My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely1 our usual manner. She left her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she plucked from my lapel the invisible strand2 of lint3 (the universal act of woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I had no cold. Next came her kiss of parting - the lever kiss of domesticity flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the extemporaneous4, of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft5 touch of long malpractice, she dabbed6 awry7 my well-set scarf pin; and then, as I closed the door, I heard her morning slippers8 pattering back to her cooling tea.
When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur. The attack came suddenly.
For many weeks I had been toiling10, almost night and day, at a famous railroad law case that I won triumphantly11 but a few days previously12. In fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for many years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician, had warned me.
"If you don't slacken up, Belford," he said, "you'll go suddenly to pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me, does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of aphasia13 - of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his identity blotted14 out - and all from that little brain clot15 made by overwork or worry?"
"I always thought," said I, "that the clot in those instances was really to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters."
Doctor Volney shook his head.
"The disease exists," he said. "You need a change or a rest. Court-room, office and home - there is the only route you travel. For recreation you - read law books. Better take warning in time."
"On Thursday nights," I said, defensively, "my wife and I play cribbage. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law books are not a recreation remains16 yet to be established."
That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was feeling as well as I usually did - possibly in better spirits than usual.
I woke with stiff and cramped17 muscles from having slept long on the incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: "I must have a name of some sort." I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or monogram18 could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of large denomination19. "I must be some one, of course," I repeated to myself, and began again to consider.
The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there must have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and seemed in the best good humor and spirits. One of them - a stout20, spectacled gentleman enveloped21 in a decided22 odor of cinnamon and aloes - took the vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervals23 between his periods of reading, we conversed24, as travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able to sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to my memory. By and by my companion said:
"You are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this time. I'm glad they held the convention in New York; I've never been East before. My name's R. P. Bolder - Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove25, Missouri."
Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it. Now must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent. My senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent26 odor of drugs from my compainion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper, where my eye met a conspicuous27 advertisement, assisted me further.
"My name," said I, glibly28, "is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and my home is in Cornopolis, Kansas."
"I knew you were a druggist," said my fellow traveler, affably. "I saw the callous29 spot on your right forefinger30 where the handle of the pestle31 rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention."
"Are all these men druggists?" I asked, wonderingly.
"They are. This car came through from the West. And they're your old-time druggists, too - none of your patent tablet-and-granule pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription32 desk. We percolate33 our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't above handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side line of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I've got an idea to spring on this convention - new ideas is what they want. Now, you know the shelf bottles of tartar emetic35 and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart34. and Sod. et Pot. Tart. - one's poison, you know, and the other's harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different shelves. That's wrong. I say keep 'em side by side, so when you want one you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you catch the idea?"
"It seems to me a very good one," I said.
"All right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream professors that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like hypodermic tablets."
"If I can be of any aid," I said, warming, "the two bottles of - er -"
"Tartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda36 and potash."
"Shall henceforth sit side by side," I concluded, firmly.
"Now, there's another thing," said Mr. Bolder. "For an excipient in manipulating a pill mass which do you prefer - the magnesia carbonate or the pulverised glycerrhiza radix?"
"The - er - magnesia," I said. It was easier to say than the other word.
Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles.
"Give me the glycerrhiza," said he. "Magnesia cakes."
"Here's another one of these fake aphasia cases," he said, presently, handing me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. "I don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory - don't know his own name, and won't even recognize the strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why can't they stay at home and forget?"
I took the paper and read, after the pungent37 headlines, the following:
"DENVER, June 12. - Elwyn C. Belford, a prominent lawyer, is mysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known citizen of the highest standing38, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative39 law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library in the State. On the day of his disappearance40, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of singularly quiet and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it my be found in the fact that for some months he has been deeply absorbed in an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Railroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected41 his mind. Every effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the missing man."
"It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder," I said, after I had read the despatch42. "This has the sound, to me, of a genuine case. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected, choose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses43 of memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name, a history or a home."
"Oh, gammon and jalap!" said Mr. Bolder. "It's larks44 they're after. There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they use it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they look you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: 'He hypnotized me.'"
Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and philosophy.
We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel, and I wrote my name "Edward Pinkhammer" in the register. As I did so I felt pervade45 me a splendid, wild, intoxicating46 buoyancy - a sense of unlimited47 freedom, of newly attained48 possibilities. I was just born into the world. The old fetters49 - whatever they had been - were stricken from my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man's learning and experience.
I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no baggage.
"The Druggists' Convention," I said. "My trunk has somehow failed to arrive." I drew out a roll of money.
"Ah!" said he, showing an auriferous tooth, "we have quite a number of the Western delegates stopping here." He struck a bell for the boy.
I endeavored to give color to my role.
"There is an important movement on foot among us Westerners," I said, "in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles containing the tartrate of antimoney and potash, and the tartrate of sodium50 and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf."
"Gentleman to three-fourteen," said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked away to my room.
The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve problems of the past.
It was a piquant51 and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him who is able to bear them. You must be either the city's guest or its victim.
The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having come upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens, that transported one into strange and delightful52 lands full of frolicsome53 music, pretty girls and grotesque54 drolly55 extravagant56 parodies57 upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will, bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird58 cabarets, at weirder59 tables d'hote to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild shouts of mercurial60 artists and sculptors61. Or, again, where the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic picture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn62, and the men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that I have mentioned I learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is that the key to liberty is not in the hands of License63, but Convention holds it. Comity64 has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming disorder65, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail. Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on shackles66.
Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly murmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in steamers packed with vociferous67, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks and shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there was always Broadway - glistening68, opulent, wily, varying, desirable Broadway - growing upon one like an opium69 habit.
One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a black mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed around him, he greet me with offensive familiarity.
"Hello, Bellford!" he cried, loudly. "What the deuce are you doing in New York? Didn't know anything could drag you away from that old book den9 of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone, eh?"
"You have made a mistake, sir," I said, coldly, releasing my hand from his grasp. "My name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me."
The man dropped to one side, apparently70 astonished. As I walked to the clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about telegraph blanks.
"You will give me my bill," I said to the clerk, "and have my baggage brought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed by confidence men."
I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate71, old-fashioned one on lower Fifth Avenue.
There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be served almost al fresco72 in a tropic array of screening flora73. Quiet and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take luncheon74 or refreshment75. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught.
"Mr. Bellford!" exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.
I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone - a lady of about thirty, with exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been her very dear friend.
"You were about to pass me," she said, accusingly. "Don't tell me you do not know me. Why should we not shake hands - at least once in fifteen years?"
I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the table. I summoned with my eyebrows76 a hovering77 waiter. The lady was philandering78 with an orange ice. I ordered a creme de menthe. Her hair was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could not look away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are conscious of sunset while you look into the profundities79 of a wood at twilight80.
"Are you sure you know me?" I asked.
"No," she said, smiling. "I was never sure of that."
"What would you think," I said, a little anxiously, "if I were to tell you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?"
"What would I think?" she repeated, with a merry glance. "Why, that you had not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do wish you had. I would have liked to see Marian." Her voice lowered slightly - "You haven't changed much, Elwyn."
I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely.
"Yes, you have," she amended81, and there was a soft, exultant82 note in her latest tones; "I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't forgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could."
I poked83 my straw anxiously in the creme de menthe.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon," I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. "But that is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I've forgotten everything."
She flouted84 my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed to see in my face.
"I've heard of you at times," she went on. "You're quite a big lawyer out West - Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of you. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You may have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand dollars."
She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
"Would it be too late," I asked, somewhat timorously85, "to offer you congratulations?"
"Not if you dare do it," she answered, with such fine intrepidity86 that I was silent, and began to crease87 patterns on the cloth with my thumb nail.
"Tell me one thing," she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly - "a thing I have wanted to know for many years - just from a woman's curiosity, of course - have you ever dared since that night to touch, smell or look at white roses - at white roses wet with rain and dew?"
I took a sip88 of creme de menthe.
"It would be useless, I suppose," I said, with a sigh, "for me to repeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it."
The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained89 my words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound - it was a laugh of happiness - yes, and of content - and of misery90. I tried to look away from her.
"You lie, Elwyn Bellford," she breathed, blissfully. "Oh, I know you lie!"
I gazed dully into the ferns.
"My name is Edward Pinkhammer," I said. "I came with the delegates to the Druggists' National Convention. There is a movement on foot for arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and tartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little interest."
A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her hand, and bowed.
"I am deeply sorry," I said to her, "that I cannot remember. I could explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the - the roses and other things."
"Good-by, Mr. Bellford," she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as she stepped into her carriage.
I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet man in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
"Mr. Pinkhammer," he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his forefinger, "may I request you to step aside with me for a little conversation? There is a room here."
"Certainly," I answered.
He conducted me into a small, private parlor91. A lady and a gentleman were there. The lady, I surmised92, would have been unusually good-looking had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen worry and fatigue93. She was of a style of figure and possessed94 coloring and features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling dress; she fixed95 upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom96. I think she would have started forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative97 motion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face.
"Bellford, old man," he said, cordially, "I'm glad to see you again. Of course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you were overdoing98 it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in no time."
I smiled ironically.
"I have been 'Bellforded' so often," I said, "that it has lost its edge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and that I never saw you before in my life?"
Before the man could reply a wailing99 cry came from the woman. She sprang past his detaining arm. "Elwyn!" she sobbed100, and cast herself upon me, and clung tight. "Elwyn," she cried again, "don't break my heart. I am your wife - call my name once - just once. I could see you dead rather than this way."
I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly.
"Madam," I said, severely101, "pardon me if I suggest that you accept a resemblance too precipitately102. It is a pity," I went on, with an amused laugh, as the thought occurred to me, "that this Bellford and I could not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium and antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the allusion," I concluded airily, "it may be necessary for you to keep an eye on the proceedings103 of the Druggists' National Convention."
The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm.
"What is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?" she moaned.
"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say. "I will remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not - only a portion of the brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him."
The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still manicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall.
"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may," said the gentleman who remained.
"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired." I stretched myself upon a couch by a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby.
"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly104. "Your name is not Pinkhammer."
"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly. "But a man must have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly105 admire the name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self suddenly, the fine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."
"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford. You are one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your wife."
"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a judicial106 pause. "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair."
"She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man from Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you did not recognize him."
"I think I remember the occasion," I said. "The fellow called me 'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time, now, for you to introduce yourself?"
"I am Robert Volney - Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford to trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man - try to remember!"
"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown. "You say you are a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it return slowly, or suddenly?"
"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it went."
"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I asked.
"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and will have done everything that science can do to cure you."
"Very well," said I. "Then you will consider that I am your patient. Everything is in confidence now - professional confidence."
"Of course," said Doctor Volney.
I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the centre table - a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant107. I threw them far out of the window, and then laid myself upon the couch again.
"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly. I'm rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in. But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin - "good old Doc - it was glorious!"
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precisely
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strand
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lint
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extemporaneous
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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awry
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slippers
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den
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toiling
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triumphantly
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previously
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aphasia
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| n.失语症 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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clot
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remains
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cramped
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monogram
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denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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enveloped
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decided
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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conversed
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grove
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insistent
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conspicuous
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glibly
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callous
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forefinger
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pestle
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prescription
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percolate
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tart
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emetic
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soda
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pungent
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standing
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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40
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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41
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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42
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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43
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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44
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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45
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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46
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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47
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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48
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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49
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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50
sodium
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| n.（化）钠 | |
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51
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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52
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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54
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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55
drolly
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| adv.古里古怪地；滑稽地；幽默地；诙谐地 | |
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56
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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57
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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weirder
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| 怪诞的( weird的比较级 )； 神秘而可怕的； 超然的； 古怪的 | |
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mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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61
sculptors
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| 雕刻家，雕塑家( sculptor的名词复数 )； [天]玉夫座 | |
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adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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63
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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comity
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| n.礼让，礼仪；团结，联合 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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66
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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72
fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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74
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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76
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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77
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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78
philandering
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| v.调戏，玩弄女性( philander的现在分词 ) | |
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profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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81
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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83
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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84
flouted
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| v.藐视，轻视( flout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
timorously
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| adv.胆怯地，羞怯地 | |
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86
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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87
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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88
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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89
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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90
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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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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93
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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94
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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95
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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96
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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97
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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98
overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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99
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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100
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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101
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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102
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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103
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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104
soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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105
extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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106
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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107
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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