It would all fall out as she had intended. She would commence by becoming a power in journalism3. She was reconciled now to the photograph idea—was even keen on it herself. She would be taken full face so that she would be looking straight into the eyes of her readers as she talked to them. It would compel her to be herself; just a hopeful, loving woman: a little better educated than the majority, having had greater opportunity: a little further seeing, maybe, having had more leisure for thought: but otherwise, no whit4 superior to any other young, eager woman of the people. This absurd journalistic pose of omniscience5, of infallibility—this non-existent garment of supreme6 wisdom that, like the King’s clothes in the fairy story, was donned to hide his nakedness by every strutting7 nonentity8 of Fleet Street! She would have no use for it. It should be a friend, a comrade, a fellow-servant of the great Master, taking counsel with them, asking their help. Government by the people for the people! It must be made real. These silent, thoughtful-looking workers, hurrying homewards through the darkening streets; these patient, shrewd-planning housewives casting their shadows on the drawn-down blinds: it was they who should be shaping the world, not the journalists to whom all life was but so much “copy.” This monstrous9 conspiracy10, once of the Sword, of the Church, now of the Press, that put all Government into the hands of a few stuffy11 old gentlemen, politicians, leader writers, without sympathy or understanding: it was time that it was swept away. She would raise a new standard. It should be, not “Listen to me, oh ye dumb,” but, “Speak to me. Tell me your hidden hopes, your fears, your dreams. Tell me your experience, your thoughts born of knowledge, of suffering.”
She would get into correspondence with them, go among them, talk to them. The difficulty, at first, would be in getting them to write to her, to open their minds to her. These voiceless masses that never spoke12, but were always being spoken for by self-appointed “leaders,” “representatives,” who immediately they had climbed into prominence13 took their place among the rulers, and then from press and platform shouted to them what they were to think and feel. It was as if the Drill-Sergeant were to claim to be the “leader,” the “representative” of his squad14; or the sheep-dog to pose as the “delegate” of the sheep. Dealt with always as if they were mere15 herds16, mere flocks, they had almost lost the power of individual utterance17. One would have to teach them, encourage them.
She remembered a Sunday class she had once conducted; and how for a long time she had tried in vain to get the children to “come in,” to take a hand. That she might get in touch with them, understand their small problems, she had urged them to ask questions. And there had fallen such long silences. Until, at last, one cheeky ragamuffin had piped out:
“Please, Miss, have you got red hair all over you? Or only on your head?”
For answer she had rolled up her sleeve, and let them examine her arm. And then, in her turn, had insisted on rolling up his sleeve, revealing the fact that his arms above the wrists had evidently not too recently been washed; and the episode had ended in laughter and a babel of shrill18 voices. And, at once, they were a party of chums, discussing matters together.
They were but children, these tired men and women, just released from their day’s toil19, hastening homeward to their play, or to their evening tasks. A little humour, a little understanding, a recognition of the wonderful likeness20 of us all to one another underneath21 our outward coverings was all that was needed to break down the barrier, establish comradeship. She stood aside a moment to watch them streaming by. Keen, strong faces were among them, high, thoughtful brows, kind eyes; they must learn to think, to speak for themselves.
She would build again the Forum22. The people’s business should no longer be settled for them behind lackey-guarded doors. The good of the farm labourer should be determined23 not exclusively by the squire24 and his relations. The man with the hoe, the man with the bent25 back and the patient ox-like eyes: he, too, should be invited to the Council board. Middle-class domestic problems should be solved not solely26 by fine gentlemen from Oxford27; the wife of the little clerk should be allowed her say. War or peace, it should no longer be regarded as a question concerning only the aged28 rich. The common people—the cannon29 fodder30, the men who would die, and the women who would weep: they should be given something more than the privilege of either cheering platform patriots31 or being summoned for interrupting public meetings.
From a dismal32 side street there darted33 past her a small, shapeless figure in crumpled34 cap and apron35: evidently a member of that lazy, over-indulged class, the domestic servant. Judging from the talk of the drawing-rooms, the correspondence in the papers, a singularly unsatisfactory body. They toiled36 not, lived in luxury and demanded grand pianos. Someone had proposed doing something for them. They themselves—it seemed that even they had a sort of conscience—were up in arms against it. Too much kindness even they themselves perceived was bad for them. They were holding a meeting that night to explain how contented37 they were. Six peeresses had consented to attend, and speak for them.
Likely enough that there were good-for-nothing, cockered menials imposing38 upon incompetent39 mistresses. There were pampered40 slaves in Rome. But these others. These poor little helpless sluts. There were thousands such in every city, over-worked and under-fed, living lonely, pleasureless lives. They must be taught to speak in other voices than the dulcet41 tones of peeresses. By the light of the guttering42 candles, from their chill attics43, they should write to her their ill-spelt visions.
She had reached a quiet, tree-bordered road, surrounding a great park. Lovers, furtively44 holding hands, passed her by, whispering.
She would write books. She would choose for her heroine a woman of the people. How full of drama, of tragedy must be their stories: their problems the grim realities of life, not only its mere sentimental45 embroideries46. The daily struggle for bare existence, the ever-shadowing menace of unemployment, of illness, leaving them helpless amid the grinding forces crushing them down on every side. The ceaseless need for courage, for cunning. For in the kingdom of the poor the tyrant47 and the oppressor still sit in the high places, the robber still rides fearless.
In a noisy, flaring48 street, a thin-clad woman passed her, carrying a netted bag showing two loaves. In a flash, it came to her what it must mean to the poor; this daily bread that in comfortable homes had come to be regarded as a thing like water; not to be considered, to be used without stint49, wasted, thrown about. Borne by those feeble, knotted hands, Joan saw it revealed as something holy: hallowed by labour; sanctified by suffering, by sacrifice; worshipped with fear and prayer.
In quiet streets of stately houses, she caught glimpses through uncurtained windows of richly-laid dinner-tables about which servants moved noiselessly, arranging flowers and silver. She wondered idly if she would every marry. A gracious hostess, gathering50 around her brilliant men and women, statesmen, writers, artists, captains of industry: counselling them, even learning from them: encouraging shy genius. Perhaps, in a perfectly51 harmless way, allowing it the inspiration derivable52 from a well-regulated devotion to herself. A salon53 that should be the nucleus54 of all those forces that influence influences, over which she would rule with sweet and wise authority. The idea appealed to her.
Into the picture, slightly to the background, she unconsciously placed Greyson. His tall, thin figure with its air of distinction seemed to fit in; Greyson would be very restful. She could see his handsome, ascetic55 face flush with pleasure as, after the guests were gone, she would lean over the back of his chair and caress56 for a moment his dark, soft hair tinged57 here and there with grey. He would always adore her, in that distant, undemonstrative way of his that would never be tiresome58 or exacting59. They would have children. But not too many. That would make the house noisy and distract her from her work. They would be beautiful and clever; unless all the laws of heredity were to be set aside for her especial injury. She would train them, shape them to be the heirs of her labour, bearing her message to the generations that should follow.
At a corner where the trams and buses stopped she lingered for a while, watching the fierce struggle; the weak and aged being pushed back time after time, hardly seeming to even resent it, regarding it as in the natural order of things. It was so absurd, apart from the injustice60, the brutality61 of it! The poor, fighting among themselves! She felt as once when watching a crowd of birds to whom she had thrown a handful of crumbs62 in winter time. As if they had not enemies enough: cats, weasels, rats, hawks63, owls64, the hunger and the cold. And added to all, they must needs make the struggle yet harder for one another: pecking at each other’s eyes, joining with one another to attack the fallen. These tired men, these weary women, pale-faced lads and girls, why did they not organize among themselves some system that would do away with this daily warfare65 of each against all. If only they could be got to grasp the fact that they were one family, bound together by suffering. Then, and not till then, would they be able to make their power felt? That would have to come first: the Esprit de Corps66 of the Poor.
In the end she would go into Parliament. It would be bound to come soon, the woman’s vote. And after that the opening of all doors would follow. She would wear her college robes. It would be far more fitting than a succession of flimsy frocks that would have no meaning in them. What pity it was that the art of dressing—its relation to life—was not better understood. What beauty-hating devil had prompted the workers to discard their characteristic costumes that had been both beautiful and serviceable for these hateful slop-shop clothes that made them look like walking scarecrows. Why had the coming of Democracy coincided seemingly with the spread of ugliness: dull towns, mean streets, paper-strewn parks, corrugated68 iron roofs, Christian69 chapels70 that would be an insult to a heathen idol71; hideous72 factories (Why need they be hideous!); chimney-pot hats, baggy73 trousers, vulgar advertisements, stupid fashions for women that spoilt every line of their figure: dinginess74, drabness, monotony everywhere. It was ugliness that was strangling the soul of the people; stealing from them all dignity, all self-respect, all honour for one another; robbing them of hope, of reverence75, of joy in life.
Beauty. That was the key to the riddle76. All Nature: its golden sunsets and its silvery dawns; the glory of piled-up clouds, the mystery of moonlit glades77; its rivers winding78 through the meadows; the calling of its restless seas; the tender witchery of Spring; the blazonry of autumn woods; its purple moors79 and the wonder of its silent mountains; its cobwebs glittering with a thousand jewels; the pageantry of starry80 nights. Form, colour, music! The feathered choristers of bush and brake raising their matin and their evensong, the whispering of the leaves, the singing of the waters, the voices of the winds. Beauty and grace in every living thing, but man. The leaping of the hares, the grouping of cattle, the flight of swallows, the dainty loveliness of insects’ wings, the glossy81 skin of horses rising and falling to the play of mighty82 muscles. Was it not seeking to make plain to us that God’s language was beauty. Man must learn beauty that he may understand God.
She saw the London of the future. Not the vision popular just then: a soaring whirl of machinery83 in motion, of moving pavements and flying omnibuses; of screaming gramophones and standardized84 “homes”: a city where Electricity was King and man its soulless slave. But a city of peace, of restful spaces, of leisured men and women; a city of fine streets and pleasant houses, where each could live his own life, learning freedom, individuality; a city of noble schools; of workshops that should be worthy85 of labour, filled with light and air; smoke and filth86 driven from the land: science, no longer bound to commercialism, having discovered cleaner forces; a city of gay playgrounds where children should learn laughter; of leafy walks where the creatures of the wood and field should be as welcome guests helping87 to teach sympathy and kindliness88: a city of music, of colour, of gladness. Beauty worshipped as religion; ugliness banished89 as a sin: no ugly slums, no ugly cruelty, no slatternly women and brutalized men, no ugly, sobbing90 children; no ugly vice67 flaunting91 in every highway its insult to humanity: a city clad in beauty as with a living garment where God should walk with man.
She had reached a neighbourhood of narrow, crowded streets. The women were mostly without hats; and swarthy men, rolling cigarettes, lounged against doorways93. The place had a quaint94 foreign flavour. Tiny cafés, filled with smoke and noise, and clean, inviting95 restaurants abounded96. She was feeling hungry, and, choosing one the door of which stood open, revealing white tablecloths97 and a pleasant air of cheerfulness, she entered. It was late and the tables were crowded. Only at one, in a far corner, could she detect a vacant place, opposite to a slight, pretty-looking girl very quietly dressed. She made her way across and the girl, anticipating her request, welcomed her with a smile. They ate for a while in silence, divided only by the narrow table, their heads, when they leant forward, almost touching98. Joan noticed the short, white hands, the fragrance99 of some delicate scent100. There was something odd about her. She seemed to be unnecessarily conscious of being alone. Suddenly she spoke.
“Nice little restaurant, this,” she said. “One of the few places where you can depend upon not being annoyed.”
Joan did not understand. “In what way?” she asked.
“Oh, you know, men,” answered the girl. “They come and sit down opposite to you, and won’t leave you alone. At most of the places, you’ve got to put up with it or go outside. Here, old Gustav never permits it.”
Joan was troubled. She was rather looking forward to occasional restaurant dinners, where she would be able to study London’s Bohemia.
“You mean,” she asked, “that they force themselves upon you, even if you make it plain—”
“Oh, the plainer you make it that you don’t want them, the more sport they think it,” interrupted the girl with a laugh.
Joan hoped she was exaggerating. “I must try and select a table where there is some good-natured girl to keep me in countenance,” she said with a smile.
“Yes, I was glad to see you,” answered the girl. “It’s hateful, dining by oneself. Are you living alone?”
“Yes,” answered Joan. “I’m a journalist.”
“I thought you were something,” answered the girl. “I’m an artist. Or, rather, was,” she added after a pause.
“Why did you give it up?” asked Joan.
“Oh, I haven’t given it up, not entirely,” the girl answered. “I can always get a couple of sovereigns for a sketch101, if I want it, from one or another of the frame-makers. And they can generally sell them for a fiver. I’ve seen them marked up. Have you been long in London?”
“No,” answered Joan. “I’m a Lancashire lass.”
“Curious,” said the girl, “so am I. My father’s a mill manager near Bolton. You weren’t educated there?”
“No,” Joan admitted. “I went to Rodean at Brighton when I was ten years old, and so escaped it. Nor were you,” she added with a smile, “judging from your accent.”
“No,” answered the other, “I was at Hastings—Miss Gwyn’s. Funny how we seem to have always been near to one another. Dad wanted me to be a doctor. But I’d always been mad about art.”
Joan had taken a liking102 to the girl. It was a spiritual, vivacious103 face with frank eyes and a firm mouth; and the voice was low and strong.
“Tell me,” she said, “what interfered104 with it?” Unconsciously she was leaning forward, her chin supported by her hands. Their faces were very near to one another.
The girl looked up. She did not answer for a moment. There came a hardening of the mouth before she spoke.
“A baby,” she said. “Oh, it was my own fault,” she continued. “I wanted it. It was all the talk at the time. You don’t remember. Our right to children. No woman complete without one. Maternity105, woman’s kingdom. All that sort of thing. As if the storks106 brought them. Don’t suppose it made any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it was something pretty and high-class. ‘Overmastering passion’ used to be the explanation, before that. I guess it’s all much of a muchness: just natural instinct.”
The restaurant had been steadily107 emptying. Monsieur Gustav and his ample-bosomed wife were seated at a distant table, eating their own dinner.
“Why couldn’t you have married?” asked Joan.
The girl shrugged108 her shoulders. “Who was there for me to marry?” she answered. “The men who wanted me: clerks, young tradesmen, down at home—I wasn’t taking any of that lot. And the men I might have fancied were all of them too poor. There was one student. He’s got on since. Easy enough for him to talk about waiting. Meanwhile. Well, it’s like somebody suggesting dinner to you the day after to-morrow. All right enough, if you’re not troubled with an appetite.”
The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers left. The man’s tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the waiter, added a liqueur.
“But why should you give up your art?” persisted Joan. It was that was sticking in her mind. “I should have thought that, if only for the sake of the child, you would have gone on with it.”
“Oh, I told myself all that,” answered the girl. “Was going to devote my life to it. Did for nearly two years. Till I got sick of living like a nun109: never getting a bit of excitement. You see, I’ve got the poison in me. Or, maybe, it had always been there.”
“What’s become of it?” asked Joan. “The child?”
“Mother’s got it,” answered the girl. “Seemed best for the poor little beggar. I’m supposed to be dead, and my husband gone abroad.” She gave a short, dry laugh. “Mother brings him up to see me once a year. They’ve got quite fond of him.”
“What are you doing now?” asked Joan, in a low tone.
“Oh, you needn’t look so scared,” laughed the girl, “I haven’t come down to that.” Her voice had changed. It had a note of shrillness110. In some indescribable way she had grown coarse. “I’m a kept woman,” she explained. “What else is any woman?”
She reached for her jacket; and the waiter sprang forward and helped her on with it, prolonging the business needlessly. She wished him “Good evening” in a tone of distant hauteur111, and led the way to the door. Outside the street was dim and silent. Joan held out her hand.
“No hope of happy endings,” she said with a forced laugh. “Couldn’t marry him I suppose?”
“He has asked me,” answered the girl with a swagger. “Not sure that it would suit me now. They’re not so nice to you when they’ve got you fixed112 up. So long.”
She turned abruptly113 and walked rapidly away. Joan moved instinctively114 in the opposite direction, and after a few minutes found herself in a broad well-lighted thoroughfare. A newsboy was shouting his wares115.
“’Orrible murder of a woman. Shockin’ details. Speshul,” repeating it over and over again in a hoarse116, expressionless monotone.
He was selling the papers like hot cakes; the purchasers too eager to even wait for their change. She wondered, with a little lump in her throat, how many would have stopped to buy had he been calling instead: “Discovery of new sonnet117 by Shakespeare. Extra special.”
Through swinging doors, she caught glimpses of foul118 interiors, crowded with men and women released from their toil, taking their evening pleasure. From coloured posters outside the great theatres and music halls, vulgarity and lewdness119 leered at her, side by side with announcements that the house was full. From every roaring corner, scintillating120 lights flared121 forth122 the merits of this public benefactor’s whisky, of this other celebrity’s beer: it seemed the only message the people cared to hear. Even among the sirens of the pavement, she noticed that the quiet and merely pretty were hardly heeded123. It was everywhere the painted and the overdressed that drew the roving eyes.
She remembered a pet dog that someone had given her when she was a girl, and how one afternoon she had walked with the tears streaming down her face because, in spite of her scoldings and her pleadings, it would keep stopping to lick up filth from the roadway. A kindly124 passer-by had laughed and told her not to mind.
“Why, that’s a sign of breeding, that is, Missie,” the man had explained. “It’s the classy ones that are always the worst.”
It had come to her afterwards craving125 with its soft brown, troubled eyes for forgiveness. But she had never been able to break it of the habit.
Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean: ever be driven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts: ever be rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his own desires?
It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her out to one another, jeering127 at her, reviling128 her, threatening her.
She hurried onward129 with bent head, trying to escape them. She felt so small, so helpless. Almost she cried out in her despair.
She must have walked mechanically. Looking up she found herself in her own street. And as she reached her doorway92 the tears came suddenly.
She heard a quick step behind her, and turning, she saw a man with a latch130 key in his hand. He passed her and opened the door; and then, facing round, stood aside for her to enter. He was a sturdy, thick-set man with a strong, massive face. It would have been ugly but for the deep, flashing eyes. There was tenderness and humour in them.
“We are next floor neighbours,” he said. “My name’s Phillips.”
Joan thanked him. As he held the door open for her their hands accidentally touched. Joan wished him good-night and went up the stairs. There was no light in her room: only the faint reflection of the street lamp outside.
She could still see him: the boyish smile. And his voice that had sent her tears back again as if at the word of command.
She hoped he had not seen them. What a little fool she was.
A little laugh escaped her.
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1
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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nonentity
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| n.无足轻重的人 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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43
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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45
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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46
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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47
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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48
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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49
stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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50
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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51
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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52
derivable
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| adj.可引出的，可推论的，可诱导的 | |
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53
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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54
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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55
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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56
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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57
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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59
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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60
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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61
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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62
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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63
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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64
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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65
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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66
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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67
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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68
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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69
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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70
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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71
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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72
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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73
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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74
dinginess
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| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
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75
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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76
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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77
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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78
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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79
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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81
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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82
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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83
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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84
standardized
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| adj.标准化的 | |
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85
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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86
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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87
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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88
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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89
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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91
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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92
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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93
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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94
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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95
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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96
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
tablecloths
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| n.桌布，台布( tablecloth的名词复数 ) | |
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98
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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99
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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100
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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101
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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102
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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103
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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104
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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105
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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106
storks
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| n.鹳( stork的名词复数 ) | |
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107
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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108
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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109
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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110
shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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111
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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112
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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113
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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114
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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115
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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116
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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117
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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118
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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119
lewdness
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| n. 淫荡, 邪恶 | |
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120
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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121
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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122
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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123
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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125
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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126
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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127
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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128
reviling
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| v.辱骂，痛斥( revile的现在分词 ) | |
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129
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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130
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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