Mine is a modest muse1, and as the period of the story arrives when a description of love-making is justly due, my Mnemosyne turns from the young couple, drops a little curtain over the embrasure where they are whispering, heaves a sigh from her elderly bosom2, and lays a finger on her lip. Ah, Mnemosyne dear! we will not be spies on the young people. We will not scold them. We won’t talk about their doings much. When we were young, we too, perhaps, were taken in under Love’s tent; we have eaten of his salt, and partaken of his bitter, his delicious bread. Now we are padding the hoof3 lonely in the wilderness4, we will not abuse our host, will we? We will couch under the stars, and think fondly of old times, and to-morrow resume the staff and the journey.
And yet, if a novelist may chronicle any passion, its flames, its raptures5, its whispers, its assignations, its sonnets6, its quarrels, sulks, reconciliations7, and so on, the history of such a love as this first of Phil’s may be excusable in print, because I don’t believe it was a real love at all, only a little brief delusion8 of the senses, from which I give you warning that our hero will recover before many chapters are over. What! my brave boy, shall we give your heart away for good and all, for better or for worse, till death do you part? What! my Corydon and sighing swain, shall we irrevocably bestow9 you upon Phyllis, who, all the time you are piping and paying court to her, has Meliboeus in the cupboard, and ready to be produced should he prove to be a more eligible10 shepherd than t’other? I am not such a savage11 towards my readers or hero, as to make them undergo the misery12 of such a marriage.
Philip was very little of a club or society man. He seldom or ever entered the Megatherium, or when there stared and scowled13 round him savagely14, and laughed strangely at the ways of the inhabitants. He made but a clumsy figure in the world, though, in person, handsome, active, and proper enough; but he would for ever put his great foot through the World’s flounced skirts, and she would stare, and cry out, and hate him. He was the last man who was aware of the Woolcomb flirtation15, when hundreds of people, I dare say, were simpering over it.
“Who is that little man who comes to your house, and whom I sometimes see in the park, aunt — that little man with the very white gloves and the very tawny16 complexion17?” asks Philip.
“That is Mr. Woolcomb, of the Life Guards Green,” aunt remembers.
“An officer, is he?” says Philip, turning round to the girls. “I should have thought he would have done better for the turban and cymbals18.” And he laughs, and thinks he has said a very clever thing. Oh, those good things about people and against people! Never, my dear young friend, say them to anybody — not to a stranger, for he will go away and tell; not to the mistress of your affections, for you may quarrel with her, and then she will tell; not to your son, for the artless child will return to his schoolfellows and say: “Papa says Mr. Blenkinsop is a muff.” My child, or what not, praise everybody: smile on everybody: and everybody will smile on you in return, a sham19 smile, and hold you out a sham hand; and, in a word, esteem20 you as you deserve. No. I think you and I will take the ups and the downs, the roughs and the smooths of this daily existence and conversation. We will praise those whom we like, though nobody repeat our kind sayings; and say our say about those whom we dislike, though we are pretty sure our words will be carried by tale-bearers, and increased, and multiplied, and remembered long after we have forgotten them. We drop a little stone — a little stone that is swallowed up, and disappears, but the whole pond is set in commotion21, and ripples22 in continually-widening circles long after the original little stone has popped down and is out of sight. Don’t your speeches of ten years ago — maimed, distorted, bloated, it may be out of all recognition — come strangely back to their author?
Phil, five minutes after he had made the joke, so entirely23 forgot his saying about the Black Prince and the cymbals, that, when Captain Woolcomb scowled at him with his fiercest eyes, young Firmin thought that this was the natural expression of the captain’s swarthy countenance24, and gave himself no further trouble regarding it. “By George! sir,” said Phil afterwards, speaking of this officer, “I remarked that he grinned, and chattered25, and showed his teeth; and remembering it was the nature of such baboons27 to chatter26 and grin, had no idea that this chimpanzee was more angry with me than with any other gentleman. You see, Pen, I am a white-skinned man, I am pronounced even red-whiskered by the ill-natured. It is not the prettiest colour. But I had no idea that I was to have a Mulatto for a rival. I am not so rich, certainly, but I have enough. I can read and spell correctly, and write with tolerable fluency28. I could not, you know, could I, reasonably suppose that I need fear competition, and that the black horse would beat the bay one? Shall I tell you what she used to say to me? There is no kissing and telling, mind you. No, by George. Virtue29 and prudence30 were for ever on her lips! She warbled little sermons to me; hinted gently that I should see to safe investments of my property, and that no man, not even a father, should be the sole and uncontrolled guardian31 of it. She asked me, sir, scores and scores of little sweet, timid, innocent questions about the doctor’s property, and how much did I think it was, and how had he laid it out? What virtuous32 parents that angel had! How they brought her up, and educated her dear blue eyes to the main chance! She knows the price of housekeeping, and the value of railway shares; she invests capital for herself in this world and the next. She mayn’t do right always, but wrong? O fie, never! I say, Pen, an undeveloped angel with wings folded under her dress, not perhaps your mighty33, snow-white, flashing pinions34 that spread out and soar up to the highest stars, but a pair of good, serviceable, drab, dove-coloured wings, that will support her gently and equably just over our heads, and help to drop her softly when she condescends35 upon us. When I think, sir, that I might have been married to a genteel angel, and am single still, — oh! it’s despair, it’s despair!”
But Philip’s little story of disappointed hopes and bootless passion must be told in terms less acrimonious36 and unfair than the gentleman would use, naturally of a sanguine37 swaggering talk, prone38 to exaggerate his own disappointments, and call out, roar — I daresay swear — if his own corn was trodden upon, as loudly as some men who may have a leg taken off.
This I can vouch39 for Miss Twysden, Mrs. Twysden, and all the rest of the family:— that if they, what you call, jilted Philip, they did so without the slightest hesitation40 or notion that they were doing a dirty action. Their actions never were dirty or mean: they were necessary, I tell you, and calmly proper. They ate cheese-parings with graceful41 silence: they cribbed from board-wages; they turned hungry servants out of doors; they remitted42 no chance in their own favour; they slept gracefully43 under scanty44 coverlids; they lighted niggard fires; they locked the caddy with the closest lock, and served the teapot with the smallest and least frequent spoon. But you don’t suppose they thought they were mean, or that they did wrong? Ah! it is admirable to think of many, many, ever so many respectable families of your acquaintance and mine, my dear friend, and how they meet together and humbug45 each other! “My dear, I have cribbed half an inch of plush out of James’s small-clothes.” “My love, I have saved a half-penny out of Mary’s beer. Isn’t it time to dress for the duchess’s; and don’t you think John might wear that livery of Thomas’s who only had it a year, and died of the small-pox? It’s a little tight for him, to be sure, but,” What is this? I profess46 to be an impartial47 chronicler of poor Phil’s fortunes, misfortunes, friendships, and what-nots, and am getting almost as angry with these Twysdens as Philip ever was himself.
Well, I am not mortally angry with poor Traviata tramping the pavement, with the gas-lamp flaring49 on her poor painted smile, else my indignant virtue and squeamish modesty50 would never walk Piccadilly, or get the air. But Lais, quite moral, and very neatly51, primly52, and straitly laced; — Phryne, not the least dishevelled, but with a fixature for her hair, and the best stays, fastened by mamma; — your High Church or Evangelical Aspasia, the model of all proprieties53, and owner of all virgin54 purity blooms, ready to sell her cheek to the oldest old fogey who has money and a title; — these are the Unfortunates, my dear brother and sister sinners, whom I should like to see repentant55 and specially56 trounced first. Why, some of these are put into reformatories in Grosvenor Square. They wear a prison dress of diamonds and Chantilly lace. Their parents cry, and thank heaven as they sell them; and all sorts of revered57 bishops58, clergy59, relations, dowagers, sign the book, and ratify60 the ceremony. Come! let us call a midnight meeting of those who have been sold in marriage, I say; and what a respectable, what a genteel, what a fashionable, what a brilliant, what an imposing61, what a multitudinous assembly we will have; and where’s the room in all Babylon big enough to hold them?
Look into that grave, solemn, dingy62, somewhat naked but elegant drawing-room, in Beaunash Street, and with a little fanciful opera-glass you may see a pretty little group or two engaged at different periods of the day. It is after lunch, and before Rotten Row ride time (this story, you know, relates to a period ever so remote, and long before folks thought of riding in the park in the forenoon). After lunch, and before Rotten Row time, saunters into the drawing-room a fair-haired young fellow with large feet and chest, careless of gloves, with auburn whiskers blowing over a loose collar, and — must I confess it? — a most undeniable odour of cigars about his person. He breaks out regarding the debate of the previous night, or the pamphlet of yesterday, or the poem of the day previous, or the scandal of the week before, or upon the street-sweeper at the corner, or the Italian and monkey before the door — upon whatever, in a word, moves his mind for the moment. If Philip has had a bad dinner yesterday (and happens to remember it), he growls63, grumbles64, nay65, I daresay, uses the most blasphemous66 language against the cook, against the waiters, against the steward67, against the committee, against the whole society of the club where he has been dining. If Philip has met an organ girl with pretty eyes and a monkey in the street, he has grinned and wondered over the monkey; he has wagged his head, and sung all the organ’s tunes48; he has discovered that the little girl is the most ravishing beauty eyes ever looked on, and that her scoundrelly Savoyard father is most likely an Alpine68 miscreant69 who has bartered70 away his child to a pedlar of the beggarly cheesy valleys, who has sold her to a friend qui fait la traite des hurdigurdies, and has disposed of her in England. If he has to discourse71 on the poem, pamphlet, magazine article — it is written by the greatest genius, or the greatest numskull that the world now exhibits. He write! A man who makes fire rhyme with Marire! This vale of tears and world which we inhabit does not contain such an idiot. Or have you seen Dobbins’s poem? Agnes, mark my words for it, there is a genius in Dobbins which some day will show what I have always surmised72, what I have always imagined possible, what I have always felt to be more than probable, what, by George, I feel to be perfectly73 certain, and any man is a humbug who contradicts it, and a malignant74 miscreant, and the world is full of fellows who will never give another man credit, and I swear that to recognize and feel merit in poetry, painting, music, rope-dancing, anything, is the greatest delight and joy of my existence. I say — what was I saying?
“You were saying, Philip, that you love to recognize the merits of all men whom you see,” says gentle Agnes, “and I believe you do.”
“Yes!” cries Phil, tossing about the fair locks. “I think I do. Thank heaven, I do. I know fellows who can do many things better than I do — everything better than I do.”
“Oh, Philip!” sighs the lady.
“But I don’t hate ’em for it.”
“You never hated any one, sir. You are too brave! Can you fancy Philip hating any one, mamma?”
Mamma is writing, “Mr. and Mrs. Talbot Twysden request the honour of Admiral and Mrs. Davis Locker’s company at dinner on Thursday the so-and-so.” “Philip what?” says mamma, looking up from her card. “Philip hating any one! Philip eating any one! Philip! we have a little dinner on the 24th. We shall ask your father to dine. We must not have too many of the family. Come in afterwards, please.”
“Yes, aunt,” says downright Phil, “I’ll come, if you and the girls wish. You know tea is not my line; and I don’t care about dinners, except in my own way, and with — ”
“And with your own horrid75 set, sir!”
“Well,” says Sultan Philip, flinging himself out on the sofa, and lording on the ottoman, “I like mine ease and mine inn.”
“Ah, Philip! you grow more selfish every day. I mean men do,” sighed Agnes.
You will suppose mamma leaves the room at this juncture76. She has that confidence in dear Philip and the dear girls, that she sometimes does leave the room when Agnes and Phil are together. She will leave Reuben, the eldest77 born, with her daughters: but my poor dear little younger son of a Joseph, if you suppose she will leave the room and you alone in it — O my dear Joseph, you may just jump down the well at once! Mamma, I say, has left the room at last, bowing with a perfect sweetness and calm grace and gravity; and she has slipped down the stairs, scarce more noisy than the shadow that slants78 over the faded carpet — (oh! the faded shadow, the faded sunshine!) — mamma is gone, I say, to the lower regions, and with perfect good breeding is torturing the butler on his bottle-rack — is squeezing the housekeeper79 in her jam-closet — is watching the three cold cutlets, shuddering80 in the larder81 behind the wires — is blandly83 glancing at the kitchen-maid until the poor wench fancies the piece of bacon is discovered which she gave to the crossing-sweeper — and calmly penetrating84 John until he feels sure his inmost heart is revealed to her, as it throbs85 within his worsted-laced waistcoat, and she knows about that pawning86 of master’s old boots (beastly old highlows!), and — and, in fact, all the most intimate circumstances of his existence. A wretched maid, who has been ironing collars, or what not, gives her mistress a shuddering curtsey, and slinks away with her laces; and meanwhile our girl and boy are prattling88 in the drawing-room.
About what? About everything on which Philip chooses to talk. There is nobody to contradict him but himself, and then his pretty hearer vows89 and declares he has not been so very contradictory90. He spouts91 his favourite poems. “Delightful92! Do, Philip, read us some Walter Scott! He is, as you say, the most fresh, the most manly93, the most kindly94 of poetic95 writers — not of the first class, certainly; in fact, he has written most dreadful bosh, as you call it so drolly96; and so has Wordsworth, though he is one of the greatest of men, and has reached sometimes to the very greatest height and sublimity98 of poetry; but now you put it, I must confess he is often an old bore, and I certainly should have gone to sleep during the Excursion, only you read it so nicely. You don’t think the new composers as good as the old ones, and love mamma’s old-fashioned playing? Well, Philip, it is delightful, so ladylike, so feminine!” Or, perhaps, Philip has just come from Hyde Park, and says, “As I passed by Apsley House, I saw the Duke come out, with his old blue frock and white trousers and clear face. I have seen a picture of him in an old European Magazine, which I think I like better than all — gives me the idea of one of the brightest men in the world. The brave eyes gleam at you out of the picture; and there’s a smile on the resolute99 lips, which seems to ensure triumph. Agnes, Assaye must have been glorious!”
“Glorious, Philip!” says Agnes, who had never heard of Assaye before in her life. “Arbela, perhaps; Salamis, Marathon, Agincourt, Blenheim, Busaco — where dear grandpapa was killed — Waterloo, Armageddon; but Assaye? What on earth is Assaye?”
“Think of that ordinarily prudent100 man, and how greatly he knew how to dare when occasion came! I should like to have died after winning such a game. He has never done anything so exciting since.”
“A game? I thought it was a battle just now,” murmurs101 Agnes in her mind; but there may be some misunderstanding. “Ah, Philip,” she says, “I fear excitement is too much the life of all young men now. When will you be quiet and steady, sir?”
“And go to an office every day, like my uncle and cousin; and read the newspaper for three hours, and trot102 back and see you.”
“Well, sir! that ought not to be such very bad amusement,” says one of the ladies.
“What a clumsy wretch87 I am! My foot is always trampling103 on something or somebody!” groans104 Phil.
“You must come to us, and we will teach you to dance, Bruin!” says gentle Agnes, smiling on him. I think, when very much agitated105, her pulse must have gone up to forty. Her blood must have been a light pink. The heart that beat under that pretty white chest, which she exposed so liberally, may have throbbed106 pretty quickly once or twice with waltzing, but otherwise never rose or fell beyond its natural gentle undulation. It may have had throbs of grief at a disappointment occasioned by the milliner not bringing a dress home; or have felt some little fluttering impulse of youthful passion when it was in short frock, and Master Grimsby at the dancing-school showed some preference for another young pupil out of the nursery. But feelings, and hopes, and blushes, and passions, now? Psha! They pass away like nursery dreams. Now there are only proprieties. What is love, young heart? It is two thousand a year, at the very lowest computation; and with the present rise in wages and house-rent, that calculation can’t last very long. Love? Attachment107? Look at Frank Maythorn, with his vernal blushes, his leafy whiskers, his sunshiny, laughing face, and all the birds of spring carolling in his jolly voice; and old General Pinwood hobbling in on his cork108 leg, with his stars and orders, and leering round the room from under his painted eyebrows109. Will my modest nymph go to Maythorn, or to yonder leering Satyr, who totters110 towards her in his white and rouge111? Nonsense. She gives her garland to the old man, to be sure. He is ten times as rich as the young one. And so they went on in Arcadia itself, really. Not in that namby-pamby ballet and idyll world, where they tripped up to each other in rhythm, and talked hexameters; but in the real, downright no-mistake country — Arcadia — where Tityrus, fluting112 to Amaryllis in the shade, had his pipe very soon put out when Meliboeus (the great grazier) performed on his melodious113, exquisite114, irresistible115 cow-horn; and where Daphne’s mother dressed her up with ribbons and drove her to market, and sold her, and swapped116 her, and bartered her like any other lamb in the fair. This one has been trotted117 to the market so long now that she knows the way herself. Her baa has been heard for — do not let us count how many seasons. She has nibbled118 out of countless119 hands; frisked in many thousand dances; come quite harmless away from goodness knows how many wolves. Ah! ye lambs and raddled innocents of our Arcadia! Ah, old Ewe! Is it of your ladyship this fable120 is narrated121? I say it is as old as Cadmus, and man-and muttonkind.
So, when Philip comes to Beaunash Street, Agnes listens to him most kindly, sweetly, gently, and affectionately. Her pulse goes up very nearly half a beat when the echo of his horse’s heels is heard in the quiet street. It undergoes a corresponding depression when the daily grief of parting is encountered and overcome. Blanche and Agnes don’t love each other very passionately122. If I may say as much regarding those two lambkins, they butt123 at each other — they quarrel with each other — but they have secret understandings. During Phil’s visits the girls remain together, you understand, or mamma is with the young people. Female friends may come in to call on Mrs. Twysden, and the matrons whisper together, and glance at the cousins, and look knowing. “Poor orphan124 boy!” mamma says to a sister matron. “I am like a mother to him since my dear sister died. His own home is so blank, and ours so merry, so affectionate! There may be intimacy125, tender regard, the utmost confidence between cousins — there may be future and even closer ties between them — but you understand, dear Mrs. Matcham, no engagement between them. He is eager, hot-headed, impetuous, and imprudent, as we all know. She has not seen the world enough — is not sure of herself, poor dear child. Therefore, every circumspection126, every caution, is necessary. There must be no engagement — no letters between them. My darling Agnes does not write to ask him to dinner without showing the note to me or her father. My dearest girls respect themselves.”
“Of course, my dear Mrs. Twysden, they are admirable, both of them. Bless you, darlings! Agnes, you look radiant! Ah, Rosa, my child, I wish you had dear Blanche’s complexion!”
“And isn’t it monstrous127 keeping that poor boy hanging on until Mr. Woolcomb has made up his mind about coming forward?” says dear Mrs. Matcham to her own daughter, as her brougham-door closes on the pair. Here he comes! Here is his cab. Maria Twysden is one of the smartest women in England — that she is.”
“How odd it is, mamma, that the beau cousin and Captain Woolcomb are always calling, and never call together!” remarks the ingénue.
“They might quarrel if they met. They say young Mr. Firmin is very quarrelsome and impetuous!” says mamma.
“But how are they kept apart?”
“Chance, my dear! mere128 chance!” says mamma. And they agree to say it is chance — and they agree to pretend to believe one another. And the girl and the mother know everything about Woolcomb’s property, everything about Philip’s property and expectations, everything about all the young men in London, and those coming on. And Mrs. Matcham’s girl fished for Captain Woolcomb last year in Scotland, at Lochhookey; and stalked him to Paris; and they went down on their knees to Lady Banbury when they heard of the theatricals129 at the Cross; and pursued that man about until he is forced to say, “Confound me! hang me! it’s too bad of that woman and her daughter, it is now, I give you my honour it is! And all the fellows chaff130 me! And she took a house in Regent’s Park, opposite our barracks, and asked for her daughter to learn to ride in our school — I’m blest if she didn’t, Mrs. Twysden! and I thought my black mare131 would have kicked her off one day — I mean the daughter — but she stuck on like grim death; and the fellows call them Mrs. Grim Death and her daughter. Our surgeon called them so, and a doocid rum fellow — and they chaff me about it, you know — ever so many of the fellows do — and I’m not going to be had in that way by Mrs. Grim Death and her daughter! No, not as I knows, if you please!”
“You are a dreadful man, and you gave her a dreadful name, Captain Woolcomb!” says mamma.
“It wasn’t me. It was the surgeon, you know, Miss Agnes: a doocid funny and witty132 fellow, Nixon is — and sent a thing once to Punch, Nixon did. I heard him make the riddle133 in Albany Barracks, and it riled Foker so! You’ve no idea how it riled Foker, for he’s in it!”
“In it?” asks Agnes, with the gentle smile, the candid134 blue eyes — the same eyes, expression, lips, that smile and sparkle at Philip.
“Here it is! Captain! Took it down. Wrote it into my pocket-book at once as Nixon made it. ‘All doctors like my first, that’s clear!’ Doctor Firmin does that. Old Parr Street party! Don’t you see, Miss Agnes? Fee! Don’t you see?”
“Fee! Oh, you droll97 thing!” cries Agnes, smiling, radiant, very much puzzled.
“‘My second,’” goes on the young officer — "‘My second gives us Foker’s beer!’”
“‘My whole’s the shortest month in all the year!’ Don’t you see, Mrs. Twysden? Fee-Brewery, don’t you see? February! A doocid good one, isn’t it now? and I wonder Punch never put it in. And upon my word, I used to spell it Febuary before, I did; and I daresay ever so many fellows do still. And I know the right way now, and all from that riddle which Nixon made.”
The ladies declare he is a droll man, and full of fun. He rattles135 on, artlessly telling his little stories of sport, drink, adventure, in which the dusky little man himself is a prominent figure. Not honey-mouthed Plato would be listened to more kindly by those three ladies. A bland82, frank smile shines over Talbot Twysden’s noble face, as he comes in from his office, and finds the creole prattling. “What! you here, Woolcomb? Hey! Glad to see you!” And the gallant136 hand goes out and meets and grasps Woolcomb’s tiny kid glove.
“He has been so amusing, papa! He has been making us die with laughing! Tell papa that riddle you made, Captain Woolcomb?”
“That riddle I made? That riddle Nixon, our surgeon, made. ‘All doctors like my first, that’s clear,’”
And da capo. And the family, as he expounds137 this admirable rebus138, gather round the young officer in a group, and the curtain drops.
As in a theatre booth at a fair there are two or three performances in a day, so in Beaunash Street a little genteel comedy is played twice:— at four o’clock with Mr. Firmin, at five o’clock with Mr. Woolcomb; and for both young gentlemen same smiles, same eyes, same voice, same welcome. Ah, bravo! ah, encore!
收听单词发音 |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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reconciliations
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| 和解( reconciliation的名词复数 )； 一致； 勉强接受； （争吵等的）止息 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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25
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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26
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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27
baboons
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| n.狒狒( baboon的名词复数 ) | |
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28
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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29
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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30
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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31
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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32
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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33
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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34
pinions
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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35
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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36
acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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37
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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38
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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39
vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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40
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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41
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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42
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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43
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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44
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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45
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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46
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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47
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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48
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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49
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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50
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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51
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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52
primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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53
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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54
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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55
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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56
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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57
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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59
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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60
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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61
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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62
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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63
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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64
grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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65
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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66
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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67
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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68
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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69
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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70
bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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72
surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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73
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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74
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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75
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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76
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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77
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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78
slants
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| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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79
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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80
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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81
larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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82
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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83
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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84
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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85
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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86
pawning
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的现在分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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87
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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88
prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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89
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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90
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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91
spouts
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| n.管口( spout的名词复数 )；（喷出的）水柱；（容器的）嘴；在困难中v.（指液体）喷出( spout的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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92
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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93
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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94
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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95
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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96
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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97
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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98
sublimity
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| 崇高，庄严，气质高尚 | |
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99
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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100
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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101
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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102
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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103
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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104
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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106
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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107
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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108
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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109
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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110
totters
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的第三人称单数 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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111
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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112
fluting
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| 有沟槽的衣料； 吹笛子； 笛声； 刻凹槽 | |
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113
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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114
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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115
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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116
swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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117
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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118
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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119
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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120
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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121
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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123
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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124
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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125
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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126
circumspection
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| n.细心，慎重 | |
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127
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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128
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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129
theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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130
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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131
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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132
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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133
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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134
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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135
rattles
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| （使）发出格格的响声， （使）作嘎嘎声( rattle的第三人称单数 )； 喋喋不休地说话； 迅速而嘎嘎作响地移动，堕下或走动； 使紧张，使恐惧 | |
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136
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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137
expounds
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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138
rebus
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| n.谜,画谜 | |
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