Joan had no intention of being lured1 into the Birmingham parlour. She thought she could see in it a scheme for her gradual entanglement2. Besides, she was highly displeased3. She had intended asking her father to come to Brighton with her. As a matter of fact, she had forgotten all about Christmas; and the idea only came into her head while explaining to Arthur how his impulsiveness4 had interfered5 with it. Arthur, crestfallen6, suggested telegrams. It would be quite easy to alter everything; and of course her father would rather be with her, wherever it was. But it seemed it was too late. She ought to have been consulted. A sudden sense of proprietorship8 in her father came to her assistance and added pathos9 to her indignation. Of course, now, she would have to spend Christmas alone. She was far too busy to think of Birmingham. She could have managed Brighton. Argument founded on the length of journey to Birmingham as compared with the journey to Brighton she refused to be drawn10 into. Her feelings had been too deeply wounded to permit of descent into detail.
But the sinner, confessing his fault, is entitled to forgiveness, and, having put him back into his proper place, she let him kiss her hand. She even went further and let him ask her out to dinner. As the result of her failure to reform Mrs. Phillips she was feeling dissatisfied with herself. It was an unpleasant sensation and somewhat new to her experience. An evening spent in Arthur’s company might do her good. The experiment proved successful. He really was quite a dear boy. Eyeing him thoughtfully through the smoke of her cigarette, it occurred to her how like he was to Guido’s painting of St. Sebastian; those soft, dreamy eyes and that beautiful, almost feminine, face! There always had been a suspicion of the saint about him even as a boy: nothing one could lay hold of: just that odd suggestion of a shadow intervening between him and the world.
It seemed a favourable11 opportunity to inform him of that fixed12 determination of hers: never—in all probability—to marry: but to devote her life to her work. She was feeling very kindly13 towards him; and was able to soften14 her decision with touches of gentle regret. He did not appear in the least upset. But ‘thought’ that her duty might demand, later on, that she should change her mind: that was if fate should offer her some noble marriage, giving her wider opportunity.
She was a little piqued15 at his unexpected attitude of aloofness16. What did he mean by a “noble marriage”—to a Duke, or something of that sort?
He did not think the candidature need be confined to Dukes, though he had no objection to a worthy17 Duke. He meant any really great man who would help her and whom she could help.
She promised, somewhat shortly, to consider the matter, whenever the Duke, or other class of nobleman, should propose to her. At present no sign of him had appeared above the horizon. Her own idea was that, if she lived long enough, she would become a spinster. Unless someone took pity on her when she was old and decrepit18 and past her work.
There was a little humorous smile about his mouth. But his eyes were serious and pleading.
“When shall I know that you are old and decrepit?” he asked.
She was not quite sure. She thought it would be when her hair was grey—or rather white. She had been informed by experts that her peculiar19 shade of hair went white, not grey.
“I shall ask you to marry me when your hair is white,” he said. “May I?”
It did not suggest any overwhelming impatience20. “Yes,” she answered. “In case you haven’t married yourself, and forgotten all about me.”
“I shall keep you to your promise,” he said quite gravely.
She felt the time had come to speak seriously. “I want you to marry,” she said, “and be happy. I shall be troubled if you don’t.”
He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always made her marvel21 at her own wonderfulness.
“It need not do that,” he answered. “It would be beautiful to be with you always so that I might serve you. But I am quite happy, loving you. Let me see you now and then: touch you and hear your voice.”
Behind her drawn-down lids, she offered up a little prayer that she might always be worthy of his homage22. She didn’t know it would make no difference to him.
She walked with him to Euston and saw him into the train. He had given up his lodgings23 and was living with her father at The Pines. They were busy on a plan for securing the co-operation of the workmen, and she promised to run down and hear all about it. She would not change her mind about Birmingham, but sent everyone her love.
She wished she had gone when it came to Christmas Day. This feeling of loneliness was growing upon her. The Phillips had gone up north; and the Greysons to some relations of theirs: swell24 country people in Hampshire. Flossie was on a sea voyage with Sam and his mother, and even Madge had been struck homesick. It happened to be a Sunday, too, of all days in the week, and London in a drizzling25 rain was just about the limit. She worked till late in the afternoon, but, sitting down to her solitary26 cup of tea, she felt she wanted to howl. From the basement came faint sounds of laughter. Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests. If they had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and talking to them, if only for a few minutes.
Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its little motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go and see her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted through her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it under her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached the church. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered her. “I want to see you afterwards,” she whispered; and Mary Stopperton had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford27 drawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy old clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first visited the church, would be there again. She wondered what had become of him, and if it were really a fact that she had known him when she was a child, or only her fancy. It was strange how vividly28 her memory of him seemed to pervade29 the little church. She had the feeling he was watching her from the shadows. She waited for Mary in the vestibule, and gave her the shawl, making her swear on the big key of the church door that she would wear it herself and not give it away. The little old pew-opener’s pink and white face flushed with delight as she took it, and the thin, work-worn hands fingered it admiringly. “But I may lend it?” she pleaded.
They turned up Church Street. Joan confided30 to Mary what a rotten Christmas she had had, all by herself, without a soul to speak to except her landlady31, who had brought her meals and had been in such haste to get away.
“I don’t know what made me think of you,” she said. “I’m so glad I did.” She gave the little old lady a hug. Mary laughed. “Where are you going now, dearie?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind so much now,” answered Joan. “Now that I’ve seen a friendly face, I shall go home and go to bed early.”
They walked a little way in silence. Mary slipped her hand into Joan’s. “You wouldn’t care to come home and have a bit of supper with me, would you, dearie?” she asked.
“Oh, may I?” answered Joan.
Mary’s hand gave Joan’s a little squeeze. “You won’t mind if anybody drops in?” she said. “They do sometimes of a Sunday evening.”
“You don’t mean a party?” asked Joan.
“No, dear,” answered Mary. “It’s only one or two who have nowhere else to go.”
Joan laughed. She thought she would be a fit candidate.
“You see, it makes company for me,” explained Mary.
Mary lived in a tiny house behind a strip of garden. It stood in a narrow side street between two public-houses, and was covered with ivy32. It had two windows above and a window and a door below. The upstairs rooms belonged to the churchwardens and were used as a storehouse for old parish registers, deemed of little value. Mary Stopperton and her bedridden husband lived in the two rooms below. Mary unlocked the door, and Joan passed in and waited. Mary lit a candle that was standing33 on a bracket and turned to lead the way.
“Shall I shut the door?” suggested Joan.
Mary blushed like a child that has been found out just as it was hoping that it had not been noticed.
“It doesn’t matter, dearie,” she explained. “They know, if they find it open, that I’m in.”
The little room looked very cosy34 when Mary had made up the fire and lighted the lamp. She seated Joan in the worn horsehair easy-chair; out of which one had to be careful one did not slip on to the floor; and spread her handsome shawl over the back of the dilapidated sofa.
“You won’t mind my running away for a minute,” she said. “I shall only be in the next room.”
Through the thin partition, Joan heard a constant shrill35, complaining voice. At times, it rose into an angry growl36. Mary looked in at the door.
“I’m just running round to the doctor’s,” she whispered. “His medicine hasn’t come. I shan’t be long.”
Joan offered to go in and sit with the invalid37. But Mary feared the exertion38 of talking might be too much for him. “He gets so excited,” she explained. She slipped out noiselessly.
It seemed, in spite of its open door, a very silent little house behind its strip of garden. Joan had the feeling that it was listening.
Suddenly she heard a light step in the passage, and the room door opened. A girl entered. She was wearing a large black hat and a black boa round her neck. Between them her face shone unnaturally39 white. She carried a small cloth bag. She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat.
“Oh, please don’t go,” cried Joan. “Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round to the doctor’s. She won’t be long. I’m a friend of hers.”
“What’s he like to-night?” she asked, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room. She placed her bag carefully upon the sofa, and examined the new shawl as she did so.
“Well, I gather he’s a little fretful,” answered Joan with a smile.
“That’s a bad sign,” said the girl. “Means he’s feeling better.” She seated herself on the sofa and fingered the shawl. “Did you give it her?” she asked.
“Yes,” admitted Joan. “I rather fancied her in it.”
“I felt a bit afraid of her,” laughed Joan, “so I made her promise not to part with it. Is he really very ill, her husband?”
“Oh, yes, there’s no make-believe this time,” answered the girl. “A bad thing for her if he wasn’t.”
“Oh, it’s only what’s known all over the neighbourhood,” continued the girl. “She’s had a pretty rough time with him. Twice I’ve found her getting ready to go to sleep for the night by sitting on the bare floor with her back against the wall. Had sold every stick in the place and gone off. But she’d always some excuse for him. It was sure to be half her fault and the other half he couldn’t help. Now she’s got her ‘reward’ according to her own account. Heard he was dying in a doss-house, and must fetch him home and nurse him back to life. Seems he’s getting fonder of her every day. Now that he can’t do anything else.”
“Oh, she! She’s all right,” agreed the girl. “Having the time of her life: someone to look after for twenty-four hours a day that can’t help themselves.”
She examined Joan awhile in silence. “Are you on the stage?” she asked.
“No,” answered Joan. “But my mother was. Are you?”
“Thought you looked a bit like it,” said the girl. “I’m in the chorus. It’s better than being in service or in a shop: that’s all you can say for it.”
“But you’ll get out of that,” suggested Joan. “You’ve got the actress face.”
The girl flushed with pleasure. It was a striking face, with intelligent eyes and a mobile, sensitive mouth. “Oh, yes,” she said, “I could act all right. I feel it. But you don’t get out of the chorus. Except at a price.”
Joan looked at her. “I thought that sort of thing was dying out,” she said.
The girl shrugged44 her shoulders. “Not in my shop,” she answered. “Anyhow, it was the only chance I ever had. Wish sometimes I’d taken it. It was quite a good part.”
“They must have felt sure you could act,” said Joan. “Next time it will be a clean offer.”
The girl shook her head. “There’s no next time,” she said; “once you’re put down as one of the stand-offs. Plenty of others to take your place.”
“Oh, I don’t blame them,” she added. “It isn’t a thing to be dismissed with a toss of your head. I thought it all out. Don’t know now what decided45 me. Something inside me, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes,” answered the girl. “Ever since I’ve been on my own.”
“Did you talk it over with her?” asked Joan.
“No,” answered the girl. “I may have just told her. She isn’t the sort that gives advice.”
“I’m glad you didn’t do it,” said Joan: “that you put up a fight for all women.”
The girl gave a short laugh. “Afraid I wasn’t thinking much about that,” she said.
“No,” said Joan. “But perhaps that’s the way the best fights are fought—without thinking.”
Mary peeped round the door. She had been lucky enough to find the doctor in. She disappeared again, and they talked about themselves. The girl was a Miss Ensor. She lived by herself in a room in Lawrence Street.
“I’m not good at getting on with people,” she explained.
Mary joined them, and went straight to Miss Ensor’s bag and opened it. She shook her head at the contents, which consisted of a small, flabby-looking meat pie in a tin dish, and two pale, flat mince47 tarts48.
“It doesn’t nourish you, dearie,” complained Mary. “You could have bought yourself a nice bit of meat with the same money.”
“And you would have had all the trouble of cooking it,” answered the girl. “That only wants warming up.”
“But I like cooking, you know, dearie,” grumbled49 Mary. “There’s no interest in warming things up.”
The girl laughed. “You don’t have to go far for your fun,” she said. “I’ll bring a sole next time; and you shall do it au gratin.”
Mary put the indigestible-looking pasties into the oven, and almost banged the door. Miss Ensor proceeded to lay the table. “How many, do you think?” she asked. Mary was doubtful. She hoped that, it being Christmas Day, they would have somewhere better to go.
“I passed old ‘Bubble and Squeak,’ just now, spouting50 away to three men and a dog outside the World’s End. I expect he’ll turn up,” thought Miss Ensor. She laid for four, leaving space for more if need be. “I call it the ‘Cadger’s Arms,’” she explained, turning to Joan. “We bring our own victuals51, and Mary cooks them for us and waits on us; and the more of us the merrier. You look forward to your Sunday evening parties, don’t you?” she asked of Mary.
Mary laughed. She was busy in a corner with basins and a saucepan. “Of course I do, dearie,” she answered. “I’ve always been fond of company.”
There came another opening of the door. A little hairy man entered. He wore spectacles and was dressed in black. He carried a paper parcel which he laid upon the table. He looked a little doubtful at Joan. Mary introduced them. His name was Julius Simson. He shook hands as if under protest.
“As friends of Mary Stopperton,” he said, “we meet on neutral ground. But in all matters of moment I expect we are as far asunder52 as the poles. I stand for the People.”
“We ought to be comrades,” answered Joan, with a smile. “I, too, am trying to help the People.”
“You and your class,” said Mr. Simson, “are friends enough to the People, so long as they remember that they are the People, and keep their proper place—at the bottom. I am for putting the People at the top.”
“Then they will be the Upper Classes,” suggested Joan. “And I may still have to go on fighting for the rights of the lower orders.”
“In this world,” explained Mr. Simson, “someone has got to be Master. The only question is who.”
Mary had unwrapped the paper parcel. It contained half a sheep’s head. “How would you like it done?” she whispered.
Mr. Simson considered. There came a softer look into his eyes. “How did you do it last time?” he asked. “It came up brown, I remember, with thick gravy53.”
“Braised,” suggested Mary.
“That’s the word,” agreed Mr. Simson. “Braised.” He watched while Mary took things needful from the cupboard, and commenced to peel an onion.
“That’s the sort that makes me despair of the People,” said Mr. Simson. Joan could not be sure whether he was addressing her individually or imaginary thousands. “Likes working for nothing. Thinks she was born to be everybody’s servant.” He seated himself beside Miss Ensor on the antiquated54 sofa. It gave a complaining groan55 but held out.
“Did you have a good house?” the girl asked him. “Saw you from the distance, waving your arms about. Hadn’t time to stop.”
“Not many,” admitted Mr. Simson. “A Christmassy lot. You know. Sort of crowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their own interests. It’s slow work.”
“Why do you do it?” asked Miss Ensor.
“Damned if I know,” answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. “Can’t help it, I suppose. Lost me job again.”
“The old story?” suggested Miss Ensor.
“The old story,” sighed Mr. Simson. “One of the customers happened to be passing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard my opinion of the middle classes?”
“Well, you can’t expect ’em to like it, can you?” submitted Miss Ensor.
“No,” admitted Mr. Simson with generosity56. “It’s only natural. It’s a fight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois57. I cover them with ridicule58 and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know.”
“Take care they don’t get the best of you,” Miss Ensor advised him.
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” he answered. “I’ll get another place all right: give me time. The only thing I’m worried about is my young woman.”
“Doesn’t agree with you?” inquired Miss Ensor.
“Oh, it isn’t that,” he answered. “But she’s frightened. You know. Says life with me is going to be a bit too uncertain for her. Perhaps she’s right.”
“Oh, why don’t you chuck it,” advised Miss Ensor, “give the Bourgeois a rest.”
Mr. Simson shook his head. “Somebody’s got to tackle them,” he said. “Tell them the truth about themselves, to their faces.”
“Yes, but it needn’t be you,” suggested Miss Ensor.
Mary was leaning over the table. Miss Ensor’s four-penny veal59 and ham pie was ready. Mary arranged it in front of her. “Eat it while it’s hot, dearie,” she counselled. “It won’t be so indigestible.”
Miss Ensor turned to her. “Oh, you talk to him,” she urged. “Here, he’s lost his job again, and is losing his girl: all because of his silly politics. Tell him he’s got to have sense and stop it.”
Mary seemed troubled. Evidently, as Miss Ensor had stated, advice was not her line. “Perhaps he’s got to do it, dearie,” she suggested.
“What do you mean by got to do it?” exclaimed Miss Ensor. “Who’s making him do it, except himself?”
Mary flushed. She seemed to want to get back to her cooking. “It’s something inside us, dearie,” she thought: “that nobody hears but ourselves.”
“That tells him to talk all that twaddle?” demanded Miss Ensor. “Have you heard him?”
“No, dearie,” Mary admitted. “But I expect it’s got its purpose. Or he wouldn’t have to do it.”
Miss Ensor gave a gesture of despair and applied60 herself to her pie. The hirsute61 face of Mr. Simson had lost the foolish aggressiveness that had irritated Joan. He seemed to be pondering matters.
Mary hoped that Joan was hungry. Joan laughed and admitted that she was. “It’s the smell of all the nice things,” she explained. Mary promised it should soon be ready, and went back to her corner.
A short, dark, thick-set man entered and stood looking round the room. The frame must once have been powerful, but now it was shrunken and emaciated62. The shabby, threadbare clothes hung loosely from the stooping shoulders. Only the head seemed to have retained its vigour63. The face, from which the long black hair was brushed straight back, was ghastly white. Out of it, deep set beneath great shaggy, overhanging brows, blazed the fierce, restless eyes of a fanatic64. The huge, thin-lipped mouth seemed to have petrified65 itself into a savage66 snarl67. He gave Joan the idea, as he stood there glaring round him, of a hunted beast at bay.
Miss Ensor, whose bump of reverence68 was undeveloped, greeted him cheerfully as Boanerges. Mr. Simson, more respectful, rose and offered his small, grimy hand. Mary took his hat and cloak away from him and closed the door behind him. She felt his hands, and put him into a chair close to the fire. And then she introduced him to Joan.
Joan started on hearing his name. It was one well known.
“The Cyril Baptiste?” she asked. She had often wondered what he might be like.
“The Cyril Baptiste,” he answered, in a low, even, passionate69 voice, that he flung at her almost like a blow. “The atheist70, the gaol71 bird, the pariah72, the blasphemer, the anti-Christ. I’ve hoofs73 instead of feet. Shall I take off my boots and show them to you? I tuck my tail inside my coat. You can’t see my horns. I’ve cut them off close to my head. That’s why I wear my hair long: to hide the stumps74.”
Mary had been searching in the pockets of his cloak. She had found a paper bag. “You mustn’t get excited,” she said, laying her little work-worn hand upon his shoulder; “or you’ll bring on the bleeding.”
“Aye,” he answered, “I must be careful I don’t die on Christmas Day. It would make a fine text, that, for their sermons.”
Mr. Simson fidgeted. The quiet of the room, broken only by Mary’s ministering activities, evidently oppressed him.
“Paper going well, sir?” he asked. “I often read it myself.”
“It still sells,” answered the proprietor7, and editor and publisher, and entire staff of The Rationalist.
“I like the articles you are writing on the History of Superstition77. Quite illuminating,” remarked Mr. Simson.
“It’s many a year, I am afraid, to the final chapter,” thought their author.
“They afford much food for reflection,” thought Mr. Simson, “though I cannot myself go as far as you do in including Christianity under that heading.”
Mary frowned at him; but Mr. Simson, eager for argument or not noticing, blundered on:—
“Whether we accept the miraculous79 explanation of Christ’s birth,” continued Mr. Simson, in his best street-corner voice, “or whether, with the great French writer whose name for the moment escapes me, we regard Him merely as a man inspired, we must, I think, admit that His teaching has been of help: especially to the poor.”
The fanatic turned upon him so fiercely that Mr. Simson’s arm involuntarily assumed the posture80 of defence.
“To the poor?” the old man almost shrieked81. “To the poor that he has robbed of all power of resistance to oppression by his vile82, submissive creed83! that he has drugged into passive acceptance of every evil done to them by his false promises that their sufferings here shall win for them some wonderful reward when they are dead. What has been his teaching to the poor? Bow your backs to the lash84, kiss the rod that scars your flesh. Be ye humble85, oh, my people. Be ye poor in spirit. Let Wrong rule triumphant86 through the world. Raise no hand against it, lest ye suffer my eternal punishments. Learn from me to be meek87 and lowly. Learn to be good slaves and give no trouble to your taskmasters. Let them turn the world into a hell for you. The grave—the grave shall be your gate to happiness.
“Helpful to the poor? Helpful to their rulers, to their owners. They take good care that Christ shall be well taught. Their fat priests shall bear his message to the poor. The rod may be broken, the prison door be forced. It is Christ that shall bind88 the people in eternal fetters89. Christ, the lackey90, the jackal of the rich.”
Mr. Simson was visibly shocked. Evidently he was less familiar with the opinions of The Rationalist than he had thought.
“I really must protest,” exclaimed Mr. Simson. “To whatever wrong uses His words may have been twisted, Christ Himself I regard as divine, and entitled to be spoken of with reverence. His whole life, His sufferings—”
“His sufferings!” he interrupted. “Does suffering entitle a man to be regarded as divine? If so, so also am I a God. Look at me!” He stretched out his long, thin arms with their claw-like hands, thrusting forward his great savage head that the bony, wizened93 throat seemed hardly strong enough to bear. “Wealth, honour, happiness: I had them once. I had wife, children and a home. Now I creep an outcast, keeping to the shadows, and the children in the street throw stones at me. Thirty years I have starved that I might preach. They shut me in their prisons, they hound me into garrets. They jibe94 at me and mock me, but they cannot silence me. What of my life? Am I divine?”
Miss Ensor, having finished her supper, sat smoking.
“Why must you preach?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem to pay you.” There was a curious smile about the girl’s lips as she caught Joan’s eye.
“Because to this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth,” he answered.
He sank back a huddled96 heap upon the chair. There was foam97 about his mouth, great beads98 of sweat upon his forehead. Mary wiped them away with a corner of her apron99, and felt again his trembling hands. “Oh, please don’t talk to him any more,” she pleaded, “not till he’s had his supper.” She fetched her fine shawl, and pinned it round him. His eyes followed her as she hovered100 about him. For the first time, since he had entered the room, they looked human.
They gathered round the table. Mr. Baptiste was still pinned up in Mary’s bright shawl. It lent him a curious dignity. He might have been some ancient prophet stepped from the pages of the Talmud. Miss Ensor completed her supper with a cup of tea and some little cakes: “just to keep us all company,” as Mary had insisted.
The old fanatic’s eyes passed from face to face. There was almost the suggestion of a smile about the savage mouth.
“A strange supper-party,” he said. “Cyril the Apostate101; and Julius who strove against the High Priests and the Pharisees; and Inez a dancer before the people; and Joanna a daughter of the rulers, gathered together in the house of one Mary a servant of the Lord.”
“Not yet,” answered Joan. “But I hope to be, one day.” She spoke91 without thinking, not quite knowing what she meant. But it came back to her in after years.
The talk grew lighter102 under the influence of Mary’s cooking. Mr. Baptiste could be interesting when he got away from his fanaticism103; and even the apostolic Mr. Simson had sometimes noticed humour when it had chanced his way.
A message came for Mary about ten o’clock, brought by a scared little girl, who whispered it to her at the door. Mary apologized. She had to go out. The party broke up. Mary disappeared into the next room and returned in a shawl and bonnet104, carrying a small brown paper parcel. Joan walked with her as far as the King’s Road.
“A little child is coming,” she confided to Joan. She was quite excited about it.
Joan thought. “It’s curious,” she said, “one so seldom hears of anybody being born on Christmas Day.”
They were passing a lamp. Joan had never seen a face look quite so happy as Mary’s looked, just then.
“It always seems to me Christ’s birthday,” she said, “whenever a child is born.”
They had reached the corner. Joan could see her bus in the distance.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered.
Mary gave her a hug, and almost ran away. Joan watched the little child-like figure growing smaller. It glided106 in and out among the people.
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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displeased
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impulsiveness
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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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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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proprietor
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proprietorship
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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drawn
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favourable
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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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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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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18
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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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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20
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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21
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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22
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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23
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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24
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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25
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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26
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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27
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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28
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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29
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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30
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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31
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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32
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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33
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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34
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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35
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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36
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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37
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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38
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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39
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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40
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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41
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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42
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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43
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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44
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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45
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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46
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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47
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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48
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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49
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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50
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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51
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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52
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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53
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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54
antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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55
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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56
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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57
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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58
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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59
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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60
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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61
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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62
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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63
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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64
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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65
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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66
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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67
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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68
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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69
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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70
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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71
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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72
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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73
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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75
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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76
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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77
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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78
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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79
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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80
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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81
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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83
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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84
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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85
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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86
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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87
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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88
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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89
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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90
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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91
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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92
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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94
jibe
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| v.嘲笑，与...一致，使转向；n.嘲笑，嘲弄 | |
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95
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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96
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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98
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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99
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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100
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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101
apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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102
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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103
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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104
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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105
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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106
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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