That a man of the world so subject to the vicissitudes1 of fortunes as Montague Dartie should still be living in a house he had inhabited twenty years at least would have been more noticeable if the rent, rates, taxes, and repairs of that house had not been defrayed by his father-in-law. By that simple if wholesale2 device James Forsyte had secured a certain stability in the lives of his daughter and his grandchildren. After all, there is something invaluable3 about a safe roof over the head of a sportsman so dashing as Dartie. Until the events of the last few days he had been almost-supernaturally steady all this year. The fact was he had acquired a half share in a filly of George Forsyte’s, who had gone irreparably on the turf, to the horror of Roger, now stilled by the grave. Sleeve-links, by Martyr4, out of Shirt-on-fire, by Suspender, was a bay filly, three years old, who for a variety of reasons had never shown her true form. With half ownership of this hopeful animal, all the idealism latent somewhere in Dartie, as in every other man, had put up its head, and kept him quietly ardent5 for months past. When a man has some thing good to live for it is astonishing how sober he becomes; and what Dartie had was really good — a three to one chance for an autumn handicap, publicly assessed at twenty-five to one. The old-fashioned heaven was a poor thing beside it, and his shirt was on the daughter of Shirt-on-fire. But how much more than his shirt depended on this granddaughter of Suspender! At that roving age of forty-five, trying to Forsytes — and, though perhaps less distinguishable from any other age, trying even to Darties — Montague had fixed6 his current fancy on a dancer. It was no mean passion, but without money, and a good deal of it, likely to remain a love as airy as her skirts; and Dartie never had any money, subsisting7 miserably8 on what he could beg or borrow from Winifred — a woman of character, who kept him because he was the father of her children, and from a lingering admiration9 for those now-dying Wardour Street good looks which in their youth had fascinated her. She, together with anyone else who would lend him anything, and his losses at cards and on the turf (extraordinary how some men make a good thing out of losses!) were his whole means of subsistence; for James was now too old and nervous to approach, and Soames too formidably adamant10. It is not too much to say that Dartie had been living on hope for months. He had never been fond of money for itself, had always despised the Forsytes with their investing habits, though careful to make such use of them as he could. What he liked about money was what it bought — personal sensation.
“No real sportsman cares for money,” he would say, borrowing a ‘pony’ if it was no use trying for a ‘monkey.’ There was something delicious about Montague Dartie. He was, as George Forsyte said, a ‘daisy.’
The morning of the Handicap dawned clear and bright, the last day of September, and Dartie who had travelled to Newmarket the night before, arrayed himself in spotless checks and walked to an eminence11 to see his half of the filly take her final canter: If she won he would be a cool three thou. in pocket — a poor enough recompense for the sobriety and patience of these weeks of hope, while they had been nursing her for this race. But he had not been able to afford more. Should he ‘lay it off’ at the eight to one to which she had advanced? This was his single thought while the larks12 sang above him, and the grassy13 downs smelled sweet, and the pretty filly passed, tossing her head and glowing like satin.
After all, if he lost it would not be he who paid, and to ‘lay it off’ would reduce his winnings to some fifteen hundred — hardly enough to purchase a dancer out and out. Even more potent14 was the itch15 in the blood of all the Darties for a real flutter. And turning to George he said: “She’s a clipper. She’ll win hands down; I shall go the whole hog16.” George, who had laid off every penny, and a few besides, and stood to win, however it came out, grinned down on him from his bulky height, with the words: “So ho, my wild one!” for after a chequered apprenticeship17 weathered with the money of a deeply complaining Roger, his Forsyte blood was beginning to stand him in good stead in the profession of owner.
There are moments of disillusionment in the lives of men from which the sensitive recorder shrinks. Suffice it to say that the good thing fell down. Sleeve-links finished in the ruck. Dartie’s shirt was lost.
Between the passing of these things and the day when Soames turned his face towards Green Street, what had not happened!
When a man with the constitution of Montague Dartie has exercised self-control for months from religious motives18, and remains19 unrewarded, he does not curse God and die, he curses God and lives, to the distress20 of his family.
Winifred — a plucky21 woman, if a little too fashionable — who had borne the brunt of him for exactly twenty-one years, had never really believed that he would do what he now did. Like so many wives, she thought she knew the worst, but she had not yet known him in his forty-fifth year, when he, like other men, felt that it was now or never. Paying on the 2nd of October a visit of inspection22 to her jewel case, she was horrified23 to observe that her woman’s crown and glory was gone — the pearls which Montague had given her in ‘86, when Benedict was born, and which James had been compelled to pay for in the spring of ‘87, to save scandal. She consulted her husband at once. He ‘pooh-poohed’ the matter. They would turn up! Nor till she said sharply: “Very well, then, Monty, I shall go down to Scotland Yard myself,” did he consent to take the matter in hand. Alas24! that the steady and resolved continuity of design necessary to the accomplishment25 of sweeping26 operations should be liable to interruption by drink. That night Dartie returned home without a care in the world or a particle of reticence27. Under normal conditions Winifred would merely have locked her door and let him sleep it off, but torturing suspense28 about her pearls had caused her to wait up for him. Taking a small revolver from his pocket and holding on to the dining table, he told her at once that he did not care a cursh whether she lived s’long as she was quiet; but he himself wash tired o’ life. Winifred, holding onto the other side of the dining table, answered:
“Don’t be a clown, Monty. Have you been to Scotland Yard?”
Placing the revolver against his chest, Dartie had pulled the trigger several times. It was not loaded. Dropping it with an imprecation, he had muttered: “For shake o’ the children,” and sank into a chair. Winifred, having picked up the revolver, gave him some soda29 water. The liquor had a magical effect. Life had illused him; Winifred had never ‘unshtood’m.’ If he hadn’t the right to take the pearls he had given her himself, who had? That Spanish filly had got’m. If Winifred had any ‘jection he w’d cut — her — throat. What was the matter with that? (Probably the first use of that celebrated30 phrase — so obscure are the origins of even the most classical language!)
Winifred, who had learned self-containment in a hard school, looked up at him, and said: “Spanish filly! Do you mean that girl we saw dancing in the Pandemonium31 Ballet? Well, you are a thief and a blackguard.” It had been the last straw on a sorely loaded consciousness; reaching up from his chair Dartie seized his wife’s arm, and recalling the achievements of his boyhood, twisted it. Winifred endured the agony with tears in her eyes, but no murmur32. Watching for a moment of weakness, she wrenched33 it free; then placing the dining table between them, said between her teeth: “You are the limit, Monty.” (Undoubtedly the inception34 of that phrase — so is English formed under the stress of circumstances.) Leaving Dartie with foam35 on his dark moustache she went upstairs, and, after locking her door and bathing her arm in hot water, lay awake all night, thinking of her pearls adorning36 the neck of another, and of the consideration her husband had presumably received therefor.
The man of the world awoke with a sense of being lost to that world, and a dim recollection of having been called a ‘limit.’ He sat for half an hour in the dawn and the armchair where he had slept — perhaps the unhappiest half-hour he had ever spent, for even to a Dartie there is something tragic37 about an end. And he knew that he had reached it. Never again would he sleep in his dining-room and wake with the light filtering through those curtains bought by Winifred at Nickens and Jarveys with the money of James. Never again eat a devilled kidney at that rose-wood table, after a roll in the sheets and a hot bath. He took his note case from his dress coat pocket. Four hundred pounds, in fives and tens — the remainder of the proceeds of his half of Sleeve-links, sold last night, cash down, to George Forsyte, who, having won over the race, had not conceived the sudden dislike to the animal which he himself now felt. The ballet was going to Buenos Aires the day after to-morrow, and he was going too. Full value for the pearls had not yet been received; he was only at the soup.
He stole upstairs. Not daring to have a bath, or shave (besides, the water would be cold), he changed his clothes and packed stealthily all he could. It was hard to leave so many shining boots, but one must sacrifice something. Then, carrying a valise in either hand, he stepped out onto the landing. The house was very quiet — that house where he had begotten38 his four children. It was a curious moment, this, outside the room of his wife, once admired, if not perhaps loved, who had called him ‘the limit.’ He steeled himself with that phrase, and tiptoed on; but the next door was harder to pass. It was the room his daughters slept in. Maud was at school, but Imogen would be lying there; and moisture came into Dartie’s early morning eyes. She was the most like him of the four, with her dark hair, and her luscious39 brown glance. Just coming out, a pretty thing! He set down the two valises. This almost formal abdication40 of fatherhood hurt him. The morning light fell on a face which worked with real emotion. Nothing so false as penitence41 moved him; but genuine paternal42 feeling, and that melancholy43 of ‘never again.’ He moistened his lips; and complete irresolution44 for a moment paralysed his legs in their check trousers. It was hard — hard to be thus compelled to leave his home! “D—-nit!” he muttered, “I never thought it would come to this.” Noises above warned him that the maids were beginning to get up. And grasping the two valises, he tiptoed on downstairs. His cheeks were wet, and the knowledge of that was comforting, as though it guaranteed the genuineness of his sacrifice. He lingered a little in the rooms below, to pack all the cigars he had, some papers, a crush hat, a silver cigarette box, a Ruff’s Guide. Then, mixing himself a stiff whisky and soda, and lighting45 a cigarette, he stood hesitating before a photograph of his two girls, in a silver frame. It belonged to Winifred. ‘Never mind,’ he thought; ‘she can get another taken, and I can’t!’ He slipped it into the valise. Then, putting on his hat and overcoat, he took two others, his best malacca cane46, an umbrella, and opened the front door. Closing it softly behind him, he walked out, burdened as he had never been in all his life, and made his way round the corner to wait there for an early cab to come by.
Thus had passed Montague Dartie in the forty-fifth year of his age from the house which he had called his own.
When Winifred came down, and realised that he was not in the house, her first feeling was one of dull anger that he should thus elude47 the reproaches she had carefully prepared in those long wakeful hours. He had gone off to Newmarket or Brighton, with that woman as likely as not. Disgusting! Forced to a complete reticence before Imogen and the servants, and aware that her father’s nerves would never stand the disclosure, she had been unable to refrain from going to Timothy’s that afternoon, and pouring out the story of the pearls to Aunts Juley and Hester in utter confidence. It was only on the following morning that she noticed the disappearance48 of that photograph. What did it mean? Careful examination of her husband’s relics49 prompted the thought that he had gone for good. As that conclusion hardened she stood quite still in the middle of his dressing-room, with all the drawers pulled out, to try and realise what she was feeling. By no means easy! Though he was ‘the limit’ he was yet her property, and for the life of her she could not but feel the poorer. To be widowed yet not widowed at forty-two; with four children; made conspicuous50, an object of commiseration51! Gone to the arms of a Spanish Jade52! Memories, feelings, which she had thought quite dead, revived within her, painful, sullen53, tenacious54. Mechanically she closed drawer after drawer, went to her bed, lay on it, and buried her face in the pillows. She did not cry. What was the use of that? When she got off her bed to go down to lunch she felt as if only one thing could do her good, and that was to have Val home. He — her eldest55 boy — who was to go to Oxford56 next month at James’ expense, was at Littlehampton taking his final gallops57 with his trainer for Smalls, as he would have phrased it following his father’s diction. She caused a telegram to be sent to him.
“I must see about his clothes,” she said to Imogen; “I can’t have him going up to Oxford all anyhow. Those boys are so particular.”
“Val’s got heaps of things,” Imogen answered.
“I know; but they want overhauling58. I hope he’ll come.”
“He’ll come like a shot, Mother. But he’ll probably skew his Exam.”
“I can’t help that,” said Winifred. “I want him.”
With an innocent shrewd look at her mother’s face, Imogen kept silence. It was father, of course! Val did come ‘like a shot’ at six o’clock.
Imagine a cross between a pickle59 and a Forsyte and you have young Publius Valerius Dartie. A youth so named could hardly turn out otherwise. When he was born, Winifred, in the heyday60 of spirits, and the craving61 for distinction, had determined62 that her children should have names such as no others had ever had. (It was a mercy — she felt now — that she had just not named Imogen Thisbe.) But it was to George Forsyte, always a wag, that Val’s christening was due. It so happened that Dartie, dining with him a week after the birth of his son and heir, had mentioned this aspiration63 of Winifred’s.
“Call him Cato,” said George, “it’ll be damned piquant64!” He had just won a tenner on a horse of that name.
“Cato!” Dartie had replied — they were a little ‘on’ as the phrase was even in those days —“it’s not a Christian65 name.”
“Halo you!” George called to a waiter in knee breeches. “Bring me the Encyc’pedia Brit. from the Library, letter C.”
The waiter brought it.
“Here you are!” said George, pointing with his cigar: “Cato Publius Valerius by Virgil out of Lydia. That’s what you want. Publius Valerius is Christian enough.”
Dartie, on arriving home, had informed Winifred. She had been charmed. It was so ‘chic.’ And Publius Valerius became the baby’s name, though it afterwards transpired66 that they had got hold of the inferior Cato. In 1890, however, when little Publius was nearly ten, the word ‘chic’ went out of fashion, and sobriety came in; Winifred began to have doubts. They were confirmed by little Publius himself who returned from his first term at school complaining that life was a burden to him — they called him Pubby. Winifred — a woman of real decision — promptly67 changed his school and his name to Val, the Publius being dropped even as an initial.
At nineteen he was a limber, freckled68 youth with a wide mouth, light eyes, long dark lashes69; a rather charming smile, considerable knowledge of what he should not know, and no experience of what he ought to do. Few boys had more narrowly escaped being expelled — the engaging rascal70. After kissing his mother and pinching Imogen, he ran upstairs three at a time, and came down four, dressed for dinner. He was awfully71 sorry, but his ‘trainer,’ who had come up too, had asked him to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge; it wouldn’t do to miss — the old chap would be hurt. Winifred let him go with an unhappy pride. She had wanted him at home, but it was very nice to know that his tutor was so fond of him. He went out with a wink72 at Imogen, saying: “I say, Mother, could I have two plover’s eggs when I come in?— cook’s got some. They top up so jolly well. Oh! and look here — have you any money?— I had to borrow a fiver from old Snobby73.”
Winifred, looking at him with fond shrewdness, answered:
“My dear, you are naughty about money. But you shouldn’t pay him to-night, anyway; you’re his guest. How nice and slim he looked in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!”
“Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought to stand the tickets; he’s always hard up, you know.”
Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying:
“Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t stand the tickets too.”
Val pocketed the fiver.
“If I do, I can’t,” he said. “Good-night, Mum!”
He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously74, sniffing75 the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert76. Jolly good biz! After that mouldy old slow hole down there!
He found his ‘tutor,’ not indeed at the Oxford and Cambridge, but at the Goat’s Club. This ‘tutor’ was a year older than himself, a good-looking youth, with fine brown eyes, and smooth dark hair, a small mouth, an oval face, languid, immaculate, cool to a degree, one of those young men who without effort establish moral ascendancy77 over their companions. He had missed being expelled from school a year before Val, had spent that year at Oxford, and Val could almost see a halo round his head. His name was Crum, and no one could get through money quicker. It seemed to be his only aim in life — dazzling to young Val, in whom, however, the Forsyte would stand apart, now and then, wondering where the value for that money was.
They dined quietly, in style and taste; left the Club smoking cigars, with just two bottles inside them, and dropped into stalls at the Liberty. For Val the sound of comic songs, the sight of lovely legs were fogged and interrupted by haunting fears that he would never equal Crum’s quiet dandyism. His idealism was roused; and when that is so, one is never quite at ease. Surely he had too wide a mouth, not the best cut of waistcoat, no braid on his trousers, and his lavender gloves had no thin black stitchings down the back. Besides, he laughed too much — Crum never laughed, he only smiled, with his regular dark brows raised a little so that they formed a gable over his just drooped78 lids. No! he would never be Crum’s equal. All the same it was a jolly good show, and Cynthia Dark simply ripping. Between the acts Crum regaled him with particulars of Cynthia’s private life, and the awful knowledge became Val’s that, if he liked, Crum could go behind. He simply longed to say: “I say, take me!” but dared not, because of his deficiencies; and this made the last act or two almost miserable79. On coming out Crum said: “It’s half an hour before they close; let’s go on to the Pandemonium.” They took a hansom to travel the hundred yards, and seats costing seven-and-six apiece because they were going to stand, and walked into the Promenade80. It was in these little things, this utter negligence81 of money that Crum had such engaging polish. The ballet was on its last legs and night, and the traffic of the Promenade was suffering for the moment. Men and women were crowded in three rows against the barrier. The whirl and dazzle on the stage, the half dark, the mingled82 tobacco fumes83 and women’s scent84, all that curious lure85 to promiscuity86 which belongs to Promenades87, began to free young Val from his idealism. He looked admiringly in a young woman’s face, saw she was not young, and quickly looked away. Shades of Cynthia Dark! The young woman’s arm touched his unconsciously; there was a scent of musk88 and mignonette. Val looked round the corner of his lashes. Perhaps she was young, after all. Her foot trod on his; she begged his pardon. He said:
“Not at all; jolly good ballet, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I’m tired of it; aren’t you?”
Young Val smiled — his wide, rather charming smile. Beyond that he did not go — not yet convinced. The Forsyte in him stood out for greater certainty. And on the stage the ballet whirled its kaleidoscope of snow-white, salmon-pink, and emerald-green and violet and seemed suddenly to freeze into a stilly spangled pyramid. Applause broke out, and it was over! Maroon89 curtains had cut it off. The semi-circle of men and women round the barrier broke up, the young woman’s arm pressed his. A little way off disturbance90 seemed centring round a man with a pink carnation91; Val stole another glance at the young woman, who was looking towards it. Three men, unsteady, emerged, walking arm in arm. The one in the centre wore the pink carnation, a white waistcoat, a dark moustache; he reeled a little as he walked. Crum’s voice said slow and level: “Look at that bounder, he’s screwed!” Val turned to look. The ‘bounder’ had disengaged his arm, and was pointing straight at them. Crum’s voice, level as ever, said:
“He seems to know you!” The ‘bounder’ spoke92:
“H’llo!” he said. “You f’llows, look! There’s my young rascal of a son!”
Val saw. It was his father! He could have sunk into the crimson93 carpet. It was not the meeting in this place, not even that his father was ‘screwed’; it was Crum’s word ‘bounder,’ which, as by heavenly revelation, he perceived at that moment to be true. Yes, his father looked a bounder with his dark good looks, and his pink carnation, and his square, self-assertive walk. And without a word he ducked behind the young woman and slipped out of the Promenade. He heard the word, “Val!” behind him, and ran down deep-carpeted steps past the ‘chuckersout,’ into the Square.
To be ashamed of his own father is perhaps the bitterest experience a young man can go through. It seemed to Val, hurrying away, that his career had ended before it had begun. How could he go up to Oxford now amongst all those chaps, those splendid friends of Crum’s, who would know that his father was a ‘bounder’! And suddenly he hated Crum. Who the devil was Crum, to say that? If Crum had been beside him at that moment, he would certainly have been jostled off the pavement. His own father — his own! A choke came up in his throat, and he dashed his hands down deep into his overcoat pockets. Damn Crum! He conceived the wild idea of running back and fending94 his father, taking him by the arm and walking about with him in front of Crum; but gave it up at once and pursued his way down Piccadilly. A young woman planted herself before him. “Not so angry, darling!” He shied, dodged95 her, and suddenly became quite cool. If Crum ever said a word, he would jolly well punch his head, and there would be an end of it. He walked a hundred yards or more, contented96 with that thought, then lost its comfort utterly97. It wasn’t simple like that! He remembered how, at school, when some parent came down who did not pass the standard, it just clung to the fellow afterwards. It was one of those things nothing could remove. Why had his mother married his father, if he was a ‘bounder’? It was bitterly unfair — jolly low-down on a fellow to give him a ‘bounder’ for father. The worst of it was that now Crum had spoken the word, he realised that he had long known subconsciously98 that his father was not ‘the clean potato.’ It was the beastliest thing that had ever happened to him — beastliest thing that had ever happened to any fellow! And, down-hearted as he had never yet been, he came to Green Street, and let himself in with a smuggled99 latch-key. In the dining-room his plover’s eggs were set invitingly100, with some cut bread and butter, and a little whisky at the bottom of a decanter — just enough, as Winifred had thought, for him to feel himself a man. It made him sick to look at them, and he went upstairs.
Winifred heard him pass, and thought: ‘The dear boy’s in. Thank goodness! If he takes after his father I don’t know what I shall do! But he won’t he’s like me. Dear Val!’
收听单词发音 |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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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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subsisting
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的现在分词 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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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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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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inception
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| n.开端，开始，取得学位 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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adorning
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| 修饰，装饰物 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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tenacious
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| adj.顽强的，固执的，记忆力强的，粘的 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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gallops
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| （马等）奔驰，骑马奔驰( gallop的名词复数 ) | |
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overhauling
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| n.大修；拆修；卸修；翻修v.彻底检查( overhaul的现在分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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heyday
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| n.全盛时期，青春期 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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snobby
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| a.虚荣的 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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81
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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82
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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83
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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84
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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86
promiscuity
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| n.混杂，混乱；（男女的）乱交 | |
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promenades
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| n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 )；散步场所；闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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91
carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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92
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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93
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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94
fending
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的现在分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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95
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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96
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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97
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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98
subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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99
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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100
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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