Mrs. Oliver looked at herself in the glass. She gave a brief, sideways look towards the clock on themantelpiece, which she had some idea was twenty minutes slow. Then she resumed her study ofher coiffure. The trouble with Mrs. Oliver was—and she admitted it freely—that her styles ofhairdressing were always being changed. She had tried almost everything in turn. A severepompadour at one time, then a windswept style where you brushed back your locks to display anintellectual brow, at least she hoped the brow was intellectual. She had tried tightly arranged curls,she had tried a kind of artistic2 disarray3. She had to admit that it did not matter very much todaywhat her type of hairdressing was, because today she was going to do what she very seldom did,wear a hat.
On the top shelf of Mrs. Oliver’s wardrobe there reposed4 four hats. One was definitely allottedto weddings. When you went to a wedding, a hat was a “must.” But even then Mrs. Oliver kepttwo. One, in a round bandbox, was of feathers. It fitted closely to the head and stood up very wellto sudden squalls of rain if they should overtake one unexpectedly as one passed from a car to theinterior of the sacred edifice5, or as so often nowadays, a registrar’s office.
The other, and more elaborate, hat was definitely for attending a wedding held on a Saturdayafternoon in summer. It had flowers and chiffon and a covering of yellow net attached withmimosa.
The other two hats on the shelf were of a more all-purpose character. One was what Mrs. Olivercalled her “country house hat,” made of tan felt suitable for wearing with tweeds of almost anypattern, with a becoming brim that you could turn up or turn down.
Mrs. Oliver had a cashmere pullover for warmth and a thin pullover for hot days, either ofwhich was suitable in colour to go with this. However, though the pullovers were frequently worn,the hat was practically never worn. Because, really, why put on a hat just to go to the country andhave a meal with your friends?
The fourth hat was the most expensive of the lot and it had extraordinarily6 durable7 advantagesabout it. Possibly, Mrs. Oliver sometimes thought, because it was so expensive. It consisted of akind of turban of various layers of contrasting velvets, all of rather becoming pastel shades whichwould go with anything.
Mrs. Oliver paused in doubt and then called for assistance.
“Maria,” she said, then louder, “Maria. Come here a minute.”
Maria came. She was used to being asked to give advice on what Mrs. Oliver was thinking ofwearing.
“Going to wear your lovely smart hat, are you?” said Maria.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wanted to know whether you think it looks best this way or the otherway round.”
Maria stood back and took a look.
“Well, that’s back to front you’re wearing it now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know that quite well. But I thought somehow it lookedbetter that way.”
“Oh, why should it?” said Maria.
“Well, it’s meant, I suppose. But it’s got to be meant by me as well as the shop that sold it,” saidMrs. Oliver.
“Why do you think it’s better the wrong way round?”
“Because you get that lovely shade of blue and the dark brown, and I think that looks better thanthe other way which is green with the red and the chocolate colour.”
At this point Mrs. Oliver removed the hat, put it on again and tried it wrong way round, rightway round and sideways, which both she and Maria disapproved8 of.
“You can’t have it the wide way. I mean, it’s wrong for your face, isn’t it? It’d be wrong foranyone’s face.”
“No. That won’t do. I think I’ll have it the right way round, after all.”
“Well, I think it’s safer always,” said Maria.
Mrs. Oliver took off the hat. Maria assisted her to put on a well cut, thin woollen dress of adelicate puce colour, and helped her to adjust the hat.
“You look ever so smart,” said Maria.
That was what Mrs. Oliver liked so much about Maria. If given the least excuse for saying so,she always approved and gave praise.
“Going to make a speech at the luncheon, are you?” Maria asked.
“A speech!” Mrs. Oliver sounded horrified9. “No, of course not. You know I never makespeeches.”
“Well, I thought they always did at these here literary luncheons10. That’s what you’re going to,isn’t it? Famous writers of 1973—or whichever year it is we’ve got to now.”
“I don’t need to make a speech,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Several other people who like doing it willbe making speeches, and they are much better at it than I would be.”
“I’m sure you’d make a lovely speech if you put your mind to it,” said Maria, adjusting herselfto the r?le of a tempter.
“No, I shouldn’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know what I can do and I know what I can’t. I can’tmake speeches. I get all worried and nervy and I should probably stammer11 or say the same thingtwice. I should not only feel silly, I should probably look silly. Now it’s all right with words. Youcan write words down or speak them into a machine or dictate12 them. I can do things with words solong as I know it’s not a speech I’m making.”
“Oh well. I hope everything’ll go all right. But I’m sure it will. Quite a grand luncheon, isn’tit?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a deeply depressed13 voice. “Quite a grand luncheon.”
And why, she thought, but did not say, why on earth am I going to it? She searched her mind fora bit because she always really liked knowing what she was going to do instead of doing it firstand wondering why she had done it afterwards.
“I suppose,” she said, again to herself and not to Maria, who had had to return rather hurriedlyto the kitchen, summoned by a smell of overflowing14 jam which she happened to have on the stove,“I wanted to see what it felt like. I’m always being asked to literary lunches or something like thatand I never go.”
Mrs. Oliver arrived at the last course of the grand luncheon with a sigh of satisfaction as she toyedwith the remains15 of the meringue on her plate. She was particularly fond of meringues and it was adelicious last course in a very delicious luncheon. Nevertheless, when one reached middle age,one had to be careful with meringues. One’s teeth? They looked all right, they had the greatadvantage that they could not ache, they were white and quite agreeable looking—just like the realthing. But it was true enough that they were not real teeth. And teeth that were not real teeth—orso Mrs. Oliver believed—were not really of high-class material. Dogs, she had always understood,had teeth of real ivory, but human beings had teeth merely of bone. Or, she supposed, if they werefalse teeth, of plastic. Anyway, the point was that you mustn’t get involved in some rather shame-making appearance, which false teeth might lead you into. Lettuce16 was a difficulty, and saltedalmonds, and such things as chocolates with hard centres, clinging caramels and the deliciousstickiness and adherence17 of meringues. With a sigh of satisfaction, she dealt with the finalmouthful. It had been a good lunch, a very good lunch.
Mrs. Oliver was fond of her creature comforts. She had enjoyed the luncheon very much. Shehad enjoyed the company, too. The luncheon, which had been given to celebrated18 female writers,had fortunately not been confined to female writers only. There had been other writers, and critics,and those who read books as well as those who wrote them. Mrs. Oliver had sat between two verycharming members of the male sex. Edwin Aubyn, whose poetry she always enjoyed, anextremely entertaining person who had had various entertaining experiences in his tours abroad,and various literary and personal adventures. Also he was interested in restaurants and food andthey had talked very happily about food, and left the subject of literature aside.
Sir Wesley Kent, on her other side, had also been an agreeable luncheon companion. He hadsaid very nice things about her books, and had had the tact19 to say things that did not make her feelembarrassed, which many people could do almost without trying. He had mentioned one or tworeasons why he had liked one or other of her books, and they had been the right reasons, andtherefore Mrs. Oliver had thought favourably20 of him for that reason. Praise from men, Mrs. Oliverthought to herself, is always acceptable. It was women who gushed21. Some of the things thatwomen wrote to her! Really! Not always women, of course. Sometimes emotional young menfrom very far away countries. Only last week she had received a fan letter beginning “Readingyour book, I feel what a noble woman you must be.” After reading The Second Goldfish he hadthen gone off into an intense kind of literary ecstasy22 which was, Mrs. Oliver felt, completelyunfitting. She was not unduly23 modest. She thought the detective stories she wrote were quite goodof their kind. Some were not so good and some were much better than others. But there was noreason, so far as she could see, to make anyone think that she was a noble woman. She was alucky woman who had established a happy knack24 of writing what quite a lot of people wanted toread. Wonderful luck that was, Mrs. Oliver thought to herself.
Well, all things considered, she had got through this ordeal25 very well. She had quite enjoyedherself, talked to some nice people. Now they were moving to where coffee was being handedround and where you could change partners and chat with other people. This was the moment ofdanger, as Mrs. Oliver knew well. This was now where other women would come and attack her.
Attack her with fulsome26 praise, and where she always felt lamentably27 inefficient28 at giving the rightanswers because there weren’t really any right answers that you could give. It went really ratherlike a travel book for going abroad with the right phrases.
Question: “I must tell you how very fond I am of reading your books and how wonderful I thinkthey are.”
Answer from flustered29 author, “Well, that’s very kind. I am so glad.”
“You must understand that I’ve been waiting to meet you for months. It really is wonderful.”
“Oh, it’s very nice of you. Very nice indeed.”
It went on very much like that. Neither of you seemed to be able to talk about anything ofoutside interest. It had to be all about your books, or the other woman’s books if you knew whather books were. You were in the literary web and you weren’t good at this sort of stuff. Somepeople could do it, but Mrs. Oliver was bitterly aware of not having the proper capacity. A foreignfriend of hers had once put her, when she was staying at an embassy abroad, through a kind ofcourse.
“I listen to you,” Albertina had said in her charming, low, foreign voice, “I have listened towhat you say to that young man who came from the newspaper to interview you. You have not got—no! you have not got the pride you should have in your work. You should say ‘Yes, I write well.
I write better than anyone else who writes detective stories.’?”
“But I don’t,” Mrs. Oliver had said at that moment. “I’m not bad, but—”
“Ah, do not say ‘I don’t’ like that. You must say you do; even if you do not think you do, youought to say you do.”
“I wish, Albertina,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that you could interview these journalists who come.
You would do it so well. Can’t you pretend to be me one day, and I’ll listen behind the door?”
“Yes, I suppose I could do it. It would be rather fun. But they would know I was not you. Theyknow your face. But you must say ‘Yes, yes, I know that I am better than anyone else.’ You mustsay that to everybody. They should know it. They should announce it. Oh yes—it is terrible tohear you sitting there and say things as though you apologize for what you are. It must not be likethat.”
It had been rather, Mrs. Oliver thought, as though she had been a budding actress trying to learna part, and the director had found her hopelessly bad at taking direction. Well, anyway, there’d benot much difficulty here. There’d be a few waiting females when they all got up from the table. Infact, she could see one or two hovering30 already. That wouldn’t matter much. She would go andsmile and be nice and say “So kind of you. I’m so pleased. One is so glad to know people likeone’s books.” All the stale old things. Rather as you put a hand into a box and took out someuseful words already strung together like a necklace of beads31. And then, before very long now, shecould leave.
Her eyes went round the table because she might perhaps see some friends there as well aswould-be admirers. Yes, she did see in the distance Maurine Grant, who was great fun. Themoment came, the literary women and the attendant cavaliers who had also attended the lunch,rose. They streamed towards chairs, towards coffee tables, towards sofas, and confidential33 corners.
The moment of peril34, Mrs. Oliver often thought of it to herself, though usually at cocktail35 and notliterary parties because she seldom went to the latter. At any moment the danger might arise, assomeone whom you did not remember but who remembered you, or someone whom you definitelydid not want to talk to but whom you found you could not avoid. In this case it was the firstdilemma that came to her. A large woman. Ample proportions, large white champing teeth. Whatin French could have been called une femme formidable, but who definitely had not only theFrench variety of being formidable, but the English one of being supremely36 bossy37. Obviously sheeither knew Mrs. Oliver, or was intent on making her acquaintance there and then. The last washow it happened to go.
“Oh, Mrs. Oliver,” she said in a high-pitched voice. “What a pleasure to meet you today. I havewanted to for so long. I simply adore your books. So does my son. And my husband used to insiston never travelling without at least two of your books. But come, do sit down. There are so manythings I want to ask you about.”
Oh well, thought Mrs. Oliver, not my favourite type of woman, this. But as well her as anyother.
She allowed herself to be conducted in a firm way rather as a police officer might have done.
She was taken to a settee for two across a corner, and her new friend accepted coffee and placedcoffee before her also.
“There. Now we are settled. I don’t suppose you know my name. I am Mrs. Burton-Cox.”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, embarrassed, as usual. Mrs. Burton-Cox? Did she write books also?
No, she couldn’t really remember anything about her. But she seemed to have heard the name. Afaint thought came to her. A book on politics, something like that? Not fiction, not fun, not crime.
Perhaps a highbrow intellectual with political bias38? That ought to be easy, Mrs. Oliver thoughtwith relief. I can just let her talk and say “How interesting!” from time to time.
“You’ll be very surprised, really, at what I’m going to say,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “But I havefelt, from reading your books, how sympathetic you are, how much you understand of humannature. And I feel that if there is anyone who can give me an answer to the question I want to ask,you will be the one to do so.”
“I don’t think, really .?.?.” said Mrs. Oliver, trying to think of suitable words to say that she feltvery uncertain of being able to rise to the heights demanded of her.
Mrs. Burton-Cox dipped a lump of sugar in her coffee and crunched39 it in a rather carnivorousway, as though it was a bone. Ivory teeth, perhaps, thought Mrs. Oliver vaguely40. Ivory? Dogs hadivory, walruses41 had ivory and elephants had ivory, of course. Great big tusks42 of ivory. Mrs.
Burton-Cox was saying:
“Now the first thing I must ask you — I’m pretty sure I am right, though — you have agoddaughter, haven’t you? A goddaughter who’s called Celia Ravenscroft?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Oliver, rather pleasurably surprised. She felt she could deal perhaps with agoddaughter. She had a good many goddaughters—and godsons, for that matter. There weretimes, she had to admit as the years were growing upon her, when she couldn’t remember them all.
She had done her duty in due course, one’s duty being to send toys to your godchildren atChristmas in their early years, to visit them and their parents, or to have them visit you during thecourse of their upbringing, to take the boys out from school perhaps, and the girls also. And then,when the crowning days came, either the twenty-first birthday at which a godmother must do theright thing and let it be acknowledged to be done, and do it handsomely, or else marriage whichentailed the same type of gift and a financial or other blessing43. After that godchildren ratherreceded into the middle or far distance. They married or went abroad to foreign countries, foreignembassies, or taught in foreign schools or took up social projects. Anyway, they faded little bylittle out of your life. You were pleased to see them if they suddenly, as it were, floated up on thehorizon again. But you had to remember to think when you had seen them last, whose daughtersthey were, what link had led to your being chosen as a godmother.
“Celia Ravenscroft,” said Mrs. Oliver, doing her best. “Yes, yes, of course. Yes, definitely.”
Not that any picture rose before her eyes of Celia Ravenscroft, not, that is, since a very earlytime. The christening. She’d gone to Celia’s christening and had found a very nice Queen Annesilver strainer as a christening present. Very nice. Do nicely for straining milk and would also bethe sort of thing a goddaughter could always sell for a nice little sum if she wanted ready money atany time. Yes, she remembered the strainer very well indeed. Queen Anne—Seventeen-eleven ithad been. Britannia mark. How much easier it was to remember silver coffeepots or strainers orchristening mugs than it was the actual child.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, of course. I’m afraid I haven’t seen Celia for a very long time now.”
“Ah yes. She is, of course, a rather impulsive44 girl,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, she’schanged her ideas very often. Of course, very intellectual, did very well at university, but—herpolitical notions—I suppose all young people have political notions nowadays.”
“I’m afraid I don’t deal much with politics,” said Mrs. Oliver, to whom politics had always beenanathema.
“You see, I’m going to confide32 in you. I’m going to tell you exactly what it is I want to know.
I’m sure you won’t mind. I’ve heard from so many people how kind you are, how willing always.”
I wonder if she’s going to try and borrow money from me, thought Mrs. Oliver, who had knownmany interviews that began with this kind of approach.
“You see, it is a matter of the greatest moment to me. Something that I really feel I must findout. Celia, you see, is going to marry—or thinks she is going to marry—my son, Desmond.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Mrs. Oliver.
“At least, that is their idea at present. Of course, one has to know about people, and there’ssomething I want very much to know. It’s an extraordinary thing to ask anyone and I couldn’t go—well, I mean, I couldn’t very well go and ask a stranger, but I don’t feel you are a stranger, dearMrs. Oliver.”
Mrs. Oliver thought, I wish you did. She was getting nervous now. She wondered if Celia hadhad an illegitimate baby or was going to have an illegitimate baby, and whether she, Mrs. Oliver,was supposed to know about it and give details. That would be very awkward. On the other hand,thought Mrs. Oliver, I haven’t seen her now for five or six years and she must be about twenty-fiveor -six, so it would be quite easy to say I don’t know anything.
Mrs. Burton-Cox leaned forward and breathed hard.
“I want you to tell me because I’m sure you must know or perhaps have a very good idea how itall came about. Did her mother kill her father or was it the father who killed the mother?”
Whatever Mrs. Oliver had expected, it was certainly not that. She stared at Mrs. Burton-Coxunbelievingly.
“But I don’t—” She stopped. “I—I can’t understand. I mean—what reason—”
“Dear Mrs. Oliver, you must know .?.?. I mean, such a famous case .?.?. Of course, I know it’s along time ago now, well, I suppose ten—twelve years at least, but it did cause a lot of attention atthe time. I’m sure you’ll remember, you must remember.”
Mrs. Oliver’s brain was working desperately45. Celia was her goddaughter. That was quite true.
Celia’s mother—yes, of course. Celia’s mother had been Molly Preston-Grey, who had been afriend of hers, though not a particularly intimate one, and of course she had married a man in theArmy, yes — what was his name — Sir Something Ravenscroft. Or was he an ambassador?
Extraordinary, one couldn’t remember these things. She couldn’t even remember whether sheherself had been Molly’s bridesmaid. She thought she had. Rather a smart wedding at the GuardsChapel or something like that. But one did forget so. And after that she hadn’t met them for years—they’d been out somewhere—in the Middle East? In Persia? In Iraq? One time in Egypt?
Malaya? Very occasionally, when they had been visiting England, she met them again. But they’dbeen like one of those photographs that one takes and looks at. One knows the people vaguelywho are in it but it’s so faded that you really can’t recognize them or remember who they were.
And she couldn’t remember now whether Sir Something Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft, bornMolly Preston-Grey, had entered much into her life. She didn’t think so. But then .?.?. Mrs. Burton-Cox was still looking at her. Looking at her as though disappointed in her lack of savoir-faire, herinability to remember what had evidently been a cause célèbre.
“Killed? You mean—an accident?”
“Oh no. Not an accident. In one of those houses by the sea. Cornwall, I think. Somewherewhere there were rocks. Anyway, they had a house down there. And they were both found on thecliff there and they’d been shot, you know. But there was nothing really by which the police couldtell whether the wife shot the husband and then shot herself, or whether the husband shot the wifeand then shot himself. They went into the evidence of the—you know—of the bullets and thevarious things, but it was very difficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact46 and—I forget whatthe verdict was. Something—it could have been misadventure or something like that. But ofcourse everyone knew it must have been meant, and there were a lot of stories that went about, ofcourse, at the time—”
“Probably all invented ones,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, trying to remember even one of thestories if she could.
“Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of a quarrel either that dayor before, there was some talk of another man, and then of course there was the usual talk aboutsome other woman. And one never knows which way it was about. I think things were hushed upa good deal because General Ravenscroft’s position was rather a high one, and I think it was saidthat he’d been in a nursing home that year, and he’d been very run down or something, and that hereally didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I’m really afraid,” said Mrs. Oliver, speaking firmly, “that I must say that I don’t knowanything about it. I do remember, now you mention it, that there was such a case, and I rememberthe names and that I knew the people, but I never knew what happened or anything at all about it.
And I really don’t think I have the least idea. .?.?.”
And really, thought Mrs. Oliver, wishing she was brave enough to say it, how on earth you havethe impertinence to ask me such a thing I don’t know.
“It’s very important that I should know,” Mrs. Burton-Cox said.
Her eyes, which were rather like hard marbles, started to snap.
“It’s important, you see, because of my boy, my dear boy wanting to marry Celia.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’ve never heard anything.”
“But you must know,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I mean, you write these wonderful stories, youknow all about crime. You know who commits crimes and why they do it, and I’m sure that allsorts of people will tell you the story behind the story, as one so much thinks of these things.”
“I don’t know anything,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a voice which no longer held very muchpoliteness, and definitely now spoke48 in tones of distaste.
“But you do see that really one doesn’t know who to go to ask about it? I mean, one couldn’t goto the police after all these years, and I don’t suppose they’d tell you anyway because obviouslythey were trying to hush47 it up. But I feel it’s important to get the truth.”
“I only write books,” said Mrs. Oliver coldly. “They are entirely49 fictional50. I know nothingpersonally about crime and have no opinions on criminology. So I’m afraid I can’t help you in anyway.”
“But you could ask your goddaughter. You could ask Celia.”
“Ask Celia!” Mrs. Oliver stared again. “I don’t see how I could do that. She was—why, I thinkshe must have been quite a child when this tragedy happened.”
“Oh, I expect she knew all about it, though,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “Children always knoweverything. And she’d tell you. I’m sure she’d tell you.”
“You’d better ask her yourself, I should think,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I don’t think I could really do that,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. “I don’t think, you know, thatDesmond would like it. You know he’s rather—well, he’s rather touchy51 where Celia is concernedand I really don’t think that—no—I’m sure she’d tell you.”
“I really shouldn’t dream of asking her,” said Mrs. Oliver. She made a pretence52 of looking ather watch. “Oh dear,” she said, “what a long time we’ve been over this delightful53 lunch. I must runnow, I have a very important appointment. Goodbye, Mrs.—er—Bedley-Cox, so sorry I can’t helpyou but these things are rather delicate and—does it really make any difference anyway, from yourpoint of view?”
“Oh, I think it makes all the difference.”
At that moment, a literary figure whom Mrs. Oliver knew well drifted past. Mrs. Oliver jumpedup to catch her by the arm.
“Louise, my dear, how lovely to see you. I hadn’t noticed you were here.”
“Oh, Ariadne, it’s a long time since I’ve seen you. You’ve grown a lot thinner, haven’t you?”
“What nice things you always say to me,” said Mrs. Oliver, engaging her friend by the arm andretreating from the settee. “I’m rushing away because I’ve got an appointment.”
“I suppose you got tied up with that awful woman, didn’t you?” said her friend, looking overher shoulder at Mrs. Burton-Cox.
“She was asking me the most extraordinary questions,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Oh. Didn’t you know how to answer them?”
“No. They weren’t any of my business anyway. I didn’t know anything about them. Anyway, Iwouldn’t have wanted to answer them.”
“Was it about anything interesting?”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver, letting a new idea come into her head. “I suppose it might beinteresting, only—”
“She’s getting up to chase you,” said her friend. “Come along. I’ll see you get out and give youa lift to anywhere you want to go if you haven’t got your car here.”
“I never take my car about in London, it’s so awful to park.”
“I know it is. Absolutely deadly.”
Mrs. Oliver made the proper goodbyes. Thanks, words of greatly expressed pleasure, andpresently was being driven round a London square.
“Eaton Terrace, isn’t it?” said the kindly54 friend.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but where I’ve got to go now is—I think it’s Whitefriars Mansions55. Ican’t quite remember the name of it, but I know where it is.”
“Oh, flats. Rather modern ones. Very square and geometrical.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
luncheon
|
|
| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
disarray
|
|
| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
reposed
|
|
| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
edifice
|
|
| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
extraordinarily
|
|
| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
durable
|
|
| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
disapproved
|
|
| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
horrified
|
|
| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
luncheons
|
|
| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
stammer
|
|
| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
dictate
|
|
| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
overflowing
|
|
| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
lettuce
|
|
| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
adherence
|
|
| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
tact
|
|
| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
favourably
|
|
| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
gushed
|
|
| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
ecstasy
|
|
| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
unduly
|
|
| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
knack
|
|
| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
ordeal
|
|
| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
fulsome
|
|
| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
lamentably
|
|
| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
inefficient
|
|
| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
flustered
|
|
| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
hovering
|
|
| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
confide
|
|
| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
confidential
|
|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
peril
|
|
| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
cocktail
|
|
| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
supremely
|
|
| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
bossy
|
|
| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
bias
|
|
| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
crunched
|
|
| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
walruses
|
|
| n.海象( walrus的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
tusks
|
|
| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
blessing
|
|
| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
impulsive
|
|
| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
desperately
|
|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
pact
|
|
| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
hush
|
|
| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
fictional
|
|
| adj.小说的，虚构的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
touchy
|
|
| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
pretence
|
|
| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
mansions
|
|
| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |