The frost lies heavy on the ground; the whole road, and every bush and tree, sparkle brilliantly, as though during the hours when darkness lay upon the earth the dread1 daughter of Chaos2, as she traversed the expanse of the firmament4 in her ebony chariot, had dropped heaven's diamonds upon the land. The wintry sunshine lighting5 them up makes soft and glorious the midday.
The hour is enchanting6, the air almost mild; and every one feels half aggrieved7 when the carriage, entering the lodge-gates, bears them swiftly towards the massive entrance that will lead them into the house and out of the cold.
But before they reach the hall door Geoffrey feels it his duty to bestow8 upon them a word or two of warning.
"Now, look here," he says, impressively: "I hope nobody is going to indulge in so much as a covert9 smile to-day." He glances severely10 at Nolly, who is already wreathed in smiles. "Because the Æsthetic won't have it. She wouldn't hear of it at any price. We must all be in tense! If you don't understand what that means, Mona, you had better learn at once. You are to be silent, rapt, lifted far above all the vulgar commonplaces of life. You may, if you like, go into a rapture11 over a colorless pebble12, or shed tears of joy above a sickly lily; but avoid ordinary admiration13."
"The only time I shed tears," says Mr. Darling, irrelevantly14, "for many years, was when I heard of the old chap's death. And they were drops of rich content. Do you know I think unconsciously he impregnated her with her present notions; because he was as like an 'ancient Briton' himself before he died as if he had posed for it."
"He was very eccentric, but quite correct," says Lady Rodney, reprovingly.
"He was a man who never took off his hat," begins Geoffrey.
"But why?" asks Mona, in amaze. "Didn't he wear one?"
"Yes, but he always doffed16 it; and he never put one on like ordinary mortals, he always donned it. You can't think what a difference it makes."
"What a silly boy you are, Geoff!" says his wife, laughing.
"But what is Lady Lilias like? I did not notice her the other night," says Mona.
"She has got one nose and two eyes, just like every one else," says Nolly. "That is rather disappointing, is it not? And she attitudinizes a good deal. Sometimes she reclines full length upon the grass, with her bony elbow well squared and her chin buried in her palm. Sometimes she stands beside a sundial, with her head to one side, and a carefully educated and very much superannuated19 peacock beside her. But I dare say she will do the greyhound pose to-day. In summer she goes abroad with a huge wooden fan with which she kills the bumble-bee as it floats by her. And she gowns herself in colors that make one's teeth on edge. I am sure it is her one lifelong regret that she must clothe herself at all, as she has dreams of savage20 nakedness and a liberal use of the fetching woad."
"My dear Oliver!" protests Lady Rodney, mildly.
"If she presses refreshments21 on you, Mona, say, 'No, thank you,' without hesitation," says Geoffrey, with anxious haste, seeing they are drawing near their journey's end. "Because if you don't she will compel you to partake of metheglin and unleavened bread, which means sudden death. Forewarned is forearmed. Nolly and I have done what we can for you."
"Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a sister somewhere."
"'Sister Anne,' you mean?" says Nolly. "Oh, ay! I have seen her, though as a rule she is suppressed. She is quite all she ought to be, and irreproachable23 in every respect—unapproachable, according to some. She is a very good girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never eats meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But she is not of much account in the household, being averse3 to 'ye goode olde times.'"
At this point the house comes in view, and conversation languishes24. The women give a small touch to their furs and laces, the men indulge in a final yawn that is to last them until the gates of Anadale close behind them again.
"There is no moat, and no drawbridge, and no eyelet-hole through which to spy upon the advance of the enemy," says Darling, in an impressive whisper, just as they turn the curve that leads into the big gravel25 sweep before the hall door. "A drawback, I own; but even the very greatest are not infallible."
It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with turrets26 rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with drooping27 ivy28, and gables dark with age.
A terrace runs all along one side of the house, which is exposed to view from the avenue. And here, with a gaunt but handsome greyhound beside her, stands a girl tall and slim, yet beautifully moulded. Her eyes are gray, yet might at certain moments be termed blue. Her mouth is large, but not unpleasing. Her hair is quite dark, and drawn29 back into a loose and artistic30 coil behind. She is clad in an impossible gown of sage31 green, that clings closely to her slight figure, nay32, almost desperately33, as though afraid to lose her.
One hand is resting lightly with a faintly theatrical34 touch upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright sun.
Altogether she is a picture, which, if slightly suggestive of artificiality, is yet very nearly perfection. Mona is therefore agreeably surprised, and, being—as all her nation is—susceptible to outward beauty, feels drawn towards this odd young woman in sickly green, with her canine35 friend beside her.
Lady Lilias, slowly descending36 the stone steps with the hound Egbert behind her, advances to meet Lady Rodney. She greets them all with a solemn cordiality that impresses everybody but Mona, who is gazing dreamily into the gray eyes of her hostess and wondering vaguely37 if her lips have ever smiled. Her hostess in return is gazing at her, perhaps in silent admiration of her soft loveliness.
"You will come first and see Philippa?" she says, in a slow peculiar38 tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite an antique in its own way. It savors39 of dust and feudal40 days. Every one says he or she will be delighted, and all try to look as if the entire hope of their existence is centred in the thought that they shall soon lay longing41 eyes on Philippa,—whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been rechristened by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for everyday life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art of the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor soul, whether she likes it or not.
She has sprained42 her ancle, and is now lying on a couch in a small drawing room as the Rodneys are ushered43 in. She is rather glad to see them, as life with an "intense" sister is at times trying, and the ritualistic curate is from home. So she smiles upon them, and manages to look as amiable44 as plain people ever can look.
The drawing-room is very much the same as the ordinary run of drawing-rooms, at which Mona feels distinct disappointment, until, glancing at Lady Lilias, she notices a shudder45 of disgust run through her frame.
"I really cannot help it," she explains to Mona, in her usual slow voice, "it all offends me so. But Philippa must be humored. All these glaring colors and hideous46 pieces of furniture take my breath away. And the light——By and by you must come to some of my rooms; but first, if you are not tired, I should like you to look at my garden; that is, if you can endure the cold."
They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide in all meekness47 through halls and corridors out into the garden she most affects.
And truly it is a very desirable garden, and well worth a visit. It is like a thought from another age.
Yew-trees—grown till they form high walls—are cut and shaped in prim48 and perfect order, some like the walls of ancient Troy, some like steps of stairs. Little doors are opened through them, and passing in and out one walks on for a mile almost, until one loses one's way and grows puzzled how to extricate49 one's self from so charming a maze15.
Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie and sleep dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sundial, old and green with honorable age, uprears itself upon a chilly50 bit of sward. Near it lie two gaudy51 peacocks sound asleep. All seems far from the world, drowsy52, careless, indifferent to the weals and woes53 of suffering humanity.
"It is like the garden of the palace where the Sleeping Beauty dwelt," whispers Mona to Nolly; she is delighted, charmed, lost in admiration.
"You are doing it beautifully: keep it up," whispers he back: "she'll give you something nice if you sustain that look for five minutes longer. Now!—she is looking; hurry—make haste—put it on again!"
"I am not pretending," says Mona, indignantly; "I am delighted: it is the most enchanting place I ever saw. Really lovely."
"I didn't think it was in you," declares Mr. Darling, with wild but suppressed admiration. "You would make your fortune on the stage. Keep it up, I tell you; it couldn't be better."
"Is it possible you see nothing to admire?" says Mona, with intense disgust.
"I do. More than I can express. I see you," retorts he; at which they both give way to merriment, causing Geoffrey, who is walking with Lady Lilias, to dodge54 behind her back and bestow upon them an annihilating55 glance that Nolly afterwards describes as a "lurid56 glare."
The hound stalks on before them; the peacocks wake up and rend57 the air with a discordant58 scream. Lady Lilias, coming to the sundial, leans her arm upon it, and puts her head in the right position. A snail59 slowly travelling across a broad ivy-leaf attracts her attention; she lifts it slowly, leaf and all, and directs attention to the silvery trail it has left behind it.
"How tender! how touching60!" she says, with a pensive61 smile, raising her luminous62 eyes to Geoffrey: whether it is the snail, or the leaf, or the slime, that is tender and touching, nobody knows; and nobody dares ask, lest he shall betray his ignorance. Nolly, I regret to say, gives way to emotion of a frivolous63 kind, and to cover it blows his nose sonorously64. Whereupon Geoffrey, who is super-naturally grave, asks Lady Lilias if she will walk with him as far as the grotto65.
"How could you laugh?" says Mona, reproachfully.
"How couldn't I?" replies he. "Come; let us follow it up to the bitter end."
"I never saw anything so clean as the walks," says Mona, presently: "there is not a leaf or a weed to be seen, yet we have gone through so many of them. How does she manage it?"
"Don't you know?" says Mr. Darling, mysteriously. "It is a secret, but I know you can be trusted. Every morning early she has them carefully swept, with tea-leaves to keep down the dust, and if the tea is strong it kills the weeds."
Then they do the grotto, and then Lady Lilias once more leads the way indoors.
"I want you to see my own work," she says, going up markedly to Mona. "I am glad my garden has pleased you. I could see by your eyes how well you appreciated it. To see the beautiful in everything, that is the only true religion." She smiles her careful absent smile again as she says this, and gazes earnestly at Mona. Perhaps, being true to her religion, she is noting "the beautiful" in her Irish guest.
With Philippa they have some tea, and then again follow their indefatigable66 hostess to a distant apartment that seems more or less to jut67 out from the house, and was in olden days a tiny chapel68 or oratory69.
It has an octagon chamber70 of the most uncomfortable description, but no doubt artistic, and above all praise, according to some lights. To outsiders it presents a curious appearance, and might by the unlearned be regarded as a jumble71 of all ages, a make-up of objectionable bits from different centuries; but to Lady Lilias and her sympathizers it is simply perfection.
The furniture is composed of oak of the hardest and most severe. To sit down would be a labor72 of anything but love. The chairs are strictly73 Gothic. The table is a marvel74 in itself for ugliness and in utility.
There are no windows; but in their place are four unpleasant slits75 about two yards in length, let into the thick walls at studiously unequal distances. These are filled up with an opaque77 substance that perhaps in the Middle Ages was called glass.
There is no grate, and the fire, which has plainly made up its mind not to light, is composed of Yule-logs. The floor is shining with sand, rushes having palled78 on Lady Lilias.
Mona is quite pleased. All is new, which in itself is a pleasure to her, and the sanded floor carries her back on the instant to the old parlor79 at home, which was their "best" at the Farm.
"This is nicer than anything," she says, turning in a state of childish enthusiasm to Lady Lilias. "It is just like the floor in my uncle's house at home."
"Ah! indeed! How interesting!" says Lady Lilias, rousing into something that very nearly borders on animation80. "I did not think there was in England another room like this."
"Yes?" with calm surprise. "I—I have heard of Ireland, of course. Indeed, I regard the older accounts of it as very deserving of thought; but I had no idea the more elevated aspirations82 of modern times had spread so far. So this room reminds you of—your uncle's?"
"Partly," says Mona. "Not altogether: there was always a faint odor of pipes about Uncle Brian's room that does not belong to this."
"Ah! Tobacco! First introduced by Sir Walter Raleigh," murmurs83 Lady Lilias, musingly84. "Too modern, but no doubt correct and in keeping. Your uncle, then,"—looking at Mona,—"is beyond question an earnest student of our faith."
"A—student?" says Mona, in a degree puzzled.
Doatie and Geoffrey have walked to a distant slit76. Nolly is gazing vacantly through another, trying feebly to discern the landscape beyond. Lady Rodney is on thorns. They are all listening to what Mona is going to say next.
"Yes. A disciple85, a searcher after truth," goes on Lady Lilias, in her Noah's Ark tone. "By a student I mean one who studies, and arrives at perfection—in time."
"I don't quite know," says Mona, slowly, "but what Uncle Brian principally studies is—pigs!"
"Pigs!" repeats Lady Lilias, plainly taken aback.
"Yes; pigs!" says Mona, sweetly.
There is a faint pause,—so faint that Lady Rodney is unable to edge in the saving clause she would fain have uttered. Lady Lilias, recovering with wonderful spirit from so severe a blow, comes once more boldly to the front. She taps her white taper86 fingers lightly on the table near her, and says, apologetically,—the apology being meant for herself,—
"Forgive me that I showed surprise. Your uncle is more advanced than I had supposed. He is right. Why should a pig be esteemed87 less lovely than a stag? Nature in its entirety can know no blemish88. The fault lies with us. We are creatures of habit: we have chosen to regard the innocent pig as a type of ugliness for generations, and now find it difficult to see any beauty in it."
"Well; there isn't much, is there?" says Mona, pleasantly.
"No doubt education, and a careful study of the animal in question, might betray much to us," says Lady Lilias. "We object to the uncovered hide of the pig, and to his small eyes; but can they not see as well as those of the fawn89, or the delicate lapdog we fondle all day on our knees? It is unjust that one animal should be treated with less regard than another."
"But you couldn't fondle a pig on your knees," says Mona, who is growing every minute more and more mixed.
"No, no; but it should be treated with courtesy. We were speaking of the size of its eyes. Why should they be despised? Do we not often in our ignorance and narrow mindedness cling to paltry90 things and ignore the truly great? The tiny diamond that lies in the hollow of our hands is dear and precious in our sight, whilst we fail to find beauty in the huge boulder91 that is after all far more worthy92 of regard, with its lights and shades, its grand ruggedness93, and the soft vegetable matter that decks its aged94 sides, rendering95 their roughness beautiful."
Here she gets completely out of her depths, and stops to consider from whence this train of thought sprung. The pig is forgotten,—indeed, to get from pigs to diamonds and back again is not an easy matter,—and has to be searched for again amidst the dim recesses96 of her brain, and if possible brought to the surface.
She draws up her tall figure to its utmost height, and gazes at the raftered ceiling to see if inspiration can be drawn from thence. But it fails her.
"You were talking of pigs," says Mona, gently.
"Ah! so I was," says Lady Lilias, with a sigh of relief: she is quite too intense to feel any of the petty vexations of ordinary mortals, and takes Mona's help in excellent part. "Yes, I really think there is loveliness in a pig when surrounded by its offspring. I have seen them once or twice, and I think the little pigs—the—the——"
"Bonuvs," says Mona, mildly, going back naturally to the Irish term for those interesting babies.
"Eh?" says Lady Lilias.
"Bonuvs," repeats Mona, a little louder, at which Lady Rodney sinks into a chair, as though utterly97 overcome. Nolly and Geoffrey are convulsed with laughter. Doatie is vainly endeavoring to keep them in order.
"Oh, is that their name?—a pretty one too—if—er—somewhat difficult," says Lady Lilias, courteously98. "Well as I was saying, in spite of their tails, they really are quite pretty."
At this Mona laughs unrestrainedly; and Lady Rodney, rising hurriedly, says,—
"Dear Lady Lilias, I think we have at last nearly taken in all the beauties of your charming room. I fear," with much suavity99, "we must be going."
"Oh, not yet," says Lady Lilias, with the nearest attempt at youthfulness she has yet made. "Mrs. Rodney has not half seen all my treasures."
Mrs. Rodney, however, has been foraging100 on her own account during this brief interlude, and now brings triumphantly101 to light a little basin filled with early snowdrops.
"Snowdrops,—and so soon," she says, going up to Lady Lilias, and looking quite happy over her discovery. "We have none yet at the Towers."
"Yes, they are pretty, but insignificant," says the Æsthete, contemptuously. "Paltry children of the earth, not to be compared with the lenten or the tiger lily, or the fiercer beauty of the sunflower, or the hues102 of the unsurpassable thistle!"
"I am very ignorant I know," says Mrs. Geoffrey, with her sunny smile, "but I think I should prefer a snowdrop to a thistle."
"You have not gone into it," says Lady Lilias, regretfully. "To you Nature is as yet a blank. The exquisite103 purple of the stately thistle, that by the scoffer104 is called dull, is not understood by you. Nor does your heart swell105 beneath the influence of the rare and perfect green of its leaves, which doubtless the untaught deemed soiled. To fully18 appreciate the yieldings and gifts of earth is a power given only to some." She bows her head, feeling a modest pride in the thought that she belongs to the happy "some." "Ignorance," she says, sorrowfully, "is the greatest enemy of our cause."
"I am afraid you must class me with the ignorant," says Mona, shaking her pretty head. "I know nothing at all about thistles, except that donkeys love them!"
Is this, can this be premeditated, or is it a fatal slip of the tongue? Lady Rodney turns pale, and even Geoffrey and Nolly stand aghast. Mona alone is smiling unconcernedly into Lady Lilias's eyes, and Lady Lilias, after a brief second, smiles back at her. It is plain the severe young woman in the sage-green gown has not even noticed the dangerous remark.
"You must come again very soon to see me," she says to Mona, and then goes with her all along the halls and passages, and actually stands upon the door-steps until they drive away. And Mona kisses hands gayly to her as they turn the corner of the avenue, and then tells Geoffrey that she thinks he has been very hard on Lady Lilias, because, though she is plainly quite mad, poor thing, there is certainly nothing to be disliked about her.
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1
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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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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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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8
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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irrelevantly
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| adv.不恰当地，不合适地；不相关地 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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16
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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24
languishes
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| 长期受苦( languish的第三人称单数 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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canine
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| adj.犬的，犬科的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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savors
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的第三人称单数 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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40
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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41
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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45
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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46
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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47
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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49
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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50
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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51
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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53
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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54
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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56
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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57
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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58
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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59
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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60
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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61
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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sonorously
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| adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；堂皇地；朗朗地 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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67
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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68
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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76
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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palled
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| v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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81
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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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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83
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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85
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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86
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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88
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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89
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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90
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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91
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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92
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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93
ruggedness
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| 险峻，粗野； 耐久性； 坚固性 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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95
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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96
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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97
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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98
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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99
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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100
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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101
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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102
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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103
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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104
scoffer
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| 嘲笑者 | |
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105
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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