It was after midnight when they went into the Restaurant Sylvain; Gerald, having decided1 not to go to the hotel, had changed his mind and called there, and having called there, had remained a long time: this of course! Sophia was already accustoming2 herself to the idea that, with Gerald, it was impossible to predict accurately3 more than five minutes of the future.
As the chasseur held open the door for them to enter, and Sophia passed modestly into the glowing yellow interior of the restaurant, followed by Gerald in his character of man-of-the- world, they drew the attention of Sylvain's numerous and glittering guests. No face could have made a more provocative5 contrast to the women's faces in those screened rooms than the face of Sophia, so childlike between the baby's bonnet6 and the huge bow of ribbon, so candid7, so charmingly conscious of its own pure beauty and of the fact that she was no longer a virgin8, but the equal in knowledge of any woman alive. She saw around her, clustered about the white tables, multitudes of violently red lips, powdered cheeks, cold, hard eyes, self-possessed9 arrogant10 faces, and insolent11 bosoms12. What had impressed her more than anything else in Paris, more even than the three-horsed omnibuses, was the extraordinary self-assurance of all the women, their unashamed posing, their calm acceptance of the public gaze. They seemed to say: "We are the renowned14 Parisiennes." They frightened her: they appeared to her so corrupt15 and so proud in their corruption16. She had already seen a dozen women in various situations of conspicuousness17 apply powder to their complexions19 with no more ado than if they had been giving a pat to their hair. She could not understand such boldness. As for them, they marvelled20 at the phenomena21 presented in Sophia's person; they admired; they admitted the style of the gown; but they envied neither her innocence22 nor her beauty; they envied nothing but her youth and the fresh tint23 of her cheeks.
"Encore des Anglais!" said some of them, as if that explained all.
Gerald had a very curt24 way with waiters; and the more obsequious25 they were, the haughtier26 he became; and a head-waiter was no more to him than a scullion. He gave loud-voiced orders in French of which both he and Sophia were proud, and a table was laid for them in a corner near one of the large windows. Sophia settled herself on the bench of green velvet27, and began to ply18 the ivory fan which Gerald had given her. It was very hot; all the windows were wide open, and the sounds of the street mingled28 clearly with the tinkle29 of the supper-room. Outside, against a sky of deepest purple, Sophia could discern the black skeleton of a gigantic building; it was the new opera house.
"All sorts here!" said Gerald, contentedly30, after he had ordered iced soup and sparkling Moselle. Sophia did not know what Moselle was, but she imagined that anything would be better than champagne31.
Sylvain's was then typical of the Second Empire, and particularly famous as a supper-room. Expensive and gay, it provided, with its discreet32 decorations, a sumptuous33 scene where lorettes, actresses, respectable women, and an occasional grisette in luck, could satisfy their curiosity as to each other. In its catholicity it was highly correct as a resort; not many other restaurants in the centre could have successfully fought against the rival attractions of the Bois and the dim groves34 of the Champs Elysees on a night in August. The complicated richness of the dresses, the yards and yards of fine stitchery, the endless ruching, the hints, more or less incautious, of nether35 treasures of embroidered36 linen37; and, leaping over all this to the eye, the vivid colourings of silks and muslins, veils, plumes38 and flowers, piled as it were pell-mell in heaps on the universal green cushions to the furthest vista39 of the restaurant, and all multiplied in gilt40 mirrors--the spectacle intoxicated41 Sophia. Her eyes gleamed. She drank the soup with eagerness, and tasted the wine, though no desire on her part to like wine could make her like it; and then, seeing pineapples on a large table covered with fruits, she told Gerald that she should like some pineapple, and Gerald ordered one.
She gathered her self-esteem42 and her wits together, and began to give Gerald her views on the costumes. She could do so with impunity43, because her own was indubitably beyond criticism. Some she wholly condemned44, and there was not one which earned her unreserved approval. All the absurd fastidiousness of her schoolgirlish provinciality45 emerged in that eager, affected46 torrent47 of remarks. However, she was clever enough to read, after a time, in Gerald's tone and features, that she was making a tedious fool of herself. And she adroitly48 shifted her criticism from the taste to the WORK--she put a strong accent on the word-- and pronounced that to be miraculous49 beyond description. She reckoned that she knew what dressmaking and millinery were, and her little fund of expert knowledge caused her to picture a whole necessary cityful of girls stitching, stitching, and stitching day and night. She had wondered, during the few odd days that they had spent in Paris, between visits to Chantilly and other places, at the massed luxury of the shops; she had wondered, starting with St. Luke's Square as a standard, how they could all thrive. But now in her first real glimpse of the banal50 and licentious51 profusion52 of one among a hundred restaurants, she wondered that the shops were so few. She thought how splendid was all this expensiveness for trade. Indeed, the notions chasing each other within that lovely and foolish head were a surprising medley53.
"Well, what do you think of Sylvain's?" Gerald asked, impatient to be assured that his Sylvain's had duly overwhelmed her.
"Oh, Gerald!" she murmured, indicating that speech was inadequate54. And she just furtively55 touched his hand with hers.
The ennui56 due to her critical disquisition on the shortcomings of Parisian costume cleared away from Gerald's face.
"What do you suppose those people there are talking about?" he said with a jerk of the head towards a chattering57 group of three gorgeous lorettes and two middle-aged58 men at the next table but one.
"What are they talking about?"
"They're talking about the execution of the murderer Rivain that takes place at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. They're arranging to make up a party and go and see it."
"Oh, what a horrid59 idea!" said Sophia.
"Guillotine, you know!" said Gerald.
"But can people see it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, I think it's horrible."
"Yes, that's why people like to go and see it. Besides, the man isn't an ordinary sort of criminal at all. He's very young and good-looking, and well connected. And he killed the celebrated60 Claudine. ..."
"Claudine?"
"Claudine Jacquinot. Of course you wouldn't know. She was a tremendous--er--wrong 'un here in the forties. Made a lot of money, and retired61 to her native town."
Sophia, in spite of her efforts to maintain the role of a woman who has nothing to learn, blushed.
"Then she was older than he is."
"Thirty-five years older, if a day."
"What did he kill her for?"
"She wouldn't give him enough money. She was his mistress--or rather one of 'em. He wanted money for a young lady friend, you see. He killed her and took all the jewels she was wearing. Whenever he went to see her she always wore all her best jewels-- and you may bet a woman like that had a few. It seems she had been afraid for a long time that he meant to do for her."
"Then why did she see him? And why did she wear her jewels?"
"Because she liked being afraid, goose! Some women only enjoy themselves when they're terrified. Queer, isn't it?"
Gerald insisted on meeting his wife's gaze as he finished these revelations. He pretended that such stories were the commonest things on earth, and that to be scandalized by them was infantile. Sophia, thrust suddenly into a strange civilization perfectly62 frank in its sensuality and its sensuousness63, under the guidance of a young man to whom her half-formed intelligence was a most diverting toy--Sophia felt mysteriously uncomfortable, disturbed by sinister64, flitting phantoms65 of ideas which she only dimly apprehended66. Her eyes fell. Gerald laughed self-consciously. She would not eat any more pineapple.
Immediately afterwards there came into the restaurant an apparition67 which momentarily stopped every conversation in the room. It was a tall and mature woman who wore over a dress of purplish-black silk a vast flowing sortie de bal of vermilion velvet, looped and tasselled with gold. No other costume could live by the side of that garment, Arab in shape, Russian in colour, and Parisian in style. It blazed. The woman's heavy coiffure was bound with fillets of gold braid and crimson68 rosettes. She was followed by a young Englishman in evening dress and whiskers of the most exact correctness. The woman sailed, a little breathlessly, to a table next to Gerald's, and took possession of it with an air of use, almost of tedium69. She sat down, threw the cloak from her majestic70 bosom13, and expanded her chest. Seeming to ignore the Englishman, who superciliously71 assumed the seat opposite to her, she let her large scornful eyes travel round the restaurant, slowly and imperiously meeting the curiosity which she had evoked72. Her beauty had undoubtedly73 been dazzling, it was still effulgent74; but the blossom was about to fall. She was admirably rouged75 and powdered; her arms were glorious; her lashes76 were long. There was little fault, save the excessive ripeness of a blonde who fights in vain against obesity77. And her clothes combined audacity78 with the propriety79 of fashion. She carelessly deposed80 costly81 trinkets on the table, and then, having intimidated82 the whole company, she accepted the menu from the head-waiter and began to study it.
"That's one of 'em!" Gerald whispered to Sophia.
"One of what?" Sophia whispered.
Gerald raised his eyebrows83 warningly, and winked84. The Englishman had overheard; and a look of frigid85 displeasure passed across his proud face. Evidently he belonged to a rank much higher than Gerald's; and Gerald, though he could always comfort himself by the thought that he had been to a university with the best, felt his own inferiority and could not hide that he felt it. Gerald was wealthy; he came of a wealthy family; but he had not the habit of wealth. When he spent money furiously, he did it with bravado86, too conscious of grandeur87 and too conscious of the difficulties of acquiring that which he threw away. For Gerald had earned money. This whiskered Englishman had never earned money, never known the value of it, never imagined himself without as much of it as he might happen to want. He had the face of one accustomed to give orders and to look down upon inferiors. He was absolutely sure of himself. That his companion chiefly ignored him did not appear to incommode him in the least. She spoke88 to him in French. He replied in English, very briefly89; and then, in English, he commanded the supper. As soon as the champagne was served he began to drink; in the intervals90 of drinking he gently stroked his whiskers. The woman spoke no more.
Gerald talked more loudly. With that aristocratic Englishman observing him, he could not remain at ease. And not only did he talk more loudly; he brought into his conversation references to money, travels, and worldly experiences. While seeking to impress the Englishman, he was merely becoming ridiculous to the Englishman; and obscurely he was aware of this. Sophia noticed and regretted it. Still, feeling very unimportant herself, she was reconciled to the superiority of the whiskered Englishman as to a natural fact. Gerald's behaviour slightly lowered him in her esteem. Then she looked at him--at his well-shaped neatness, his vivacious92 face, his excellent clothes, and decided that he was much to be preferred to any heavy-jawed, long-nosed aristocrat91 alive.
The woman whose vermilion cloak lay around her like a fortification spoke to her escort. He did not understand. He tried to express himself in French, and failed. Then the woman recommenced, talking at length. When she had done he shook his head. His acquaintance with French was limited to the vocabulary of food.
"Guillotine!" he murmured, the sole word of her discourse93 that he had understood.
"Oui, oui! Guillotine. Enfin ...!" cried the woman excitedly. Encouraged by her success in conveying even one word of her remarks, she began a third time.
"Excuse me," said Gerald. "Madame is talking about the execution at Auxerre the day after to-morrow. N'est-ce-pas, madame, que vous parliez de Rivain?"
The Englishman glared angrily at Gerald's officious interruption. But the woman smiled benevolently94 on Gerald, and insisted on talking to her friend through him. And the Englishman had to make the best of the situation.
"There isn't a restaurant in Paris to-night where they aren't talking about that execution," said Gerald on his own account.
"Indeed!" observed the Englishman.
Wine affected them in different ways.
Now a fragile, short young Frenchman, with an extremely pale face ending in a thin black imperial, appeared at the entrance. He looked about, and, recognizing the woman of the scarlet95 cloak, very discreetly96 saluted97 her. Then he saw Gerald, and his worn, fatigued98 features showed a sudden, startled smile. He came rapidly forward, hat in hand, seized Gerald's palm and greeted him effusively99.
"My wife," said Gerald, with the solemn care of a man who is determined100 to prove that he is entirely101 sober.
The young man became grave and excessively ceremonious. He bowed low over Sophia's hand and kissed it. Her impulse was to laugh, but the gravity of the young man's deference102 stopped her. She glanced at Gerald, blushing, as if to say: "This comedy is not my fault." Gerald said something, the young man turned to him and his face resumed its welcoming smile.
"This is Monsieur Chirac," Gerald at length completed the introduction, "a friend of mine when I lived in Paris."
He was proud to have met by accident an acquaintance in a restaurant. It demonstrated that he was a Parisian, and improved his standing103 with the whiskered Englishman and the vermilion cloak.
"It is the first time you come Paris, madame?" Chirac addressed himself to Sophia, in limping, timorous104 English.
"Yes," she giggled105. He bowed again.
Chirac, with his best compliments, felicitated Gerald upon his marriage.
"Don't mention it!" said the humorous Gerald in English, amused at his own wit; and then: "What about this execution?"
"Ah!" replied Chirac, breathing out a long breath, and smiling at Sophia. "Rivain! Rivain!" He made a large, important gesture with his hand.
It was at once to be seen that Gerald had touched the topic which secretly ravaged106 the supper-world as a subterranean107 fire ravages108 a mine.
"I go!" said Chirac, with pride, glancing at Sophia, who smiled self-consciously.
Chirac entered upon a conversation with Gerald in French. Sophia comprehended that Gerald was surprised and impressed by what Chirac told him and that Chirac in turn was surprised. Then Gerald laboriously109 found his pocket-book, and after some fumbling110 with it handed it to Chirac so that the latter might write in it.
"Madame!" murmured Chirac, resuming his ceremonious stiffness in order to take leave. "Alors, c'est entendu, mon cher ami!" he said to Gerald, who nodded phlegmatically111. And Chirac went away to the next table but one, where were the three lorettes and the two middle-aged men. He was received there with enthusiasm.
Sophia began to be teased by a little fear that Gerald was not quite his usual self. She did not think of him as tipsy. The idea of his being tipsy would have shocked her. She did not think clearly at all. She was lost and dazed in the labyrinth112 of new and vivid impressions into which Gerald had led her. But her prudence113 was awake.
"I think I'm tired," she said in a low voice.
"You don't want to go, do you?" he asked, hurt.
"Well--"
"Oh, wait a bit!"
The owner of the vermilion cloak spoke again to Gerald, who showed that he was flattered. While talking to her he ordered a brandy- and-soda. And then he could not refrain from displaying to her his familiarity with Parisian life, and he related how he had met Hortense Schneider behind a pair of white horses. The vermilion cloak grew even more sociable114 at the mention of this resounding115 name, and chattered116 with the most agreeable vivacity117. Her friend stared inimically.
"Do you hear that?" Gerald explained to Sophia, who was sitting silent. "About Hortense Schneider--you know, we met her to-night. It seems she made a bet of a louis with some fellow, and when he lost he sent her the louis set in diamonds worth a hundred thousand francs. That's how they go on here."
"Oh!" cried Sophia, further than ever in the labyrinth.
"'Scuse me," the Englishman put in heavily. He had heard the words 'Hortense Schneider,' 'Hortense Schneider,' repeating themselves in the conversation, and at last it had occurred to him that the conversation was about Hortense Schneider. "'Scuse me," he began again. "Are you--do you mean Hortense Schneider?"
"Yes," said Gerald. "We met her to-night."
"She's in Trouville," said the Englishman, flatly.
Gerald shook his head positively118.
"I gave a supper to her in Trouville last night," said the Englishman. "And she plays at the Casino Theatre to-night."
Gerald was repulsed119 but not defeated. "What is she playing in to- night? Tell me that!" he sneered120.
"I don't see why I sh'd tell you."
"Hm!" Gerald retorted. "If what you say is true, it's a very strange thing I should have seen her in the Champs Elysees to- night, isn't it?"
The Englishman drank more wine. "If you want to insult me, sir--" he began coldly.
"Gerald!" Sophia urged in a whisper.
"Be quiet!" Gerald snapped.
A fiddler in fancy costume plunged123 into the restaurant at that moment and began to play wildly. The shock of his strange advent124 momentarily silenced the quarrel; but soon it leaped up again, under the shelter of the noisy music,--the common, tedious, tippler's quarrel. It rose higher and higher. The fiddler looked askance at it over his fiddle122. Chirac cautiously observed it. Instead of attending to the music, the festal company attended to the quarrel. Three waiters in a group watched it with an impartial125 sporting interest. The English voices grew more menacing.
Then suddenly the whiskered Englishman, jerking his head towards the door, said more quietly:
"Hadn't we better settle thish outside?"
"At your service!" said Gerald, rising.
The owner of the vermilion cloak lifted her eyebrows to Chirac in fatigued disgust, but she said nothing. Nor did Sophia say anything. Sophia was overcome by terror.
The swain of the cloak, dragging his coat after him across the floor, left the restaurant without offering any apology or explanation to his lady.
"Wait here for me," said Gerald defiantly126 to Sophia. "I shall be back in a minute."
"But, Gerald!" She put her hand on his sleeve.
He snatched his arm away. "Wait here for me, I tell you," he repeated.
The doorkeeper obsequiously127 opened the door to the two unsteady carousers, for whom the fiddler drew back, still playing.
Thus Sophia was left side by side with the vermilion cloak. She was quite helpless. All the pride of a married woman had abandoned her. She stood transfixed by intense shame, staring painfully at a pillar, to avoid the universal assault of eyes. She felt like an indiscreet little girl, and she looked like one. No youthful radiant beauty of features, no grace and style of a Parisian dress, no certificate of a ring, no premature128 initiation129 into the mysteries, could save her from the appearance of a raw fool whose foolishness had been her undoing130. Her face changed to its reddest, and remained at that, and all the fundamental innocence of her nature, which had been overlaid by the violent experiences of her brief companionship with Gerald, rose again to the surface with that blush. Her situation drew pity from a few hearts and a careless contempt from the rest. But since once more it was a question of ces Anglais, nobody could be astonished.
Without moving her head, she twisted her eyes to the clock: half- past two. The fiddler ceased his dance and made a collection in his tasselled cap. The vermilion cloak threw a coin into the cap. Sophia stared at it moveless, until the fiddler, tired of waiting, passed to the next table and relieved her agony. She had no money at all. She set herself to watch the clock; but its fingers would not stir.
With an exclamation131 the lady of the cloak got up and peered out of the window, chatted with waiters, and then removed herself and her cloak to the next table, where she was received with amiable132 sympathy by the three lorettes, Chirac, and the other two men. The party surreptitiously examined Sophia from time to time. Then Chirac went outside with the head-waiter, returned, consulted with his friends, and finally approached Sophia. It was twenty minutes past three.
He renewed his magnificent bow. "Madame," he said carefully, "will you allow me to bring you to your hotel?"
He made no reference to Gerald, partly, doubtless, because his English was treacherous133 on difficult ground.
Sophia had not sufficient presence of mind to thank her saviour134.
"But the bill?" she stammered135. "The bill isn't paid."
He did not instantly understand her. But one of the waiters had caught the sound of a familiar word, and sprang forward with a slip of paper on a plate.
"I have no money," said Sophia, with a feeble smile.
"Je vous arrangerai ca," he said. "What name of the hotel? Meurice, is it not?"
"Hotel Meurice," said Sophia. "Yes."
He spoke to the head-waiter about the bill, which was carried away like something obscene; and on his arm, which he punctiliously136 offered and she could not refuse, Sophia left the scene of her ignominy. She was so distraught that she could not manage her crinoline in the doorway137. No sign anywhere outside of Gerald or his foe138!
He put her into an open carriage, and in five minutes they had clattered139 down the brilliant silence of the Rue121 de la Paix, through the Place Vendome into the Rue de Rivoli; and the night- porter of the hotel was at the carriage-step.
"I tell them at the restaurant where you gone," said Chirac, bare- headed under the long colonnade140 of the street. "If your husband is there, I tell him. Till to-morrow ...!"
His manners were more wonderful than any that Sophia had ever imagined. He might have been in the dark Tuileries on the opposite side of the street, saluting141 an empress, instead of taking leave of a raw little girl, who was still too disturbed even to thank him.
She fled candle in hand up the wide, many-cornered stairs; Gerald might be already in the bedroom, ... drunk! There was a chance. But the gilt-fringed bedroom was empty. She sat down at the velvet-covered table amid the shadows cast by the candle that wavered in the draught142 from the open window. And she set her teeth and a cold fury possessed her in the hot and languorous143 night. Gerald was an imbecile. That he should have allowed himself to get tipsy was bad enough, but that he should have exposed her to the horrible situation from which Chirac had extricated144 her, was unspeakably disgraceful. He was an imbecile. He had no common sense. With all his captivating charm, he could not be relied upon not to make himself and her ridiculous, tragically145 ridiculous. Compare him with Mr. Chirac! She leaned despairingly on the table. She would not undress. She would not move. She had to realize her position; she had to see it.
Folly146! Folly! Fancy a commercial traveller throwing a compromising piece of paper to the daughter of his customer in the shop itself: that was the incredible folly with which their relations had begun! And his mad gesture at the pit-shaft! And his scheme for bringing her to Paris unmarried! And then to-night! Monstrous147 folly! Alone in the bedroom she was a wise and a disillusioned148 woman, wiser than any of those dolls in the restaurant.
And had she not gone to Gerald, as it were, over the dead body of her father, through lies and lies and again lies? That was how she phrased it to herself. ... Over the dead body of her father! How could such a venture succeed? How could she ever have hoped that it would succeed? In that moment she saw her acts with the terrible vision of a Hebrew prophet.
She thought of the Square and of her life there with her mother and Sophia. Never would her pride allow her to return to that life, not even if the worst happened to her that could happen. She was one of those who are prepared to pay without grumbling149 for what they have had.
There was a sound outside. She noticed that the dawn had begun. The door opened and disclosed Gerald.
They exchanged a searching glance, and Gerald shut the door. Gerald infected the air, but she perceived at once that he was sobered. His lip was bleeding.
"Mr. Chirac brought me home," she said.
"So it seems," said Gerald, curtly150. "I asked you to wait for me. Didn't I say I should come back?"
He was adopting the injured magisterial151 tone of the man who is ridiculously trying to conceal152 from himself and others that he has recently behaved like an ass4.
She resented the injustice153. "I don't think you need talk like that," she said.
"Like what?" he bullied154 her, determined that she should be in the wrong.
And what a hard look on his pretty face!
Her prudence bade her accept the injustice. She was his. Rapt away from her own world, she was utterly155 dependent on his good nature.
"I knocked my chin against the damned balustrade, coming upstairs," said Gerald, gloomily.
She knew that was a lie. "Did you?" she replied kindly156. "Let me bathe it."
1 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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2 accustoming | |
v.(使)习惯于( accustom的现在分词 ) | |
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3 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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4 ass | |
n.驴;傻瓜,蠢笨的人 | |
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5 provocative | |
adj.挑衅的,煽动的,刺激的,挑逗的 | |
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6 bonnet | |
n.无边女帽;童帽 | |
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7 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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8 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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9 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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10 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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11 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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12 bosoms | |
胸部( bosom的名词复数 ); 胸怀; 女衣胸部(或胸襟); 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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13 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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14 renowned | |
adj.著名的,有名望的,声誉鹊起的 | |
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15 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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16 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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17 conspicuousness | |
显著,卓越,突出; 显著性 | |
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18 ply | |
v.(搬运工等)等候顾客,弯曲 | |
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19 complexions | |
肤色( complexion的名词复数 ); 面色; 局面; 性质 | |
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20 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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22 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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23 tint | |
n.淡色,浅色;染发剂;vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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24 curt | |
adj.简短的,草率的 | |
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25 obsequious | |
adj.谄媚的,奉承的,顺从的 | |
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26 haughtier | |
haughty(傲慢的,骄傲的)的比较级形式 | |
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27 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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28 mingled | |
混合,混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 ); 混进,与…交往[联系] | |
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29 tinkle | |
vi.叮当作响;n.叮当声 | |
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30 contentedly | |
adv.心满意足地 | |
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31 champagne | |
n.香槟酒;微黄色 | |
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32 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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33 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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34 groves | |
树丛,小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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35 nether | |
adj.下部的,下面的;n.阴间;下层社会 | |
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36 embroidered | |
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37 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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38 plumes | |
羽毛( plume的名词复数 ); 羽毛饰; 羽毛状物; 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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39 vista | |
n.远景,深景,展望,回想 | |
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40 gilt | |
adj.镀金的;n.金边证券 | |
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41 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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42 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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43 impunity | |
n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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44 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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45 provinciality | |
n.乡下习气,粗鄙;偏狭 | |
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46 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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47 torrent | |
n.激流,洪流;爆发,(话语等的)连发 | |
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48 adroitly | |
adv.熟练地,敏捷地 | |
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49 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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50 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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51 licentious | |
adj.放纵的,淫乱的 | |
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52 profusion | |
n.挥霍;丰富 | |
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53 medley | |
n.混合 | |
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54 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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55 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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56 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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57 chattering | |
n. (机器振动发出的)咔嗒声,(鸟等)鸣,啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的,啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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58 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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59 horrid | |
adj.可怕的;令人惊恐的;恐怖的;极讨厌的 | |
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60 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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61 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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62 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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63 sensuousness | |
n.知觉 | |
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64 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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65 phantoms | |
n.鬼怪,幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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66 apprehended | |
逮捕,拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 ); 理解 | |
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67 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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68 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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69 tedium | |
n.单调;烦闷 | |
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70 majestic | |
adj.雄伟的,壮丽的,庄严的,威严的,崇高的 | |
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71 superciliously | |
adv.高傲地;傲慢地 | |
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72 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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73 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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74 effulgent | |
adj.光辉的;灿烂的 | |
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75 rouged | |
胭脂,口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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77 obesity | |
n.肥胖,肥大 | |
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78 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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79 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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80 deposed | |
v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 );(在法庭上)宣誓作证 | |
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81 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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82 intimidated | |
v.恐吓;威胁adj.害怕的;受到威胁的 | |
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83 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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84 winked | |
v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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85 frigid | |
adj.寒冷的,凛冽的;冷淡的;拘禁的 | |
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86 bravado | |
n.虚张声势,故作勇敢,逞能 | |
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87 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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88 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 | |
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89 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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90 intervals | |
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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91 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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92 vivacious | |
adj.活泼的,快活的 | |
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93 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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94 benevolently | |
adv.仁慈地,行善地 | |
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95 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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96 discreetly | |
ad.(言行)审慎地,慎重地 | |
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97 saluted | |
v.欢迎,致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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98 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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99 effusively | |
adv.变溢地,热情洋溢地 | |
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100 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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101 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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102 deference | |
n.尊重,顺从;敬意 | |
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103 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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104 timorous | |
adj.胆怯的,胆小的 | |
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105 giggled | |
v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106 ravaged | |
毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 ); 蹂躏; 劫掠; 抢劫 | |
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107 subterranean | |
adj.地下的,地表下的 | |
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108 ravages | |
劫掠后的残迹,破坏的结果,毁坏后的残迹 | |
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109 laboriously | |
adv.艰苦地;费力地;辛勤地;(文体等)佶屈聱牙地 | |
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110 fumbling | |
n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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111 phlegmatically | |
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112 labyrinth | |
n.迷宫;难解的事物;迷路 | |
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113 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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114 sociable | |
adj.好交际的,友好的,合群的 | |
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115 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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116 chattered | |
(人)喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 ); 唠叨; (牙齿)打战; (机器)震颤 | |
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117 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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118 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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119 repulsed | |
v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 );驳斥;拒绝 | |
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120 sneered | |
讥笑,冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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122 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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123 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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124 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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125 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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126 defiantly | |
adv.挑战地,大胆对抗地 | |
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127 obsequiously | |
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128 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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129 initiation | |
n.开始 | |
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130 undoing | |
n.毁灭的原因,祸根;破坏,毁灭 | |
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131 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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132 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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133 treacherous | |
adj.不可靠的,有暗藏的危险的;adj.背叛的,背信弃义的 | |
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134 saviour | |
n.拯救者,救星 | |
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135 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136 punctiliously | |
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137 doorway | |
n.门口,(喻)入门;门路,途径 | |
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138 foe | |
n.敌人,仇敌 | |
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139 clattered | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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140 colonnade | |
n.柱廊 | |
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141 saluting | |
v.欢迎,致敬( salute的现在分词 );赞扬,赞颂 | |
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142 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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143 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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144 extricated | |
v.使摆脱困难,脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145 tragically | |
adv. 悲剧地,悲惨地 | |
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146 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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147 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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148 disillusioned | |
a.不再抱幻想的,大失所望的,幻想破灭的 | |
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149 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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150 curtly | |
adv.简短地 | |
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151 magisterial | |
adj.威风的,有权威的;adv.威严地 | |
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152 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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153 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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154 bullied | |
adj.被欺负了v.恐吓,威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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156 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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