They had been the sole occupants of the compartment, and, despite the wide dissimilarity of character to be read upon their countenances5, seemed to have struck up an acquaintance based upon mutual6 amiability7 and worldly common sense. The traveler first to descend and gallantly8 to offer his hand to his companion in order to assist her to the platform, was the one whom a casual observer would first have noted9.
He was a man built largely, but on good lines; a man past his youth, and somewhat too fleshy; but for all his bulk, there was nothing unwieldy, and nothing ungraceful in his bearing or carriage. He wore a French traveling-coat, conceived in a style violently Parisian, and composed of a wonderful check calculated to have blinded any cutter in Savile Row. From beneath its gorgeous folds protruded10 the extremities11 of severely12 creased13 cashmere trousers, turned up over white spats14 which nestled coyly about a pair of glossy15 black boots. The traveler's hat was of velour, silver gray and boasting a partridge feather thrust in its silken band. One glimpse of the outfit16 must have brought the entire staff of the Tailor and Cutter to an untimely grave.
But if ever man was born who could carry such a make-up, this traveler was he. The face was cut on massive lines, on fleshy lines, clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute17 blue tinge18 about the jaw19 and lips helped to accentuate20 the virile21 strength of the long, flexible mouth, which could be humorous, which could be sorrowful, which could be grim. In the dark eyes of the man lay a wealth of experience, acquired in a lifelong pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands. His dark brows were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed with gray.
Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and who sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.
She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine vigor22, redeemed23 and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the kindliest imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never married, who despised, or affected24 to despise, members of the other sex, but who had never learned to hate them; who had never grown soured, but who found the world a garden of heedless children—of children who called for mothering. Her athletic25 figure was clothed in a “sensible” tweed traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat pressed well on to her head, and brown boots with the flattest heels conceivable. Add to this a Scotch26 woolen27 muffler, and a pair of woolen gloves, and you have a mental picture of the second traveler—a truly incongruous companion for the first.
Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the two chatted together animatedly28, both speaking English, and the man employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words which nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He spoke29 with an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in one who has learned his English in Paris.
The irritating formalities which beset30 the returning traveler—and the lady distinctly was of the readily irritated type—were smoothed away by the magic personality of her companion. Porters came at the beck of his gloved hand; guards, catching31 his eye, saluted32 and were completely his servants; ticket inspectors34 yielded to him the deference35 ordinarily reserved for directors of the line.
Outside the station, then, her luggage having been stacked upon a cab, the lady parted from her companion with assurances, which were returned, that she should hope to improve the acquaintance.
The address to which the French gentleman politely requested the cabman to drive, was that of a sound and old-established hotel in the neighborhood of the Strand36, and at no great distance from the station.
Then, having stood bareheaded until the cab turned out into the traffic stream of that busy thoroughfare, the first traveler, whose baggage consisted of a large suitcase, hailed a second cab and drove to the Hotel Astoria—the usual objective of Americans.
Taking leave of him for the moment, let us follow the lady.
Her arrangements were very soon made at the hotel, and having removed some of the travel-stains from her person and partaken of one cup of China tea, respecting the quality whereof she delivered herself of some caustic37 comments, she walked down into the Strand and mounted to the top of a Victoria bound 'bus.
That she was not intimately acquainted with London, was a fact readily observable by her fellow passengers; for as the 'bus went rolling westward38, from the large pocket of her Norfolk jacket she took out a guide-book provided with numerous maps, and began composedly to consult its complexities39.
When the conductor came to collect her fare, she had made up her mind, and was replacing the guidebook in her pocket.
“Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor,” she directed, and handed him a penny—the correct fare.
It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the American lady's leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy40 work-room, Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She stood up, mechanically rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.
She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat upon a bench, apparently41 watching the labors42 of the gardener, which consisted at the moment of the spiking43 of scraps44 of paper which disfigured the green carpet of the lawn.
Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly45 twilight46 veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the window-ledge47 pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled, quivering, upon the girl's lashes48. Almost unconsciously, for it was an established custom, she sprinkled crumbs49 from the tea-tray beside her upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two more appeared in turn upon her lashes.
The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two talkative companions. As the last fragments dropped from the girl's white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly—very slowly—her head sank down, pillowed upon her arms.
For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square. Then, very resolutely50, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.
She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the traces of her tears, contemplating51 in dismay a redness of her pretty nose which did not prove entirely52 amenable53 to treatment with the powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going out on to the landing, descended54 to the door of Henry Leroux's flat.
In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore her hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.
“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen—“are you leaving?”
“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.
“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”
“He'll have to do the best he can. Cook's goin' too!”
“What! cook is going?”
“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.
And the cook appeared beside the maid.
“But whatever—” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve no good end by such an attitude: “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”
Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the landing, to inquire in an abysmal55 tone, if “them boxes was ready to be took?” Helen Cumberly forestalled56 an insolent57 refusal which the cook, by furtive58 wink59, counseled to the housemaid.
“Don't trouble,” she said, with an easy dignity reminiscent of her father. “I will announce myself.”
She passed the servants, crossed the lobby, and rapped upon the study door.
“Come in,” said the voice of Henry Leroux.
Helen opened the door. The place was in semidarkness, objects being but dimly discernible. Leroux sat in his usual seat at the writing-table. The room was in the utmost disorder60, evidently having received no attention since its overhauling61 by the police. Helen pressed the switch, lighting62 the two lamps.
Leroux, at last, seemed in his proper element: he exhibited an unhealthy pallor, and it was obvious that no razor had touched his chin for at least three days. His dark blue eyes the eyes of a dreamer—were heavy and dull, with shadows pooled below them. A biscuit-jar, a decanter and a syphon stood half buried in papers on the table.
“Why, Mr. Leroux!” said Helen, with a deep note of sympathy in her voice—“you don't mean to say”...
Leroux rose, forcing a smile to his haggard face.
“You see—much too good,” he said. “Altogether—too good.”...
“I thought I should find you here,” continued the girl, firmly; “but I did not anticipate”—she indicated the chaos63 about—“this! The insolence64, the disgraceful, ungrateful insolence, of those women!”
“Dear, dear, dear!” murmured Leroux, waving his hand vaguely65; “never mind—never mind! They—er—they... I don't want them to stop... and, believe me, I am—er—perfectly comfortable!”
“You should not be in—THIS room, at all. In fact, you should go right away.”...
“I cannot... my wife may—return—at any moment.” His voice shook. “I—am expecting her return—hourly.”...
His gaze sought the table-clock; and he drew his lips very tightly together when the pitiless hands forced upon his mind the fact that the day was marching to its end.
“Garnham shall come down and tidy up for you,” she said, quietly; “and you must dine with us.”
The outer door was noisily closed by the departing servants.
“You are much too good,” whispered Leroux, again; and the weary eyes glistened67 with a sudden moisture. “Thank you! Thank you! But—er—I could not dream of disturbing”...
“Mr. Leroux,” said Helen, with all her old firmness—“Garnham is coming down IMMEDIATELY to put the place in order! And, whilst he is doing so, you are going to prepare yourself for a decent, Christian68 dinner!”
Henry Leroux rested one hand upon the table, looking down at the carpet. He had known for a long time, in a vague fashion, that he lacked something; that his success—a wholly inartistic one—had yielded him little gratification; that the comfort of his home was a purely69 monetary70 product and not in any sense atmospheric71. He had schooled himself to believe that he liked loneliness—loneliness physical and mental, and that in marrying a pretty, but pleasure-loving girl, he had insured an ideal menage. Furthermore, he honestly believed that he worshiped his wife; and with his present grief at her unaccountable silence was mingled72 no atom of reproach.
But latterly he had begun to wonder—in his peculiarly indefinite way he had begun to doubt his own philosophy. Was the void in his soul a product of thwarted73 ambition?—for, whilst he slaved, scrupulously74, upon “Martin Zeda,” he loathed75 every deed and every word of that Old Man of the Sea. Or could it be that his own being—his nature of Adam—lacked something which wealth, social position, and Mira, his wife, could not yield to him?
Now, a new tone in the voice of Helen Cumberly—a tone different from that compound of good-fellowship and raillery, which he knew—a tone which had entered into it when she had exclaimed upon the state of the room—set his poor, anxious heart thrumming like a lute33. He felt a hot flush creeping upon him; his forehead grew damp. He feared to raise his eyes.
“Is that a bargain?” asked Helen, sweetly.
Henry Leroux found a lump in his throat; but he lifted his untidy head and took the hand which the girl had extended to him. She smiled a bit unnaturally76; then every tinge of color faded from her cheeks, and Henry Leroux, unconsciously holding the white hand in a vice-like grip, looked hungrily into the eyes grown suddenly tragic77 whilst into his own came the light of a great and sorrowful understanding.
“God bless you,” he said. “I will do anything you wish.”
Helen released her hand, turned, and ran from the study. Not until she was on the landing did she dare to speak. Then:—
“Garnham shall come down immediately. Don't be late for dinner!” she called—and there was a hint of laughter and of tears in her voice, of the restraint of culture struggling with rebellious78 womanhood.
点击收听单词发音
1 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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2 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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3 compartment | |
n.卧车包房,隔间;分隔的空间 | |
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4 charing | |
n.炭化v.把…烧成炭,把…烧焦( char的现在分词 );烧成炭,烧焦;做杂役女佣 | |
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5 countenances | |
n.面容( countenance的名词复数 );表情;镇静;道义支持 | |
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6 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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7 amiability | |
n.和蔼可亲的,亲切的,友善的 | |
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8 gallantly | |
adv. 漂亮地,勇敢地,献殷勤地 | |
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9 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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10 protruded | |
v.(使某物)伸出,(使某物)突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11 extremities | |
n.端点( extremity的名词复数 );尽头;手和足;极窘迫的境地 | |
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12 severely | |
adv.严格地;严厉地;非常恶劣地 | |
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13 creased | |
(使…)起折痕,弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 ); (皮肤)皱起,使起皱纹; 皱皱巴巴 | |
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14 spats | |
n.口角( spat的名词复数 );小争吵;鞋罩;鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 );口角;小争吵;鞋罩 | |
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15 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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16 outfit | |
n.(为特殊用途的)全套装备,全套服装 | |
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17 hirsute | |
adj.多毛的 | |
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18 tinge | |
vt.(较淡)着色于,染色;使带有…气息;n.淡淡色彩,些微的气息 | |
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19 jaw | |
n.颚,颌,说教,流言蜚语;v.喋喋不休,教训 | |
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20 accentuate | |
v.着重,强调 | |
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21 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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22 vigor | |
n.活力,精力,元气 | |
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23 redeemed | |
adj. 可赎回的,可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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24 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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25 athletic | |
adj.擅长运动的,强健的;活跃的,体格健壮的 | |
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26 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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27 woolen | |
adj.羊毛(制)的;毛纺的 | |
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28 animatedly | |
adv.栩栩如生地,活跃地 | |
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29 spoke | |
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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30 beset | |
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
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31 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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32 saluted | |
v.欢迎,致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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33 lute | |
n.琵琶,鲁特琴 | |
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34 inspectors | |
n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 );(英国公共汽车或火车上的)查票员;(警察)巡官;检阅官 | |
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35 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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36 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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37 caustic | |
adj.刻薄的,腐蚀性的 | |
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38 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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39 complexities | |
复杂性(complexity的名词复数); 复杂的事物 | |
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40 cozy | |
adj.亲如手足的,密切的,暖和舒服的 | |
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41 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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42 labors | |
v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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43 spiking | |
n.尖峰形成v.加烈酒于( spike的现在分词 );偷偷地给某人的饮料加入(更多)酒精( 或药物);把尖状物钉入;打乱某人的计划 | |
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44 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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45 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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46 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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47 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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48 lashes | |
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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49 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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50 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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51 contemplating | |
深思,细想,仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 ); 注视,凝视; 考虑接受(发生某事的可能性); 深思熟虑,沉思,苦思冥想 | |
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52 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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53 amenable | |
adj.经得起检验的;顺从的;对负有义务的 | |
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54 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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55 abysmal | |
adj.无底的,深不可测的,极深的;糟透的,极坏的;完全的 | |
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56 forestalled | |
v.先发制人,预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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58 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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59 wink | |
n.眨眼,使眼色,瞬间;v.眨眼,使眼色,闪烁 | |
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60 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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61 overhauling | |
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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62 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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63 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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64 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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65 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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66 inhaling | |
v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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67 glistened | |
v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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69 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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70 monetary | |
adj.货币的,钱的;通货的;金融的;财政的 | |
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71 atmospheric | |
adj.大气的,空气的;大气层的;大气所引起的 | |
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72 mingled | |
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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73 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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74 scrupulously | |
adv.一丝不苟地;小心翼翼地,多顾虑地 | |
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75 loathed | |
v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 );极不喜欢 | |
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76 unnaturally | |
adv.违反习俗地;不自然地;勉强地;不近人情地 | |
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77 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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78 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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