The Leopold, although one of the city’s smaller hotels, was not a single building, but a congeries of buildings which covered an entire block. The central and main building of the system was a structure of twelve storeys, of that anomalous3 stone and brick construction which seems to have enjoyed a vogue4 in the early nineteen hundreds. To the left was a building twenty or thirty years older, known as “the old annex5.” It was eight storeys high, of old red brick, and the street floor was occupied by shops and a restaurant. To the right was a building of six storeys, which was known as “the new annex.” This building, more simple in design than the others, was constructed of basal stone of the rough, porous6, light-hued kind which was predominant in many of the new architectures throughout the nation. The building, neat, compact, and for the most part unadorned by useless ornament7, somehow gave the effect of having been stamped out, with a million others of its kind, by a gigantic biscuit-cutter of such buildings — and hence to speak, how or in what way it was hard to say, yet instantly apparent, the mechanic spirit of a “newer” or more “modern” scheme — the scheme of “the ‘twenties,” of 1922 or 1924.
It was hard to know why one found fault with the building, but somehow it left one without joy. In many obvious ways this would be apparent at once, not only to the architect, but to the layman8 — it was superior to its companion structures. Although not a building which combined simple grace with use — as the old colonial structures of New England do — it was at least a building lacking in the clumsy and meaningless adornment9 which disfigured the surface of its two companions. Moreover, the rough, porous-looking brick had a look of lean and homely10 integrity: it was hard to know why one disliked the building, and yet one did — the other two, with all their confusing and unreasoning decoration, were the warmer, better, and more cheerful places.
What was it? It was almost impossible to define the quality of “the new annex” or its depressing effect upon the spectator, yet its quality was unmistakable. It belonged somehow to a new and accursed substance which had come into the structure of life — a substance barren, sterile11, and inhuman12 — designed not for the use of man, but for the blind proliferations of the man-swarm to accommodate the greatest number in the smallest space — to shelter, house, turn out, take in, all the nameless, faceless, mindless man-swarm atoms of the earth.
The transient population of the Leopold, comparatively, was small. The great tidal fluctuation13 of brief visitors — business men, salesmen, newly wedded14 couples on their honeymoons15, people from small towns out for a spree or a week or two of bright-light gaiety — which swarmed16 in unceasing movements in and out of the city, had scarcely touched the life of the Leopold. The hotel, set in a quarter of the city that was a little remote from the great business and pleasure districts, depended largely for its custom on the patronage17 of a “permanent” clientele. It was, in short, the kind of place often referred to as “a quiet family hotel”— a phrase which the management of the Leopold made use of in advertising18 the merits of their establishment, on the hotel stationery19.
But that phrase, with its soothing20 connotations of a tranquil21, felicitous22 and gentle domesticity, was misleading. For the Leopold was decidedly not “quiet” and although it contained within its cell-like rooms almost every other kind of life, of “family life” there was almost none and what there was, so desolate24 and barren, that one felt himself to be looking at the museum relics25 of what had once been a family rather than at the living and organic reality. And because of this, one felt constantly about the Leopold the spirit of defeat — either of lives still searching, restless and unfound, or of lives which, in the worst sense of the word, had fallen upon evil days.
And curiously26, in spite of the hotel’s pious27 assurance of its “quiet family life,” its boast of permanency, there hovered28 about the place continually, indefinably but certainly, a feeling of naked insecurity, a terrifying transiency — not the frank transiency of the great tourist hotels with their constant daily flux29 of changing faces — but the horrible transiency of lives held here for a period in the illusion of a brief and barren permanence, of lives either on the wing or on the wane30.
Here, for example, among the three or four hundred beings who inhabited the motley structure of these conjoined walls, were a number of young people who had only recently come from smaller places and were still stunned31 and bewildered by the terrific impact of the city upon their lives, or who, after a year or two of such bewilderment, were just beginning to orient themselves, to adjust their lives to the city’s furious tempo32, and to look around with a bolder and more knowing calculation for some kind of residence a little closer to their true desires.
To young people of this sort the Leopold had offered, when they first came to the city, its spurious promise of warm asylum33. Many of them had landed here — or rather popped in here like frightened rabbits — after their first terrified immersion34 in the man-swarm fury of the city’s life, and the feeling of desolation, houseless naked loneliness, bewilderment, and scrambling35, scuttling36 terror which the sudden impact of that ruthless, sudden revelation had aroused in them.
For this reason, those barren walls, those terrible, hive-like cells of the Hotel Leopold were not without a glory of their own. For in those cell-like rooms there could be held all of the hope, hunger, passion, bitter loneliness and earth-devouring37 fury that a room could hold, or that this world can know, or that this little racked and riven vessel38 of desire, this twisted tenement39 of man’s bitter brevity, can endure.
Here, in these desolate walls, on many a night long past and desperately40 accomplished41, many a young man had paced the confines of his little cell like a maddened animal, had beat his knuckles42 bloody43 on the stamped-out walls, had lashed44 about him, a creature baffled and infuriated by the million illusions of warmth, love, security and joy which the terrific city offered him and which, tantalus-like, slipped from his fingers like a fume45 of painted smoke the instant that he tried to get his grasp upon it.
Again, if the Hotel Leopold had housed all of the hope, joy, fury, passion, anguish46, and devouring hunger that the earth can know, and that the wild and bitter tenement of youth can hold, it also housed within its walls all of the barren and hopeless bitterness of a desolate old age. For here — unloved, friendless, and unwanted, shunted off into the dreary47 asylum of hotel life — there lived many old people who hated life, and yet who were afraid to die.
Most of them were old people with a pension, or a small income, which was just meagrely sufficient to their slender needs. Some of them, widowed, withered48, childless, and alone, were drearily49 wearing out the end of their lives here in a barren solitude50. Some had sons and daughters, married, living in the city, who came dutifully to stamp the dreary tedium51 of waning52 Sunday afternoons with the stale counterfeits53 of filial devotion.
The rest of the time the old people stayed in their rooms and washed their stockings out and did embroidery54, or descended55 to the little restaurant to eat, or sat together in one corner of the white-tiled lobby and talked.
Why could they never make it come to life? Why was no great vine growing from the hearts of all these old and dying people? Why were their flesh, their sagging56, pouch-like jowls and faces so dry, dead, and juiceless, their weary old eyes so dull and lustreless57, their tones so nasal, tedious and metallic58? Why was it that they seemed never to have known any of the pain, joy, passion, evil, glory of a dark and living past? Why was it that their lives, on which now the strange dark radiance of million-visaged time was shining, seemed to have gained neither wisdom, mystery nor passion from the great accumulation of the buried past — to have been composed, in fact, of an infinite procession of dreary moments and little mean adventures, each forgotten, lost, and buried, as day by day the grey sand of their lives ran out its numberless grains of barren tedium.
This, indeed, seemed to be the truth about them: as they sat together in one corner of the lobby talking, all their conversation seemed made up of dreary dialogues such as these:
“How do you do, Mrs. Grey? I didn’t see you in the restaurant tonight.”
“No —” the old woman spoke59 triumphantly60, proudly conscious of a sensational61 adventure —“I ate out tonight at a new place that my son-inlaw told me about! — Oh! I had the most DEE-licious meal — a WON-derful meal — all anyone could eat and only sixty cents. First I had a dish of nice fruit salad — and then I had a bowl of soup — oh-h! DEE-licious soup, Mrs. Martin — it was vegetable soup, but oh-h! DEE-licious! — a whole meal in itself — and then —” with a ruminant satisfaction she continued her arid62 catalogue —“I had some nice lamb chops, and some DEE-licious green peas — and a nice baked potato — and some salad — and some rolls and butter — and then I had a nice cup of coffee — and a piece of apple-pie — oh-h! the apple-pie was simply DEE-licious, Mrs. Martin, I had —”
“I’d think you’d be getting hungry by that time,” said another of the group, an old man, who was their humorist, with a wink63 around him at the others. They all laughed appreciatively, and he continued: “You’re sure you didn’t miss anything as you went along —” he winked65 again and they all laughed dryly, with appreciation66.
“No, sir!”— firmly, positively67, with an emphatic68 nod of the head — “I ate every bite of it, Doctor Withers69 — oh-h, it was so DEE-licious, I just couldn’t bear to see ANYTHING go to waste — only,” regretfully, “I did have to leave my apple-pie — I couldn’t finish it —”
“What!” the humorist exclaimed in mock astonishment70. “You mean you left something behind! Why, you hardly ate enough to feed an elephant! You’ll be getting all run down if you starve yourself this way!”— and the jester winked again, and the old women of his audience cackled aridly71 with appreciative64 laughter.
“— Well, I know,” the glutton72 said regretfully, “I just hated to see that good apple-pie go to waste — oh-h! I wish you could have tasted it, Mrs. Martin — it was simply DEE-licious —‘What’s the matter?’ the girl says to me — the waitress, you know —‘Don’t you like your pie? — I’ll go get you something else if you don’t like it.’— Oh! yes —” with sudden recollection —“oh, yes! she says to me, ‘How’d you like some ice cream? — You can have ice cream instead of pie,’ she says, ‘if you’d rather have it’—‘Oh-h!’ I said,”— spoken with a kind of gasp73, the withered old hand upon the meagre stomach —”‘Oh-h!’ I says, ‘I couldn’t!’— She had to laugh, you know, I guess the way I said it. ‘Well, you got enough?’ she said. ‘Oh-h!’ I said,”— again the faint protesting gasp, “‘if I ate another mouthful, I’d pop open! Oh-h!”— Well, it made her laugh, you know, the way I said it —‘I’d POP open!’ I said, ‘I COULDN’T eat another mouthful!’—‘Well, just so long as you got enough!’ she says. ‘We like to see everyone get enough. We want you to be satisfied,’ she said. ‘Oh-h!’ I said,” the faint protesting gasp again, “‘not another MOUTHFUL, my dear! I COULDN’T!’— But, oh-h! Mrs. Martin, if you could have seen that apple-pie! It was DEE-licious! I was sorry to see it go to waste!”
“Well,” said Mrs. Martin, rather tartly74, obviously a little envious75 of the other’s rich adventure —“we had a good meal here at the hotel, too. We had some celery and olives to start off with and then we had some good pea soup and after that we had roast beef and mashed76 potatoes — wasn’t the roast beef we had tonight delicious, Doctor Withers?” she demanded of this arbiter77 of taste.
“Well,” he said, smacking78 his dry lips together drolly79, “the only complaint I had to make was that they didn’t bring me the whole cow. I had to ask George for a second helping81. . . . Yes, sir, if I never fare any worse than that I’ll have no kick — it was a very good piece of beef — well-cooked, tender, very tasty,” he said with a dry, scientific precision, and again he smacked82 his leathery lips together with an air of relish83.
“— Well, I thought so, too,” said Mrs. Martin, nodding her head with satisfaction at this sign of his agreement “— I thought it was delicious — and then,” she went on reflectively, “we had a nice lettuce84 and tomato salad, some biscuit tortoni and, of course,” she concluded elegantly, “the demy-tassy.”
“Well, I didn’t have any of the demy-tassy,” said Doctor Withers, the droll80 wit. “None of your demy-tassy for me! No, sir! I had COFFEE— two big cups of it, too,” he went on with satisfaction. “If I’m going to poison myself I’m going to do a good job of it — none of your little demy-tassys for me!”
And the old women cackled aridly their dry appreciation of his wit.
“— Good evening, Mrs. Buckles85,” Doctor Withers continued, getting up and bowing gallantly86 to a heavily built, arthritic87-looking old woman who now approached the group with a stiff and gouty movement. “We missed you tonight. Did you eat in the restaurant?”
“No,” she panted in a wheezing88 tone, as, with a painful grunt89, she lowered her heavily corseted bulk into the chair he offered her. “I didn’t go down — I didn’t have much appetite and I didn’t want to risk it. I had them bring me something in my room — some tea and toast and a little marmalade . . . I didn’t intend to come down at all,” she went on in a discontented tone, “but I got tired of staying up there all alone and I thought I’d just as well — I’d be just as well off down here as I’d be up in my room,” she concluded morosely90.
“And how IS your cold today, Mrs. Buckles?” one of the old women now asked with a kind of lifeless sympathy. “— Do you feel better?”
“— Oh,” the old woman said morosely, uncertainly, “I suppose so. . . . I think so. . . . Yes, I think it’s a little better. . . . Last night I was afraid it was getting down into my chest, but today it feels better — seems to be more in my head and throat — But I don’t know,” she muttered in a sullen91 and embittered92 tone, “it’s that room they’ve given me. I’ll always have it as long as I’ve got to live there in that room. I’ll never get any better till I get my old room back.”
“Did you do what I told you to do?” asked Doctor Withers. “Did you go and dose yourself the way I told you?”
“— No — well,” she said indefinitely, “I’ve been drinking lots of water and trying a remedy a friend of mine down at the Hotel Gridly told me about — it’s a new thing called Inhalo; all you got to do is put it up your nose and breathe it in-she said it did her more good than anything she’d ever tried.”
“I never heard of it,” said Doctor Withers sourly. “Whatever it is, it won’t cure your cold. No, sir!” He shook his head grimly. “Now, I didn’t practise medicine for forty years without finding out SOMETHING about colds! Now, I don’t care anything about your Inhalos or Breathos or Spray–Your-Throatos, or whatever they may call ’em-any of these newfangled remedies. The only way to get rid of a cold is to have a thorough cleaning-out, and the only way to get a thorough cleaning-out is to dose yourself with castor oil, the way I told you to. — Now you can do as you please,” he said sourly, with a constricted93 pressure of his thin convex mouth, “it’s no business of mine what you do — if you want to run the risk of coming down with pneumonia94 it’s your own affair — but if you want to get over that cold you’ll take my advice.”
“Well,” the old woman muttered in her tone of sullen discontent. “— It’s that room I’m in. That’s the trouble. I’ve hated that room ever since they put me in there. I know if I could get my old room back I’d be all right again.”
“Then why don’t you ask Mr. Betts to give it back to you?” said Mrs. Martin. “I’m sure if you went to him and told him that you wanted it, he’d let you have it.”
“No, he wouldn’t!” said Mrs. Buckles bitterly. “I’ve been to him — I’ve asked him. He paid no attention to me — tried to tell me I was better off where I was, that it was a better room, a better bargain! — Here I’ve been living at this place for eight years now, but do you think they show me any consideration? No,” she cried bitterly, “they’re all alike nowadays — out for everything they can get — it’s grab, grab, grab — and they don’t care who you are or how long they’ve known you — if they can get five cents more from someone else, why, out you go! . . . When I came back here from Florida last spring I found my old room taken. . . . I went to Mr. Betts a dozen times and asked to have it back and he always put me off — told me there were some people in there who were leaving soon and I could have it just as soon as they moved out. . . . That was all a put-up job,” she said resentfully. “He didn’t mean a word of it. I see now that he never had any intention of giving me my old room. . . . No! They’ve just found that they can get a dollar or two more a week for it from these fly-by-nights than I could afford to pay — and so, of course, I’m the one that gets turned out!” she said. “That’s the way it goes nowadays!”
“Well,” said Mrs. Martin a trifle acidly, “I’m sure if you went to Mr. Betts in the right way you could get your old room back. He’s always done everything I ever asked him to do for ME. But, of course,” she said pointedly95, “you’ve got to approach him in the right way.”
“Oh-h!” said old Mrs. Grey rapturously, “I think Mr. Betts is the NICEST manager they’ve ever had here — so pleasant, so good-NATURED! so WILLING to oblige! Now that other man they had here before he came — what was his name?” she said impatiently. “— Mason, or Watson, or Clarkson — something like that —”
“Wilson,” said Doctor Withers.
“— Oh, yes — Wilson!” said Mrs. Grey. “That’s it — Wilson! I never liked him at ALL,” she said with an accent of scornful depreciation96. “You could NEVER get anything out of Wilson. He never did anything you wanted him to do. But Mr. BETTS! — oh-h! I think Mr. Betts is a lovely manager!”
“Well, I haven97’t found him so,” said Mrs. Buckles grimly. “I liked Wilson better.”
“Oh, I don’t agree with you, Mrs. Buckles,” Mrs. Grey said with a stony98 and somewhat hostile emphasis. “I don’t ag-GREE with you at ALL! I think there’s no COMPARISON! I like Mr. Betts SO much better than I like Wilson!”
“Well, I like Wilson better,” said Mrs. Buckles grimly, and for a moment the two old women glared at each other with bitter hostile eyes.
“— Well,” Doctor Withers broke the silence quickly in a diplomatic effort to avert99 an impending100 clash, “— what are your plans for the winter, Mrs. Buckles? What have you decided23 to do? Are you going to Florida again this winter?”
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” old Mrs. Buckles answered in a tone of sullen dejection. “I haven’t decided yet. . . . I had planned to go down to Daytona Beach with Mrs. Wheelwright — that’s my friend at the Hotel Gridly — she had a daughter living in Daytona and we had planned to spend the winter there in order to be near them. But now that’s all fallen through,” she said dejectedly. “Here, at the last moment, when all my plans were made, she decided not to go — says she likes it at the Gridly and it will be cheaper to stay on there than to make a trip to Florida and back. . . . That’s the trouble with people nowadays,” she said bitterly, “you can’t depend on them. They never mean anything they say!” And she lapsed101 again into a sullen and dejected silence.
“Why aren’t you going to St. Petersburg?” said Mrs. Martin curiously after a brief pause. “I thought that’s where you always spent the winter.”
“It was,” said Mrs. Buckles, “until last winter. But I’ll never go back there again. It’s not the same place any more. I’ve been going to the same hotel down there for more than twenty years — it used to be a lovely place; when I went back there last winter I found the whole place changed. They had ruined it,” she bitterly concluded.
“How was that?” said Doctor Withers curiously. “What had they done to it?”
Mrs. Buckles looked around cautiously and craftily102 to make sure that in this sinister103 melting-pot of a million listening ears, she would not be overheard, and then, bending forward painfully, with one old arthritic hand held up beside her mouth, she muttered confidingly104 to her listeners:
“— I’ll tell you what it is. It’s the JEWS! They get in everywhere,” she whispered ominously105. “They ruin EVERYTHING! When I got down there last winter the whole place was overrun with Jews! They had ruined the place!” she hissed106. “The place was RUINED!”
At this moment another old woman joined the group. She advanced slowly, leaning on a cane107, smiling, and with a movement of spacious108 benevolence109. Everything about this old woman — her big frame, slow movement, broad and tranquil brow, silvery hair parted in the middle, and her sonorous110 and measured speech, which came deliberately111 from her mouth in the periods of a cadenced112 rhetoric113 — had an imposing114 and majestic115 quality. As she approached, everyone greeted her eagerly and with obvious respect, Doctor Withers got up quickly and bent116 before her with almost obsequious117 courtesy, she was herself addressed by everyone as “Doctor,” and her position among them seemed to be one of secure and tranquil authority.
This old woman was known to everyone in the hotel as Doctor Thornton. She had been one of the first women physicians in the country and a few years before, after a long and, presumably, successful practice, she had retired118 to spend the remaining years of her life in the peaceful haven of the Leopold, and to bestow119 on man, God, nature and the whole universe around her the cadenced and benevolent120 reflections of her measured rhetoric. She became, by virtue121 of this tranquil and majestic authority that emanated122 from her, the centre of every group, young and old, that she approached. She was known to everyone in the hotel, everyone referred to her as “a wonderful old woman,” spoke of her brilliant mind, her ripe philosophy, and her “beautiful English.”
The respect and veneration123 in which she was held were now instantly apparent as, with a benevolent smile, she slowly approached this company of old people. They greeted her with an eager and excited scraping of chairs, the welcoming tumult124 of several old voices, speaking eagerly at once: Doctor Withers himself scrambled125 to his feet, pushed a large chair into the circle and stood by gallantly as, with a slow and stately movement, she settled her large figure into it, and for a moment looked about her over the top of her cane with a tranquil, smiling and benevolent expression.
“WELL, Doctor!” said Mrs. Grey, almost breathlessly. “Where have you been keeping yourself all day long? We’ve MISSED you.”
The others murmured agreement to this utterance126, and then leaned forward with eager attentiveness127 so as not to miss any of the gems128 of wisdom which would fall from this great woman’s lips.
For a moment Doctor Thornton regarded her interlocutor with an expression of tolerant and almost playful benevolence. Presently she spoke:
“What have I been doing all day long?” she repeated in a tone of sonorous deliberation. “Why, my dear, I have been READING— reading,” she pursued with rhythmical129 sonority130, “in one of my favourite and most cherished volumes.”
And instantly there was for all her listeners a sense of some transforming radiance in the universe: an event of universal moment: the Doctor had been reading all day long. They looked at her with an awed132 stare.
“What,” Mrs. Martin nervously133 began, with a little giggle134, “— what was it you were reading, Doctor? It must have been a good book to hold your interest all day long?”
“It was, my dear,” said Doctor Thornton sonorously135 and deliberately. “It WAS a good book. More than that, it was a GREAT book — a magnificent work of genius to show us to what heights the mind of man may soar when he is inspired by lofty and ennobling sentiments.”
“What was this, Doctor Thornton?” Doctor Withers now inquired. “— Something of Tennyson’s?”
“No, Doctor Withers,” Doctor Thornton answered sonorously, “it was not Tennyson — much as I admire the noble beauty of his poetry. I was not reading poetry, Doctor Withers,” she continued, “I was reading — PROSE,” she said. “I was reading — RUSKIN!” As these momentous136 words fell from her lips her voice lowered with such an air of portentous137 significance that the last word was not so much spoken as breathed forth138 like an incense139 of devotion. “RUSKIN!” she whispered solemnly again.
And although it is doubtful if this name conveyed any definite meaning to her audience, its magical effect upon them was evident from the looks of solemn awe131 with which they now regarded her.
“— RUSKIN!” she said again, this time strongly, in an accent of rapturous sonority. “The noble elevation140 of his thought, the beautiful proportion and the ordered harmony of all the parts, the rich yet simple style, and, above all, the sane141 and wholesome142 beauty of his philosophy of art — what nobler monument to man’s higher genius was ever built, my friends, than he proportioned in The Stones of Venice — itself a work of art entirely143 worthy144 of the majestic sculptures that it consecrates145?”
For a moment after the sonorous periods of that swelling146 rhetoric had ceased, the old people stared at her with a kind of paralysis147 of reverent148 wonder. Then old Mrs. Grey, gasping149 with a kind of awed astonishment, said:
“Oh-h, Doctor Thornton, I think it’s the most WONDERFUL thing the way you keep your mind occupied all the time with all these deep and beautiful thoughts you have! I don’t see how you do it! I should think you’d get yourself all tired out just by the THINKING that you do.”
“Tired, my dear?” said Doctor Thornton sonorously, bestowing150 upon her worshipper a smile of tolerant benevolence. “How can anyone grow tired who LIVES and MOVES and BREATHES in this great world of ours? No, no, my dear, do not say TIRED. Rather say REFRESHED, REJUVENATED151, and INSPIRED by the glorious pageant152 that life offers us in its unending beauty and profusion153. Wherever I look,” she continued, looking, “I see nothing but order and harmony in the universe. I lift my eyes unto the stars.” she said majestically154, at the same time lifting her face in a movement of rapturous contemplation toward the ceiling of the hotel lobby, “and feast my soul upon the infinite beauties of God’s heaven, the glorious proportion of the sidereal155 universe. I turn my gaze around me, and everywhere I look I see the noble works that man has fashioned, the unceasing progress he has made in his march upward from the brute156, the noble aspiration157 of his spirit, the eternal labour of his mighty158 intellect towards a higher purpose, the radiant beauty of his countenance159 in which all the highest ardours of his soul may be discerned!”
And as she pronounced this sonorous eulogy160 her glance rested benevolently161 on old Doctor Withers’ soured and wizened162 features. He lowered his head coyly, as becomes a modest man, and in a moment the rhapsodist continued:
“‘What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty163! In form, in moving, how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel! In apprehension164, how like a God!’”
And having sonorously pronounced Hamlet’s mighty judgment165, the wonderful old woman, who had herself for thirty years been one of the most prosperous abortionists in the nation, looked benevolently about her at all the specimens166 of God’s choice article who were assembled in the lobby.
Over behind the cigar counter the vendor167, a fat Czechish youth with a pale flabby face and dull taffy-coloured hair, was industriously168 engaged in picking his fat nose with a greasy169 thumb and forefinger170. Elsewhere, in another corner of the lobby, three permanent denizens171 of the Leopold, familiarly and privately172 known to members of the hotel staff as Crab-face Willy, Maggie the Dope, and Greasy Gertie, were sitting where they always sat, in an unspeaking and unsmiling silence.
And at this moment two more wonder-works of God came in from the street and walked rapidly across the lobby, speaking the golden and poetic173 language which their Maker174 had so marvellously bestowed175 on them.
“Cheezus!” said one of them, a large man with a grey hat and a huge, dead, massive face of tallowy grey which receded176 in an indecipherable manner into the sagging flesh-folds of his flabby neck —“Cheezus!” he eloquently177 continued with a protesting laugh that emerged from his tallowy lips in a hoarse178 expletive mixed with spittle —“Yuh may be right about him, Eddie, but Cheezus!”— again the hoarse protesting laugh. “Duh guy may be all right, but Cheezus! — I don’t know! If he’d come in dere like duh rest of dem an’ let me know about it — but Cheezus! — duh guy may be all right like you say! — but Cheezus! Eddie, I don’t know!”
Doctor Thornton bestowed on them the benevolent approval of her glance as they went by and then, turning to her awed listeners again, declared sonorously with a majestic and expressive179 gesture of her hand:
“Tired? How could one ever grow tired, my friends, in this great world of ours?”
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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anomalous
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Vogue
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annex
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| vt.兼并，吞并；n.附属建筑物 | |
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porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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layman
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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13
fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
honeymoons
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| 蜜月( honeymoon的名词复数 )； 短暂的和谐时期； 蜜月期； 最初的和谐时期 | |
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16
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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17
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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19
stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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20
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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21
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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22
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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23
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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24
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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25
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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26
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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27
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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28
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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29
flux
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| n.流动；不断的改变 | |
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30
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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31
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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32
tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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33
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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34
immersion
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| n.沉浸；专心 | |
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35
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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36
scuttling
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| n.船底穿孔，打开通海阀（沉船用）v.使船沉没( scuttle的现在分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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37
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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38
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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39
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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40
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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41
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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42
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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43
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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44
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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45
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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46
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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47
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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48
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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49
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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52
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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53
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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55
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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56
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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57
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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58
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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59
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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60
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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61
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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62
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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63
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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64
appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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65
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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66
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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67
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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68
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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69
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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70
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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71
aridly
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| adv.arid（干燥的，干旱的）的变形 | |
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72
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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73
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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74
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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75
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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76
mashed
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| a.捣烂的 | |
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77
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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78
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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79
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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80
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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81
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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82
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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84
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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85
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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86
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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87
arthritic
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| adj.关节炎的 | |
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88
wheezing
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| v.喘息，发出呼哧呼哧的喘息声( wheeze的现在分词 )；哮鸣 | |
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89
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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90
morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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91
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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92
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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94
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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95
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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96
depreciation
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| n.价值低落，贬值，蔑视，贬低 | |
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97
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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98
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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99
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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100
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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101
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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102
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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103
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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104
confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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105
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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106
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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107
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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108
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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109
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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110
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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111
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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112
cadenced
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| adj.音调整齐的，有节奏的 | |
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113
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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114
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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115
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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116
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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117
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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118
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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119
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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120
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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121
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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122
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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123
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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124
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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125
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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126
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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127
attentiveness
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| [医]注意 | |
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128
gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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129
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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130
sonority
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| n.响亮，宏亮 | |
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131
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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132
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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133
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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134
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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135
sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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consecrates
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| n.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的名词复数 )；奉献v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的第三人称单数 )；奉献 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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rejuvenated
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| 更生的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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sidereal
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| adj.恒星的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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vendor
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| n.卖主；小贩 | |
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industriously
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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