Just outside the cottage window an apple branch crossed the pane1. For a long time Vance had sat there, seeing neither it nor anything else, in the kind of bodily and spiritual blindness lately frequent with him; and now suddenly, in the teeming2 autumn sunlight, there the branch was, the centre of his vision.
It was a warped3 unsightly branch on a neglected tree, but so charged with life, so glittering with fruit, that it looked like a dead stick set with rubies4. The sky behind was of the densest5 autumnal blue, a solid fact of a sky. Against it the shrunken rusty6 leaves lay like gilt7 bronze, each fruit carved in some hard rare substance. It might have been the very Golden Bough8 he had been reading about in one of the books he had carried off when he and Laura Lou left New York.
Whatever happened to Vance on the plane of practical living, in the muddled9 world where bills must be paid, food provided, sick or helpless people looked after, there still came to him this mute swinging wide of the secret doors. He never knew when or how it would happen: it sometimes seemed that he was no more than the latch10 which an unseen hand raised to throw open the gates of Heaven . . . .
And here he was, inside! No mere11 latch, after all, but the very king for whom the gates had been lifted up. . . . It was utterly12 improbable, inexplicable13, yet the deepest part of him always took it for granted, and troubled no more over the how and why than a child let loose in an unknown garden. In truth it was the only human experience that was perfectly14 intelligible15 to him, though he was so powerless to account for it . . . .
As usual with him now, the sudden seeing of the apple branch coincided with the intensely detailed16 inner vision of a new book. In the early days that flash of mysterious light used to blot17 out everything else; but with the growing mastery of his craft he noticed, on the contrary, that when the gates swung open the illumination fell on his daily foreground as well as on the heavenly distances. Mental confusion ceased for him from the moment when the inner lucidity18 declared itself, and this sense of developing power gave him a feeling of security, of an inviolable calm in the heart of turmoil19 . . . .
The quarrel with Tarrant had ended vaguely20, lamely21, as business disputes most often do. Vance was beginning to understand that only intellectual differences, battles waged in the abstract for absolute ends, can have heroic conclusions. The tearing-up of his manuscript had been the result of a passionate22 impulse, but it had neither bettered his situation nor made it appreciably23 worse. Eric Rauch told him that Tarrant would never have let him off anyhow: “it wasn’t his way.” Rauch advised Vance to rewrite the lost chapters, and was genuinely surprised to hear him pronounce this an impossibility. Rauch’s own conception of the products of the creative arts was as purely24 businesslike (in spite of his volume of poems) as if they had been standardized25 like motor parts. But Vance could only say that the book was gone past recovery . . . .
Finally it was agreed that Tarrant should give him time to write another novel, and that the New Hour should meanwhile continue his slender salary. Soon afterward26 the first instalment of the royalties27 on Instead fell due. It was slightly above Dreck and Saltzer’s expectations, and Vance was able to pay back half of the money he had borrowed, and to clear off the interest and his other debts. He had thought long and painfully over the future after his last talk with his grandmother, and had finally concluded that he would leave to Laura Lou the decision as to her future and his. He refrained from telling her of Mrs. Scrimser’s offer, and of his resolve not to share the money she hoped to make on her lecturing tour. To speak of this might raise hopes that he would have to disappoint without being able to make his wife see why. The alternatives he put before her were the offer of a home with his family, or the possibility of her joining Mrs. Tracy and Upton in California. It went hard with him to suggest the latter, for it meant the avowal28 of his failure to make her happy or comfortable. But he said to himself, with a gambler’s shrug29: “If she chooses to go to her mother it will mean she wants to be free — and if she does, I ought to let her.” He still did not understand why he resented this idea instead of welcoming it, or how much there was of memory, and how much of mere pride, in his dogged determination to keep her with him as long as she was willing.
Hardly less distasteful was the idea of going back to his family. The offer had been renewed by Mr. Weston, who, though his ill~advised speculations30 had checked his career in real estate, was ready to take his son and his son’s wife into his house, and find a job for Vance (he thought there would still be a chance on the Free Speaker). But Vance’s few hours with his grandmother had put Euphoria before him in merciless perspective. In every allusion31, every turn of her speech, every image that came to her, he saw how far he had travelled from Mapledale Avenue. With cruel precision he evoked33 the mental atmosphere of the place; the slangy dingy34 days at the Free Speaker, the family evenings about the pink-throated gramophone; and he knew he could not face it. Yet he was determined35 not to let Laura Lou suspect his reluctance36. His business was to do his best for her, and perhaps, according to her lights, his best was this. He put the case for Mapledale Avenue first, without betraying his own feelings; he even exaggerated the advantages of his father’s offer. But, to his surprise, Laura Lou rejected it. She was never good at giving reasons or analysing her instinctive37 reluctances, and he suspected that the fear of hurting his feelings benumbed her. But she seemed to feel that he ought to be near New York, and not have to go back to newspaper work, at least not at Euphoria. . . . “I know you’d be doing it just for me,” she tried to explain.
“Well, we’ve got to live,” he rejoined, not unkindly; and she said, in her disjointed way: “If we were somewhere where I could cook . . . and nobody interfere38 . . . .” If they had a home of their own! He knew that was what she meant. But he said, still more gently: “See here, Laura Lou, till I can give you a place where nobody’ll interfere, how about going out to your mother and Upton? You know that climate — ”
She flushed, this time with pleasure; then her eyes grew dusky, as they did when she was troubled. “But I guess California’d be a good way farther from your work than Euphoria even; and we’d have more expenses . . . .” She looked at him with a little practical smile. Oh, Lord — how was he to tell her? Yes, he said, he supposed he’d have to stick on here in New York, on his job; what he meant was — “For me to go out alone?” she completed, and added immediately: “Oh, Vanny, it isn’t what you WANT, is it? You’re not trying to tell me it would be easier for you if I went back to Mother? If that’s it, I’d rather you . . . .” She ended desperately39: “If we could only find some little place where I could do the cooking . . .” and as he kissed away her tears he swore he would find a way, if she was really sure she didn’t want to leave him. . . . “I’d mend for you too, better than I have,” she sobbed40 out, rapturous and repentant41; and the search for the little place began. It was anxious and arduous42; the friendly settlement manager was consulted, but could suggest nothing within Vance’s means. Other enquiries failed; and at last it was Rebecca Stram who, oddly enough, came to the rescue. She had an old Jewish mother who lived out on the fringes of the Bronx, and a brother in real estate who picked up unlikely bargains, and waited; and among them they found a shaky bungalow43 containing some rattan44 chairs, a divan45 and a kitchen range. It stood alone on a bit of bedraggled farmland, in the remains46 of an orchard47, with a fragment of woodland screening it from flathouses and chimneys. Not far off, the outskirts48 of the metropolis49 whirled and rattled50 and smoked; but in this sylvan51 hollow nature still worked her untroubled miracles, and Vance had to walk through deep ruts, and past a duck pond and an ancient pump, to pick up turnpike and trolley52. Behind the house the land rose in a wooded ridge53, and beyond that was real country, still untouched; it was heaven to dwellers54 at Mrs. Hubbard’s, and for the first weeks the mere sense of peace and independence gave Vance the illusion that all was well. He consolidated55 the divan, and bought a stove, a couple of lamps, some linen56, a jute rug; he managed their simple marketing57, and rigged up shelves and hooks; and the house being made habitable, Laura Lou began the struggle to keep it going. At first it did not much trouble Vance. He took his fountain pen and his pad and wandered off along the ridge, where there were still shady hollows in which you could stretch out and dream, and watch the clouds travel, and the birds; it was enough to be in this green solitude58, and he did not much care what food, or lack of it, he came back to. But for a good many weeks he did little more than dream. The foundations of his being had been shaken; he was full of warfare59 and alarms. What he wrote he tore up, and he read more than he wrote; the few books he had picked up at a cheap sale, as they were leaving New York, were devoured60 before the summer was half over. But all the while he was rebuilding his soul; he found no other term for the return of the inner stability which was like a landing field for his wide~pinioned dreams. And then one day he looked out of the window and saw the apple bough, and his new book hanging on it. He held his breath and watched . . . .
He had no idea of reviving Loot. All desire to treat the New York spectacle was gone. The tale he saw shaping itself was simpler, nearer to his own experience. It was to be about a fellow like himself, about two or three people whose spiritual lives were as starved as his own had been. He sat for a long time penetrating61 his mind with the strange hard beauty created by that bit of crooked62 apple bough against a little square of sky. Such ordinary material to make magic out of — and that should be his theme. As he meditated63, a thousand mysterious activities began to hum in him, his mind felt like that bit of rustling64 woodland above the cottage, so circumscribed65 yet so packed with the frail66 and complicated life of birds, insects, ferns, grasses, bursting buds, falling seeds, all the incessantly67 unfolding procession of the year. He had only to watch himself, to listen to himself, to try and set down the million glimmers68 and murmurs69 of the inner scene. “See here, Laura Lou,” he cried out, pushing back his chair to go and tell her — and then remembered that nothing he could tell would be intelligible to her. He stood still, picturing the instant shock of thought if it had been Halo he had called, Halo who had hurried in from the kitchen. . . . He sat down at the desk and hid his face in his hands. “God,” he thought. “When I was beginning to forget . . . .” He pulled his pen out, and wrote a few lines; then he was struck by Laura Lou’s not having responded to his shout — she who always flew to him at the least pretext70. A minute or two ago he had heard her busying herself with the preliminary assembling of food fragments which she called getting dinner. It was funny she hadn’t answered; he thought he would go and see . . . .
She was in the kitchen, over the range. He thought he saw her push something into it — a white rag or paper, it seemed — and a moment later he caught the smoky acrid71 smell of burning linen. She turned with a face as white as the rag, and a smile which showed her teeth too much, as if her lips had shrunk away. “Yes . . . yes . . . coming . . .” she said nervously72.
“Why, what’s that queer smell? What are you burning?”
She gave the same death’s-head smile. “I can’t get the fire to draw — I just stuffed in anything . . . .”
“I should say you did. What a stench! I guess you’ve put it out now — ”
She went and sat down on the chair by the kitchen table without making any answer.
“I don’t see the joke,” he grumbled73, exasperated74 at being shaken out of his dream.
“I guess there’s something wrong with the range — you’ll have to get somebody to mend it,” she brought out in a queer thin voice, as if she had been running. On the table was her untidy work basket, and near it were more white rags, or handkerchiefs or something, in a dirty heap. She crammed75 them into the basket, looking at him sideways. “Baby clothes? — ” he thought, half dismayed, half exultant76. He stood a moment irresolute77, finding no words; but suddenly she spoke78 again, in the same breathless reedy voice. “You better go and find somebody to repair it . . . .”
“Oh, Lord. I’ll see first if I can’t do it myself,” he grumbled, remembering the cost of the last repairs to the range.
“No, no, you can’t. You better go out somewhere and get your dinner today,” she added.
“What’ll you eat then?”
She gave the same grin, which so unnaturally79 bared the edges of her pale pink gums. “Oh, I’ll take some milk. You better go out for your dinner. Then I’ll lie down,” she insisted breathlessly.
He stood doubtful, his book palpitating in him. The glorious blue air invited him — very likely she’d be glad to have a rest. He noticed the purplish rings about her eyes, and thought again: “It might be that,” recalling the scenes in fiction in which blushing wives announce their coming motherhood. But Laura Lou did not seem to want to announce anything, and he was too shy to force her silence. “Want to get rid of me today, do you?” he joked; and she nodded, without other acquiescence80 than that of her queer fixed81 smile.
He rummaged82 in the cupboard for bread, and a piece of the cheese they had had for supper; with an apple from the magic tree it would be all he wanted. He would go on a long tramp, to a wonderful swampy83 wood he knew of, the first to catch fire from the autumn frosts. A sense of holiday freedom flamed through him. “Well, so long,” he called out, nodding back from the door. Her fixed smile answered. “She looks sick,” he thought — and then forgot her.
Magic — why not call the book that? The air was full of it today. All the poetry which the American imagination rejects seemed to have taken refuge in the American landscape, like a Daphne not fleeing from Apollo but awaiting his call to resume her human loveliness. Vance felt the dumb entreaty84 of that trembling beauty with arms outstretched to warmth and light from the slope of the descending85 year. As the mood grew on him the blood of the earth seemed to flow in his veins86, his own to burn in red maple32 branch and golden shreds87 of traveller’s joy. It was all part of that mysteriously interwoven texture88 of the universe, in the thought of which a man could lie down as in his bed . . . .
He tramped on and on, humming snatches of poetry, or meaningless singsongs of his own invention, feeling as happy as if he had been taken into the divine conspiracy89 and knew the solution of all the dissonances. It was as wonderful and secret as birth. . . . The word turned his mind to Laura Lou. How queer if she were going to have a child! He tried to imagine how life would arrange itself, with two people to feed, nurse, clothe, provide for — oh, curse that everlasting90 obstacle! He didn’t even know how Laura Lou and he were going to face the winter alone. If she were to have a child he supposed they must humble91 their pride and accept his father’s hospitality. But he did not want to dwell on that. Things were so right as they were. The bungalow in the apple orchard was just the place for him to dream and work in, and as for Laura Lou, she was happy, she was herself, for the first time since their marriage. Her domestic training had been rudimentary, and she was heedless and improvident92, and sometimes — often — too tired to finish what she had begun. But now that she had her husband and her house to herself she atoned93 for every deficiency by a zeal94 that outran her strength and a good-humour that never flagged. In New York she used to sit for hours by the chilly95 radiator96 without speaking or moving, to listless to tidy up, leaving her clothes unmended, shelves and drawers in a litter; now she was always stirring about, sweeping97, mending, washing. She even began to concern herself with the adornment98 of the rooms, wheedled99 out of Vance embroidered100 covers for their pillows and surprised him one evening by a bunch of wild flowers on the supper table. “I guess that was the way the table was fixed the day we lunched with the Tarrants,” she said, with a reminiscent smile; and Vance laughed and declared: “Their flowers weren’t anything like as pretty.” Often now he heard her singing at her work, till her silence told him she had interrupted it to drop down in the kitchen rocker while the wave of weariness swept over her. . . . Poor Laura Lou! These months in the bungalow had made her intelligible to him, and turned his pity back to tenderness. After all, perhaps she was the kind of wife an artist ought to have . . . .
He reached the wood, climbed to a ledge101 from which he could catch the distant blue of the Sound, and stretched out in the sun with his bread and cheese and his dream. . . . Certainly the book must be called Magic . . . .
The curtain went up on his inner stage — one by one his characters came on, first faintly outlined, then more clearly, at last in full illumination. The outer world vanished, love, grief, poverty, sickness, debt, the long disappointments and the little daily torments102, even the consoling landscape which enveloped103 him, all shrivelled up like the universe in the Apocalypse, with nothing left in an unlit void but that one small luminous104 space. The phenomenon was not new, but he had never before been detached enough to observe it in its mysterious acuity105. Of all the myriad106 world nothing was left but this tiny centre of concentrated activity, in which creatures born without his will lived out their complicated and passionate lives. At such moments his most vivid personal experiences paled with the rest of reality, and some mysterious transfusion107 of spirit made him no longer himself but the life element of these beings evoked from nowhere. They were there, they were real, they were the sole reality, and he who was the condition of their existence was yet apart from them, and empowered to be their chronicler. . . . Tramping back after dark, hungry and happy under the sharp autumn stars, he stood still suddenly and thought: “God, if I could tell her — ” But even that pang108 was a passing one. These people were HIS people, he held the threads of their lives, it was to him the vision had been given — for the time that seemed enough, seemed all his straining consciousness could hold . . . .
From the bungalow a light winked109 through the apple branch on which his book had hung. The gleam gave him a feeling of homely110 reassurance111. He saw the supper table in the kitchen, his desk with the beckoning112 lamp. As soon as he had eaten something he would get to work under that lamp, with the great shadowy night looking on him . . . .
Under the apple tree he halted and listened. Perhaps he would hear Laura Lou singing, and see her shadow moving on the drawn113-down blind. But the house was silent. He walked up to the door and went in. The table was laid with a box of sardines114, potatoes, and pickles115. All was orderly and inviting116; but Laura Lou was not there. The remembrance of her pale face with that queer drawn smile returned disquietingly, and he pushed open the door of their room. It was dark, and he went back for the lamp. Laura Lou lay on the bed, the blankets drawn up. She was motionless; she did not turn as he entered. Lamp in hand he bent117 over, half afraid; but as the light struck her lids they lifted, and she looked at him calmly, as she had on their wedding night when he had come back with provisions from the farm and found her sleeping. His anxiety fell from him. “Hullo — I guess I woke you up,” he said.
She smiled a little, not painfully but naturally. “Yes.”
“You’re not sick, child?”
“Oh, no, no,” she assured him.
“Only a little bit tired?”
“Yes. A little bit.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I guess we’ll have to get a woman in to help you.”
“Yes. Maybe just for the washing . . .”
“You think it was the washing that tired you?”
“Maybe.” She shut her eyes peacefully and turned her head away.
“All right. Have you had anything to eat?”
“Yes. I had some milk.”
“And now you want to go to sleep again?”
Out of her sleep she murmured: “Yes,” and he stooped to kiss her and stole away.
As he sat down to his supper he reflected: “Certainly I must get a woman in to wash for her.” Then his thoughts wandered away again to his book. After he had eaten he heated a cup of coffee, and carried that and the lamp back to his desk.
For the next few days Laura Lou was weak and languid, and he had to get a woman in daily to do the work. But after that she was up and about, looking almost well, and singing in the kitchen while he sat at his desk. The golden October days followed each other without a break; and when the housework was done he would drag one of the rattan armchairs out under the apple tree, and Laura Lou would sit in the sun, well wrapped up, and busy herself with the mending, while every now and then he called out through the window: “To hell with the damned book — it won’t go!” or: “Child — I believe I’ve found what I was after!”
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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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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appreciably
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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rattan
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| n.藤条，藤杖 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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49
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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50
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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51
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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52
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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53
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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54
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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55
consolidated
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| a.联合的 | |
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56
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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58
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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60
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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61
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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62
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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glimmers
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| n.微光，闪光( glimmer的名词复数 )v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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70
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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71
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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75
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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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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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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83
swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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84
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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85
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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improvident
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| adj.不顾将来的，不节俭的，无远见的 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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95
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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96
radiator
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| n.暖气片，散热器 | |
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97
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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98
adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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99
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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101
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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102
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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103
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
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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105
acuity
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| n.敏锐，（疾病的）剧烈 | |
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106
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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107
transfusion
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| n.输血，输液 | |
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108
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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109
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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110
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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111
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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112
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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113
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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114
sardines
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| n. 沙丁鱼 | |
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115
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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116
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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117
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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