s colder than blazes. I guess I forgot to make up the fire too, before we went out.” He laughed at his own joke as he drew her into the kitchen. “There — you sit down and I’ll fix things up in no time.”
He pushed her into Mrs. Tracy’s rocking chair, lit the lamp, raked out the stove, shook in coal and kindlings, and rummaged90 for milk, while she leaned back and watched him with dusky burning eyes. She looked little and frail91 in the faint light, and the returning heat brought out on her cheekbones those scarlet spots which made the hollows underneath92 so wan10. Why was it that whenever she and Vance attempted to do anything jolly together she got tired? That she seemed fated never to keep step with him? He poured out the milk and brought it to her. “Here — swallow this down quick. The matter with you is, you’re hungry,” he tried to jolly her; but she shook her head, and the smile on her gaunt little face turned into a grimace94 of weariness. “I guess I’m just tired — ” Always the same wistful refrain! “She’s sick,” Vance thought with sudden terror. Aloud he said: “Wait till I heat the milk up; then maybe it’ll tempt93 you.” He thought with a shiver of the cold bed upstairs, their fireless room, the time it would take to warm the house — and where on earth could he find a brick to heat and put at her feet when he got her undressed? He warmed the milk, pressed it to her lips again — but she pushed it away with feverish95 hands, and the eyes she lifted were dark with a sort of animal fright. “Vanny — I’m so tired. Darling, carry me upstairs!” She wound her arms about his neck, and her cheek burned on his. . . . Halfway96 up she clutched him closer, and he felt her whisper in his ear. “It wasn’t a woman who telegraphed you, Vanny?” “Woman? Hell no! The idea!” he lied back, stumbling up the steps, pressing her tight, and shrinking from the touch of her tears . . . .
He had had the vision of a big poem up there on the mountain — yes, he knew it was big. Line after line had sprung up like great snow eagles challenging the sun, soaring in inaccessible97 glory: he had only to lie back and wait, and one by one they planed down and shut their wings in his breast. And now, stumbling up the stairs in the darkness with this poor child, getting her undressed, trying to find something warm to wrap her feet in, wondering why her eyes were so fixed98, her cheeks so scarlet, wondering how you felt a pulse, how you knew if anybody had fever . . . all the while, with another sense, he watched the crystal splinters of his poem melt away one after another, as the spring icicles were melting from the roof.
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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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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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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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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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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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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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fulfill
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| vt.履行，实现，完成；满足，使满意 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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sprint
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| n.短距离赛跑；vi. 奋力而跑，冲刺；vt.全速跑过 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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quaffing
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| v.痛饮( quaff的现在分词 )；畅饮；大口大口将…喝干；一饮而尽 | |
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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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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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48
honeymooning
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| 度蜜月（honeymoon的现在分词形式） | |
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49
thermos
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| n.保湿瓶，热水瓶 | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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51
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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52
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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54
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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55
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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56
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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58
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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59
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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61
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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64
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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65
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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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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69
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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70
filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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72
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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73
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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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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75
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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76
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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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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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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81
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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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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83
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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85
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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86
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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88
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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89
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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90
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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91
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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92
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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93
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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94
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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95
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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96
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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97
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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98
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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