Vance stood in the street and looked up into the night sky. The star-strewn darkness, though blotched with the city’s profaning1 flare2, recalled that other sky he had looked up at from the beach, when he had crept out at dawn from his wife’s side.
The sea — he had never seen it since! Could he get to it now? he wondered. Its infinite tides seemed to be breaking over him; its sound was in his breast. The craving3 to stand on that beach swept over him again, vehement4, uncontrollable, surging up from the depths which held the source of things. He stood staring at his vision till it mastered him. He must see the sea again, must see it this very night. One in the morning . . . a March morning. But he must get there somehow; get there before dawn, waylay5 the miracle . . . .
He made his way across to the Pennsylvania Station, and asked about trains. There was one just going out: he found himself in it as it began to move. The haste of getting in and the mystery of gliding6 out so easily into darkness and the unknown reduced his private tumult7 to something like peace. He recalled the same sensation, humbling8 yet satisfying, when he had gone out on the morning after his wedding, and felt so awed9 yet safe in the sight of the immensities. . . . The train passed on between islands of masonry10 and endless streets strung with lights, then through the hush11 of dimly glimpsed trees and pastures; it stopped at sleepy stations, pulled out again, groped on in dreamlike confusion under a black sky full of stars. At last a little station stood out dark against pallid12 sandhills . . . and Vance, alone on the platform, watched the train clank on again uncertainly, as if groping out a new trail for itself. Then he turned and began to grope for his own way. A worn-off slip of moon hung in the west, powerless against the immensity of darkness; but when he reached the last line of dunes13 they were edged with a trembling of light which gradually widened out into the vast pallor of the Atlantic.
There it was at last: the sea at night, a windy March night tossing black cloud trails across the stars and shaking down their rainy glitter onto the hurried undulations of the waves. The wind was cold, but Vance did not feel it. The old affinity14 woke in him, the sense of some deep complementary power moving those endless surges as it swayed his listening self. He dropped down on the beach and lay there, letting the night and the sea sweep through him on the wings of the passionate15 gale16. He felt like a speck17 in those vast elemental hands, yet sure of himself and his future as a seed being swept to the cleft18 where it belonged. And after a while he ceased to feel anything except that he was obscurely, infinitesimally a part of this great nocturnal splendour . . . .
At five in the morning, through dying lights and dead streets, he made his way back to Mrs. Hubbard’s. All the glory had vanished; his brain was sick with the forced inrush of reality. A last glimpse of the impossible swept through him. Halo had said: “Because I will never leave my husband for my lover . . .” and that meant — what else could it mean? — that she would have come to him if there had been no obstacle between them. For one moment it seemed almost enough to feel that there, out of his sight but in his soul, the great reaches of her love lay tossing and silvering. . . . But as he drew near his own door the ugliness of the present blotted19 out the vision. At the corner of Sixth Avenue a half-tipsy girl solicited20 him. At Mrs. Hubbard’s door, a gaunt cat shot out of the area. That was his world, his street, his house. . . . He knew now that he and she would never be free, either of them. She would never come to him; it was all a fading blur21 of unreality. . . . He put his key into the lock, and went upstairs with the feet of an old man.
The next day Laura Lou was in bed with one of her feverish22 colds. She had caught a chill the day of the “Storecraft” show, in her thin summer coat. These colds were frequent with her now, and each seemed to leave her a little weaker. Vance did not dare to send for the doctor again; he had been several times lately, and there had been no money to pay him. Vance did what he could to make her comfortable, and explained to Mrs. Hubbard — whose manner, as the weeks passed, though still oppressively ladylike, had grown more distant — the food must be carried up, milk heated, the cough mixture measured out. Then, having put a quarter into the hand of the dishevelled Swedish servant girl, who seldom understood his instructions and never carried them out, he took his way to the office.
There had been no word from Lambart & Co., the publishers who had been so confident about detaching him from Dreck and Saltzer; probably the subject of his novel had made them lukewarm. In his letter box he found a letter from his grandmother; there was no time to read it then, but the sight of her writing brought up a vision of Euphoria, of the comfortable Maplewood Avenue house, the safety and decency23 of home. What if he were to accept his father’s suggestion and take Laura Lou out there to live? If he took on a newspaper job, and wrote no novels or literary articles, he supposed his contracts with Dreck and Saltzer and the New Hour would lapse24 of themselves. He would simply go back to being the old Vance Weston again, and it would be as if the New York one had never existed . . . .
At the office he found neither Tarrant nor Eric Rauch. He had brought his work with him, and installed himself at his desk with the idea of going over his last chapters, and at least trying to eliminate the resemblances to The Corner Grocery. But the sight of the pages suddenly evoked25 the library where he had sat the night before with Halo Tarrant, and the floor on which he and she had knelt together to pick up the scattered26 sheets. The paper burned with her touch. He shut his eyes and pushed it aside. . . . Euphoria was the only way out . . . .
He opened his grandmother’s letter. She always wrote affectionately, and the careless freedom of her phrases would call her up to him in the flesh, with her velvety27 voice and heavy rambling28 body. The livest person he’d ever known, he thought, smiling. Then he read: “Vance, child, I’m coming to New York — be there next week with Saidie Toler . . .” (she always wrote of her daughters by their full names) . . . “I guess you’re not as surprised as I am; and I feel as if God Himself must be a little mite29 surprised too . . .” She went on to explain that, since Grandpa’s death, she had been able to give more time to spiritual things, and had been rewarded by the invitation to preach in various churches, not only at Euphoria, New Swedenborg, and Swedenville, but way beyond Chicago, at big places like Dakin and Lakeshore — only she didn’t call it preaching (he could be sure of that!) but “Meeting God”; didn’t he think that was a good phrase? Her “Meeting God” talks had been published in Spirit Life, and the paper’s circulation had gone up so much that they’d already contracted with her for another series; and suddenly she’d got an invitation from a group of intellectual people in New York, who called themselves “The Seekers” — a beautiful name, wasn’t it? It appeared they’d come across some of her talk in Spirit Life, and been so much struck that they wanted her to come over to New York for a week, and speak in private houses, and give the “Seekers” a chance to submit their personal doubts and difficulties to her. (“You know,” she added, dropping into her old humorous tone, “it’s holiday work telling other folks what’s wrong with them.”) Of course, she said, she couldn’t help but see God’s hand in all this, and when Spirit Life offered to pay her fare and Saidie’s out and back she telegraphed to the “Seekers” that she’d come at once — and Vance needn’t trouble about her, because she and Saidie were going to stay with a Mrs. Lotus Mennenkoop, a lovely woman who lived at Bronxville and was one of the “Seekers” — but of course she must see her boy as soon as she arrived, and get acquainted with her new granddaughter; and would Vance be sure and call her up right off at Mrs. Mennenkoop’s?
Vance stared at the big wavering script, so like his grandmother’s ungirt frame. For the “Seekers” he cared not a fig31; but the springs of boyhood welled up in him at the prospect32 of seeing Mrs. Scrimser. She was the only human being he had really loved in the days when his universe was enclosed in the few miles between Euphoria and Crampton; the others, parents, sisters even, were just the more or less comfortable furniture of life; but his grandmother’s soul and his had touched. . . . He thought himself back onto the porch at Crampton, smelt33 the neglected lilacs, heard the jangle of the Euphoria trolley34, and his grandmother saying: “Don’t a day like this make you feel as if you could get to God right through that blue up there?” He remembered having answered, rather petulantly35, that he didn’t feel as if anything would take him near God; but now he was at least nearer to understanding what she had meant. Perhaps what she called “God” was the same as what he called “The Mothers” — that mysterious Sea of Being of which the dark reaches swayed and rumoured36 in his soul . . . perhaps one symbol was as good as another to figure the imperceptible point where the fleeting38 human consciousness touches Infinity39 . . . .
Curious, that this should happen just as he was facing the idea of going back to Euphoria. His grandmother’s letter, the prospect of seeing her in a few days, made the return home appear easier and more natural. As soon as she and Laura Lou had met he would decide. . . . He was sure those two would take a liking40 to each other.
Mrs. Scrimser bade him call her up at six on the day when she was to arrive, and he hoped to persuade her to come down that very morning to see Laura Lou, who was still too feverish to leave her bed. Laura Lou was excited and happy at the prospect of the visit; he saw from her eagerness how much she had felt the enforced solitude41 of her life in New York. “I guess maybe she’ll go round with me a little when I’m better,” she said with her drawn42 smile.
“Why, I’d go round with you myself if you wanted me to,” Vance rejoined, with conscious hypocrisy43; but she said evasively: “Why, how can you, with all your work?”
The day came, and Vance was waiting at the office to call up Mrs. Mennenkoop’s flat when he was told that Mrs. Spear was on the telephone. It was some time since he had seen Mrs. Spear, and he wondered, somewhat nervously44, if she could be the bearer of a message from her daughter. The blood began to buzz in his ears, and he could hardly catch the words which tumbled out excitedly from the receiver. But presently, to his surprise, he heard his grandmother’s name. “Only think, Vance, of my not knowing that Mrs. Scrimser — the GREAT Mrs. Scrimser — was your grandmother! She’s just told me so herself, over the telephone. . . . Why, yes — didn’t you know? She’s coming to speak in our drawing room this very evening. . . . Of course you knew I was one of the ‘Seekers’? No — you didn’t?” Mrs. Spear was always genuinely surprised when she found that anything concerning herself or her family had not been trumpeted45 about by rumour37. “Why, yes — it’s my LIFE, Vance, my only real life . . . so marvellous . . . and now I’m to have the privilege of having this wonderful being under my roof. . . . You must be with us, of course; you and Laura Lou. . . . Your grandmother wanted me to tell you not to go out to Bronxville: she’d rather meet you here. Her train was late; there’s barely time for her to take a rest and withdraw into herself — you know they always do, before a meeting. . . . So she wants you to come here early instead. She says she’s sure you’ll understand . . . .”
The announcement filled Vance with astonishment46. He had had glimpses of some of Mrs. Spear’s hobbies and enthusiasms, and had heard others humorously reported by Halo — but the idea of any connection between the Spear milieu47 and his grandmother was so unexpected that he began to wonder if, all unconsciously, he had spent his youth with an illustrious woman. Mrs. Spear was in touch with the newest that New York was thinking and saying; Frenside’s decomposing48 irony49 was her daily fare; clever and cultivated people of all kinds frequented her house; she was always on the track of the new movements. Did the “Seekers” then represent a movement important enough to attract those whose lead she followed? And was his grandmother actually the prophetess of a new faith? He recalled the religion he had himself “invented” in his boyhood — the creed50 whose originality51 had crumbled52 away with his first glimpse of the old philosophies — and wondered if his grandmother had stumbled on the revelation he had missed. It was all so confounding that he hardly found voice to stammer53 out his thanks, and his excuses for Laura Lou. . . . And the Tarrants, he wondered — would they be there? And what did Halo think of the “Seekers”? Above all, what would she think of Mrs. Scrimser?
He had not wished to see Halo again — not for some time, not till the storm in him should subside54. Had she been right when she had warned him the other night not to “spoil something perfect”? In his unsatisfied anguish55, he had half believed her; but in the interval56 he had come to know that this anguish was worth all the rest. Friendship — love? How vain such restricting words now seemed! In reality, his feeling for her included friendship, passion, love, desire, whatever thought or emotion, craving of sight and touch, a woman can excite in a man. All were merged57 in a rich deep communion; it was the element in which everything else in him lived. “All thoughts, all motions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame — ” the poet whom Elinor Lorburn loved had summed it up long ago . . . .
When he got to Mrs. Spear’s the maid showed him into a little study. The room was so small that it made his grandmother, who was waiting there, seem immense, like a great spreading idol58. But she managed to get to her feet; her arms engulfed59 him; he sank into her warmth as into a tepid60 sea. If he’d been a child he would have burst out crying, she smelt so like home and the Mapledale Avenue soap!
“Oh, Vanny, Vanny — my little Vance . . . this IS God’s Hand,” she said, and hugged him.
He thought, with a quick recoil61: “She wouldn’t have dragged God in that way, in old times — ” and suddenly heard an emotional murmur62 at his back, and became aware that his grandmother, as she clasped him, had seen Mrs. Spear enter the room.
Vance’s recoil was only momentary63; yet the impression left a faint smirch on the freshness of Mrs. Scrimser’s spontaneity. She had become a prophetess now, conscious of her audience.
“Dear Mrs. Scrimser, you’ll forgive me? I felt I must see the meeting between you two!” Mrs. Spear sighed out with eloquent64 eyes and a hand affectionately extended to Vance.
But already there were sounds of arrival in the hall; the sense of the little apartment becoming more and more packed with people; the door of the study opening to admit Saidie Toler, straight and colourless as usual, and accompanied by a large battered65 blonde, Mrs. Lotus Mennenkoop, who declared emotionally that she must see Vance before the speaker took her place on the platform . . . .
The two little drawing rooms had been thrown into one, and they were already crowded when Vance slipped in at the back. Before him, rank on rank, the packed heads of the “Seekers” stretched up to an improvised66 platform, with wax lights and a table covered with old brocade. Vance did not recognize many people; most of those present seemed to belong to other regions of Mrs. Spear’s rambling activities. But he was sure they were representative of their kind; Mrs. Spear was not the woman to have anything but the newest, even in religion. This world of spiritual investigation67 was unfamiliar68 to him; there were no “Seekers” in the Tarrant group, much less at the Cocoanut Tree or Rebecca Stram’s. The audience seemed mainly composed of elderly men with beards and gold-rimmed glasses, pallid youths, and ladies of indeterminate age, in black silk or Greek draperies. He was surprised to see among them Mrs. Pulsifer, with Tarrant at her side, and in another part of the room the sleek69 heads and jewelled arms of a cluster of smart young women who belonged to the Tarrant set. Such a mixture was unexpected, and still more so the earnest and attentive70 expression of the fashionable members of the audience, who appeared to have come in good faith, and not to scoff71, as he had feared.
Vance forgot to wonder if Halo Tarrant were in the room; forgot everything but his passionate curiosity to see what impression his grandmother would make on an audience so strangely blent, and so new to her. Whoever they were, he knew the “Seekers” would test Mrs. Scrimser by standards other and more searching than those of Euphoria, or even of Dakin and Lakeshore; and his heart was up in arms to defend her.
And now here she was, in the soft illumination of the little platform. As he gazed at her across the fervent72 backs of the “Seekers” she seemed to him to have grown still larger. Saidie Toler, seated at one elbow, looked like a shadow, Mrs. Mennenkoop, at the other, like a shrivelled virgin73. Womanhood, vast and dominant74, billowed out between them.
Mrs. Scrimser rose to her feet. Mrs. Lotus Mennenkoop had spoken a few words of introduction; phrases about a “new message,” “our spiritual leader,” “the foremost exponent75 of the new psychical76 ethics,” had drifted by unheeded; the “Seekers” wanted Mrs. Scrimser.
She swayed to them across the table and began. “Meet God,” she said, spacing her syllables77 impressively; then she paused. Her voice sounded richer, more resonant78 than ever; but Vance’s unaccustomed ear was shocked by her intonation79. Had she always had those hideous80 drawling gutturals?
“Meet God — that’s what I want all you dear people here with me this evening to do . . . I presume some of you know ABOUT God already; and all of you at least know OF Him,” she urged, caressing81 her italics. She paused again, reaching out toward her audience. “The way we know about folks in the next street.” (“New Yorkers don’t,” her grandson reflected.) “Or the way we know of famous people in the past: great heroes or splendid noble-hearted women. That’s not the way I want you to know about God. I want you to know Him Himself — to get acquainted with Him, the way you would if He was living in the house next door, and you sent round to borrow the lawn mower82. I want you to get to know Him so well that you’re always borrowing, and He’s always lending; so that finally you don’t hardly know what belongs to you and what belongs to Him — and I guess maybe He don’t either. That’s the reason I say to you all: MEET GOD! Because, oh, you dear beloved people sitting here listening to me, I’ve met Him; and I know what it’s like!”
She stood silent, her face illumined, as Vance had seen it when she looked up to the sky from the porch at Crampton. She was certainly a beautiful old woman, he thought; and he felt that the people about him thought so too. But what did they make of her exordium? They were silent; he felt that their judgment83 was suspended. But there was the hideous slur84 of her pronunciation, blurring85 and soiling every word . . . .
She was hurrying on now, swept along on the full flood of revelation, pleading with them to see what to her was so plain, so divinely visible. The point was, she argued, that God wasn’t just here or there, in lecture halls, in churches, and on the lips of preachers. He wasn’t even just up in the sky, as holy people used to think. They knew now that the marvellous star-jewelled heavens were just atoms, like all the rest of the universe . . . all those wonderful stars that people in old times used to believe were the crowns of the angels! They knew now that God was a million times greater and bigger than all that, because He was in men’s souls; He was always creating, but also He was always being created. The quaint30 old idea of the Mass, of the priest turning bread into God, that seemed to enlightened modern minds so ignorant and barbarous, had something in it after-all, if you looked at it as the symbol of the wonderful fact that man is always creating God; that wherever a great thought is born, or a noble act performed, there God is created. THAT is the real Eucharist, the real remaking of Divinity. If you knew God, you knew that: you knew you had in your soul the power to make Him . . . that every one of us, in the old Bible phrase, may be a priest after the Order of Melchizedek. . . . Talk of the equality of man with man! Why, we’d got way past that. The new Revelation wasn’t going to rest till it had taught the equality of man with God . . . .
But how, she pressed on, was this wonderful equality, this God~making, to be achieved? Why, in the simplest way in the world: just by loving enough. Love was Christ’s law; and Christ was just one of the great God-makers. And what she wanted of everybody was to be like Christ: to BE Christ. What the world needed was Christs by the million — for the millions. What it needed was a standardized86 God. No caste religions any more! No limited God for the privileged and cultured, no priesthood, no preaching for rich pew-owners. Why, you could all of you go home now and be your own Christ, and make your own God, just by the simple recipe of loving enough. You didn’t even have to . . .
The flood of words poured on and on over Vance’s bent87 head. He did not want to look at her now: her prophetic gestures, her persuasive88 smiles, repelled89 him. Her intonations90 were unctuous91, benedictory; she had become identified with her apostolic role. Behind the swaying surging prophetess he still felt the rich-hearted woman in whose warmth his childhood had unfolded; it was bitter to him that the people about him would never know her as she really was. He was already prepared to hate them for smiling at her rambling periods. He could have smiled at them himself if his heart had been less sore; but no one else should do so. He looked about him suspiciously, trembling to detect derision; but he saw only a somewhat blank expectancy92. It was all very well, the faces about him seemed to say; but they had heard that kind of thing before. Something else must surely be coming. This inspired teacher was going to tell them the secret they yearned93 for. But apparently94 there was no other secret; nothing came but a crescendo95 of adjurations to love everybody and everything, to be all love, all Christ-likeness, all God-creativeness . . . .
Mrs. Scrimser paused. The room was pervaded96 by the peculiar97 sense of uncertainty98 of an audience which has lost touch with the speaker. The silence seemed to ask: What next? Vance knew. Though he had never before heard his grandmother speak in public he had often gone with her to the meetings which she frequented in her incessant99 quest for new religious sensations, and he knew the exact moment at which the orator’s appeal, having reached its culmination100, held itself ready for an emotional response. It was the moment when here and there someone stood up and gasped101 out devout102 ejaculations; when a hymn103 burst spontaneously from hundreds of throats; when the listeners fell on their knees in audible prayer.
Nothing of all this happened. Mrs. Scrimser stood motionless. The weight of her heavy body bearing on her outspread palms, as she rested them on the table before her, she watched for the tide of emotion to rise. It did not rise, but the audience did. There was an uncomfortable lull104, followed by a discreet105 rustling106 of chairs. A “very beautiful,” launched by Mrs. Spear from the platform, drifted languidly down the room. A very few of the more determined107 “Seekers” pressed back against the tide to Mrs. Scrimser; the others, somewhat too hastily, poured through the doors of the dining room toward the glimpse of a buffet108 supper. . . . As Vance passed out, he caught sight of Mr. Spear’s alert head between two retreating backs, and heard him say in his thin crackling voice: “Isn’t there some mistake about this? Seems to me I’ve met Mrs. Scrimser’s God before — and Mrs. Scrimser too.”
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profaning
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| v.不敬( profane的现在分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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gliding
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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humbling
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| adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 )；轻松打败（尤指强大的对手）；低声下气 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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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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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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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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solicited
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| v.恳求( solicit的过去式和过去分词 )；（指娼妇）拉客；索求；征求 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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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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velvety
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| adj. 像天鹅绒的, 轻软光滑的, 柔软的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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fig
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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petulantly
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36
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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37
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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38
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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39
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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40
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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41
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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42
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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45
trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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47
milieu
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| n.环境；出身背景；(个人所处的)社会环境 | |
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48
decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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49
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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50
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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51
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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52
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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53
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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54
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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58
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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59
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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81
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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82
mower
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| n.割草机 | |
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83
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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84
slur
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| v.含糊地说；诋毁；连唱；n.诋毁；含糊的发音 | |
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85
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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86
standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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87
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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88
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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89
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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90
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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91
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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92
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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93
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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95
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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96
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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98
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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99
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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100
culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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101
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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102
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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103
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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104
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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105
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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106
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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107
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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108
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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