In the evening, just after night had fallen, Sophia on the bed heard the sound of raised and acrimonious1 voices in Madame Foucault's room. Nothing except dinner had happened since the arrival of Madame Foucault and the young man. These two had evidently dined informally in the bedroom on a dish or so prepared by Madame Foucault, who had herself served Sophia with her invalid's repast. The odours of cookery still hung in the air.
The noise of virulent2 discussion increased and continued, and then Sophia could hear sobbing3, broken by short and fierce phrases from the man. Then the door of the bedroom opened brusquely. "J'en ai soupe!" exclaimed the man, in tones of angry disgust. "Laisse-moi, je te prie!" And then a soft muffled4 sound, as of a struggle, a quick step, and the very violent banging of the front door. After that there was a noticeable silence, save for the regular sobbing. Sophia wondered when it would cease, that monotonous5 sobbing.
"What is the matter?" she called out from her bed.
The sobbing grew louder, like the sobbing of a child who has detected an awakening6 of sympathy and instinctively7 begins to practise upon it. In the end Sophia arose and put on the peignoir which she had almost determined8 never to wear again. The broad corridor was lighted by a small, smelling oil-lamp with a crimson9 globe. That soft, transforming radiance seemed to paint the whole corridor with voluptuous10 luxury: so much so that it was impossible to believe that the smell came from the lamp. Under the lamp lay Madame Foucault on the floor, a shapeless mass of lace, frilled linen11, and corset; her light brown hair was loose and spread about the floor. At the first glance, the creature abandoned to grief made a romantic and striking picture, and Sophia thought for an instant that she had at length encountered life on a plane that would correspond to her dreams of romance. And she was impressed, with a feeling somewhat akin12 to that of a middling commoner when confronted with a viscount. There was, in the distance, something imposing13 and sensational14 about that prone15, trembling figure. The tragic16 works of love were therein apparently17 manifest, in a sort of dignified18 beauty. But when Sophia bent19 over Madame Foucault, and touched her flabbiness, this illusion at once vanished; and instead of being dramatically pathetic the woman was ridiculous. Her face, especially as damaged by tears, could not support the ordeal20 of inspection21; it was horrible; not a picture, but a palette; or like the coloured design of a pavement artist after a heavy shower. Her great, relaxed eyelids22 alone would have rendered any face absurd; and there were monstrous23 details far worse than the eyelids. Then she was amazingly fat; her flesh seemed to be escaping at all ends from a corset strained to the utmost limit. And above her boots--she was still wearing dainty, high-heeled, tightly laced boots--the calves24 bulged25 suddenly out.
As a woman of between forty and fifty, the obese26 sepulchre of a dead vulgar beauty, she had no right to passions and tears and homage27, or even the means of life; she had no right to expose herself picturesquely29 beneath a crimson glow in all the panoply30 of ribboned garters and lacy seductiveness. It was silly; it was disgraceful. She ought to have known that only youth and slimness have the right to appeal to the feelings by indecent abandonments.
Such were the thoughts that mingled31 with the sympathy of the beautiful and slim Sophia as she bent down to Madame Foucault. She was sorry for her landlady32, but at the same time she despised her, and resented her woe33.
"What is the matter?" she asked quietly.
"He has chucked me!" stammered34 Madame Foucault. "And he's the last. I have no one now!"
She rolled over in the most grotesque35 manner, kicking up her legs, with a fresh outburst of sobs36. Sophia felt quite ashamed for her.
"Come and lie down. Come now!" she said, with a touch of sharpness. "You musn't lie there like that."
Madame Foucault's behaviour was really too outrageous37. Sophia helped her, morally rather than physically38, to rise, and then persuaded her into the large bedroom. Madame Foucault fell on the bed, of which the counterpane had been thrown over the foot. Sophia covered the lower part of her heaving body with the counterpane.
"Now, calm yourself, please!"
This room too was lit in crimson, by a small lamp that stood on the night-table, and though the shade of the lamp was cracked, the general effect of the great chamber39 was incontestably romantic. Only the pillows of the wide bed and a small semi-circle of floor were illuminated40, all the rest lay in shadow. Madame Foucault's head had dropped between the pillows. A tray containing dirty plates and glasses and a wine-bottle was speciously41 picturesque28 on the writing-table.
Despite her genuine gratitude42 to Madame Foncault for astounding43 care during her illness, Sophia did not like her landlady, and the present scene made her coldly wrathful. She saw the probability of having another's troubles piled on the top of her own. She did not, in her mind, actively44 object, because she felt that she could not be more hopelessly miserable46 than she was; but she passively resented the imposition. Her reason told her that she ought to sympathize with this ageing, ugly, disagreeable, undignified woman; but her heart was reluctant; her heart did not want to know anything at all about Madame Foucault, nor to enter in any way into her private life.
"I have not a single friend now," stammered Madame Foucault.
"Oh, yes, you have," said Sophia, cheerfully. "You have Madame Laurence."
"Laurence--that is not a friend. You know what I mean."
"And me! I am your friend!" said Sophia, in obedience47 to her conscience.
"You are very kind," replied Madame Foucault, from the pillow. "But you know what I mean."
The fact was that Sophia did know what she meant. The terms of their intercourse48 had been suddenly changed. There was no pretentious49 ceremony now, but the sincerity50 that disaster brings. The vast structure of make-believe, which between them they had gradually built, had crumbled51 to nothing.
"I never treated badly any man in my life," whimpered Madame Foucault. "I have always been a--good girl. There is not a man who can say I have not been a good girl. Never was I a girl like the rest. And every one has said so. Ah! when I tell you that once I had a hotel in the Avenue de la Reine Hortense. Four horses ... I have sold a horse to Madame Musard. ... You know Madame Musard. ... But one cannot make economies. Impossible to make economies! Ah! In 'fifty-six I was spending a hundred thousand francs a year. That cannot last. Always I have said to myself: 'That cannot last.' Always I had the intention. ... But what would you? I installed myself here, and borrowed money to pay for the furniture. There did not remain to me one jewel. The men are poltroons, all! I could let three bedrooms for three hundred and fifty francs a month, and with serving meals and so on I could live."
"Then that," Sophia interrupted, pointing to her own bedroom across the corridor, "is your room?"
"Yes," said Madame Foucault. "I put you in it because at the moment all these were let. They are so no longer. Only one-- Laurence--and she does not pay me always. What would you? Tenants- -that does not find itself at the present hour. ... I have nothing, and I owe. And he quits me. He chooses this moment to quit me! And why? For nothing. For nothing. That is not for his money that I regret him. No, no! You know, at his age--he is twenty-five--and with a woman like me--one is not generous! No. I loved him. And then a man is a moral support, always. I loved him. It is at my age, mine, that one knows how to love. Beauty goes always, but not the temperament52! Ah, that--No! ... I loved him. I love him."
Sophia's face tingled53 with a sudden emotion caused by the repetition of those last three words, whose spell no usage can mar54. But she said nothing.
"Do you know what I shall become? There is nothing but that for me. And I know of such, who are there already. A charwoman! Yes, a charwoman! More soon or more late. Well, that is life. What would you? One exists always." Then in a different tone: "I demand your pardon, madame, for talking like this. I ought to have shame."
And Sophia felt that in listening she also ought to be ashamed. But she was not ashamed. Everything seemed very natural, and even ordinary. And, moreover, Sophia was full of the sense of her superiority over the woman on the bed. Four years ago, in the Restaurant Sylvain, the ingenuous55 and ignorant Sophia had shyly sat in awe56 of the resplendent courtesan, with her haughty57 stare, her large, easy gestures, and her imperturbable58 contempt for the man who was paying. And now Sophia knew that she, Sophia, knew all that was to be known about human nature. She had not merely youth, beauty, and virtue59, but knowledge--knowledge enough to reconcile her to her own misery60. She had a vigorous, clear mind, and a clean conscience. She could look any one in the face, and judge every one too as a woman of the world. Whereas this obscene wreck61 on the bed had nothing whatever left. She had not merely lost her effulgent62 beauty, she had become repulsive63. She could never have had any commonsense64, nor any force of character. Her haughtiness65 in the day of glory was simply fatuous66, based on stupidity. She had passed the years in idleness, trailing about all day in stuffy67 rooms, and emerging at night to impress nincompoops; continually meaning to do things which she never did, continually surprised at the lateness of the hour, continually occupied with the most foolish trifles. And here she was at over forty writhing68 about on the bare floor because a boy of twenty-five (who MUST be a worthless idiot) had abandoned her after a scene of ridiculous shoutings and stampings. She was dependent on the caprices of a young scamp, the last donkey to turn from her with loathing69! Sophia thought: "Goodness! If I had been in her place I shouldn't have been like that. I should have been rich. I should have saved like a miser45. I wouldn't have been dependent on anybody at that age. If I couldn't have made a better courtesan than this pitiable woman, I would have drowned myself."
In the harsh vanity of her conscious capableness and young strength she thought thus, half forgetting her own follies70, and half excusing them on the ground of inexperience.
Sophia wanted to go round the flat and destroy every crimson lampshade in it. She wanted to shake Madame Foucault into self- respect and sagacity. Moral reprehension71, though present in her mind, was only faint. Certainly she felt the immense gulf72 between the honest woman and the wanton, but she did not feel it as she would have expected to feel it. "What a fool you have been!" she thought; not: "What a sinner!" With her precocious73 cynicism, which was somewhat unsuited to the lovely northern youthfulness of that face, she said to herself that the whole situation and their relative attitudes would have been different if only Madame Foucault had had the wit to amass74 a fortune, as (according to Gerald) some of her rivals had succeeded in doing.
And all the time she was thinking, in another part of her mind: "I ought not to be here. It's no use arguing. I ought not to be here. Chirac did the only thing for me there was to do. But I must go now."
Madame Foucault continued to recite her woes75, chiefly financial, in a weak voice damp with tears; she also continued to apologize for mentioning herself. She had finished sobbing, and lay looking at the wall, away from Sophia, who stood irresolute76 near the bed, ashamed for her companion's weakness and incapacity.
"You must not forget," said Sophia, irritated by the unrelieved darkness of the picture drawn78 by Madame Foucault, "that at least I owe you a considerable sum, and that I am only waiting for you to tell me how much it is. I have asked you twice already, I think."
"Oh, you are still suffering!" said Madame Foucault.
"I am quite well enough to pay my debts," said Sophia.
"I do not like to accept money from you," said Madame Foucault.
"But why not?"
"You will have the doctor to pay."
"Please do not talk in that way," said Sophia. "I have money, and I can pay for everything, and I shall pay for everything."
She was annoyed because she was sure that Madame Foucault was only making a pretence79 of delicacy80, and that in any case her delicacy was preposterous81. Sophia had remarked this on the two previous occasions when she had mentioned the subject of bills. Madame Foucault would not treat her as an ordinary lodger82, now that the illness was past. She wanted, as it were, to complete brilliantly what she had begun, and to live in Sophia's memory as a unique figure of lavish83 philanthropy. This was a sentiment, a luxury that she desired to offer herself: the thought that she had played providence84 to a respectable married lady in distress85; she frequently hinted at Sophia's misfortunes and helplessness. But she could not afford the luxury. She gazed at it as a poor woman gazes at costly86 stuffs through the glass of a shop-window. The truth was, she wanted the luxury for nothing. For a double reason Sophia was exasperated87: by Madame Foucault's absurd desire, and by a natural objection to the role of a subject for philanthropy. She would not admit that Madame Foucault's devotion as a nurse entitled her to the satisfaction of being a philanthropist when there was no necessity for philanthropy.
"How long have I been here?" asked Sophia.
"I don't know." murmured Madame Foucault. "Eight weeks--or is it nine?"
"Suppose we say nine," said Sophia.
"Very well," agreed Madame Foucault, apparently reluctant.
"Now, how much must I pay you per week?"
"I don't want anything--I don't want anything! You are a friend of Chirac's. You---"
"Not at all!" Sophia interrupted, tapping her foot and bit-ing her lip. "Naturally I must pay."
Madame Foucault wept quietly.
"Shall I pay you seventy-five francs a week?" said Sophia, anxious to end the matter.
"It is too much!" Madame Foucault protested, insincerely.
"What? For all you have done for me?"
"I speak not of that," Madame Foucault modestly replied.
If the devotion was not to be paid for, then seventy-five francs a week was assuredly too much, as during more than half the time Sophia had had almost no food. Madame Foucault was therefore within the truth when she again protested, at sight of the bank- notes which Sophia brought from her trunk:
"I am sure that it is too much."
"Not at all!" Sophia repeated. "Nine weeks at seventy-five. That makes six hundred and seventy-five. Here are seven hundreds."
"I have no change," said Madame Foucault. "I have nothing."
"That will pay for the hire of the bath," said Sophia.
She laid the notes on the pillow. Madame Foucault looked at them gluttonously88, as any other person would have done in her place. She did not touch them. After an instant she burst into wild tears.
"But why do you cry?" Sophia asked, softened89.
"I--I don't know!" spluttered Madame Foucault. "You are so beautiful. I am so content that we saved you." Her great wet eyes rested on Sophia.
It was sentimentality. Sophia ruthlessly set it down as sentimentality. But she was touched. She was suddenly moved. Those women, such as they were in their foolishness, probably had saved her life--and she a stranger! Flaccid as they were, they had been capable of resolute77 perseverance90 there. It was possible to say that chance had thrown them upon an enterprise which they could not have abandoned till they or death had won. It was possible to say that they hoped vaguely91 to derive92 advantage from their labours. But even then? Judged by an ordinary standard, those women had been angels of mercy. And Sophia was despising them, cruelly taking their motives93 to pieces, accusing them of incapacity when she herself stood a supreme94 proof of their capacity in, at any rate, one direction! In a rush of emotion she saw her hardness and her injustice95.
She bent down. "Never can I forget how kind you have been to me. It is incredible! Incredible!" She spoke96 softly, in tones loaded with genuine feeling. It was all she said. She could not embroider97 on the theme. She had no talent for thanksgiving.
Madame Foucault made the beginning of a gesture, as if she meant to kiss Sophia with those thick, marred98 lips; but refrained. Her head sank back, and then she had a recurrence99 of the fit of nervous sobbing. Immediately afterwards there was the sound of a latchkey in the front-door of the flat; the bedroom door was open. Still sobbing very violently, she cocked her ear, and pushed the bank-notes under the pillow.
Madame Laurence--as she was called: Sophia had never heard her surname--came straight into the bedroom, and beheld100 the scene with astonishment101 in her dark twinkling eyes. She was usually dressed in black, because people said that black suited her, and because black was never out of fashion; black was an expression of her idiosyncrasy. She showed a certain elegance102, and by comparison with the extreme disorder103 of Madame Foucault and the deshabille of Sophia her appearance, all fresh from a modish104 restaurant, was brilliant; it gave her an advantage over the other two--that moral advantage which ceremonial raiment always gives.
"What is it that passes?" she demanded.
"He has chucked me, Laurence!" exclaimed Madame Foucault, in a sort of hysteric scream which seemed to force its way through her sobs. From the extraordinary freshness of Madame Foucault's woe, it might have been supposed that her young man had only that instant strode out.
Laurence and Sophia exchanged a swift glance; and Laurence, of course, perceived that Sophia's relations with her landlady and nurse were now of a different, a more candid105 order. She indicated her perception of the change by a single slight movement of the eyebrows106.
"But listen, Aimee," she said authoritatively107. "You must not let yourself go like that. He will return."
"Never!" cried Madame Foucault. "It is finished. And he is the last!"
Laurence, ignoring Madame Foucault, approached Sophia. "You have an air very fatigued," she said, caressing108 Sophia's shoulder with her gloved hand. "You are pale like everything. All this is not for you. It is not reasonable to remain here, you still suffering! At this hour! Truly not reasonable!"
Her hands persuaded Sophia towards the corridor. And, in fact, Sophia did then notice her own exhaustion109. She departed from the room with the ready obedience of physical weakness, and shut her door.
After about half an hour, during which she heard confused noises and murmurings, her door half opened.
"May I enter, since you are not asleep?" It was Laurence's voice. Twice, now, she had addressed Sophia without adding the formal 'madame.'
"Enter, I beg you," Sophia called from the bed. "I am reading."
Laurence came in. Sophia was both glad and sorry to see her. She was eager to hear gossip which, however, she felt she ought to despise. Moreover, she knew that if they talked that night they would talk as friends, and that Laurence would ever afterwards treat her with the familiarity of a friend. This she dreaded110. Still, she knew that she would yield, at any rate, to the temptation to listen to gossip.
"I have put her to bed," said Laurence, in a whisper, as she cautiously closed the door. "The poor woman! Oh, what a charming bracelet111! It is a true pearl, naturally?"
Her roving eye had immediately, with an infallible instinct, caught sight of a bracelet which, in taking stock of her possessions, Sophia had accidentally left on the piano. She picked it up, and then put it down again.
"Yes," said Sophia. She was about to add: "It's nearly all the jewellery I possess;" but she stopped.
Laurence moved towards Sophia's bed, and stood over it as she had often done in her quality as nurse. She had taken off her gloves, and she made a piquant112, pretty show, with her thirty years, and her agreeable, slightly roguish face, in which were mingled the knowingness of a street boy and the confidence of a woman who has ceased to be surprised at the influence of her snub nose on a highly intelligent man.
"Did she tell you what they had quarrelled about?" Laurence inquired abruptly113. And not only the phrasing of the question, but the assured tone in which it was uttered, showed that Laurence meant to be the familiar of Sophia.
"Not a word!" said Sophia.
In this brief question and reply, all was crudely implied that had previously114 been supposed not to exist. The relations between the two women were altered irretrievably in a moment.
"It must have been her fault!" said Laurence. "With men she is insupportable. I have never understood how that poor woman has made her way. With women she is charming. But she seems to be incapable115 of not treating men like dogs. Some men adore that, but they are few. Is it not?"
Sophia smiled.
"I have told her! How many times have I told her! But it is useless. It is stronger than she is, and if she finishes on straw one will be able to say that it was because of that. But truly she ought not to have asked him here! Truly that was too much! If he knew ...!"
"Why not?" asked Sophia, awkwardly. The answer startled her.
"Because her room has not been disinfected."
"But I thought all the flat had been disinfected?"
"All except her room."
"But why not her room?"
Laurence shrugged117 her shoulders. "She did not want to disturb her things! Is it that I know, I? She is like that. She takes an idea- -and then, there you are!"
"She told me every room had been disinfected."
"She told the same to the police and the doctor."
"Then all the disinfection is useless?"
"Perfectly118! But she is like that. This flat might be very remunerative119; but with her, never! She has not even paid for the furniture--after two years!"
"But what will become of her?" Sophia asked.
"Ah--that!" Another shrug116 of the shoulders. "All that I know is that it will be necessary for me to leave here. The last time I brought Monsieur Cerf here, she was excessively rude to him. She has doubtless told you about Monsieur Cerf?"
"No. Who is Monsieur Cerf?"
"Ah! She has not told you? That astonishes me. Monsieur Cerf, that is my friend, you know."
"Oh!" murmured Sophia.
"Yes," Laurence proceeded, impelled120 by a desire to impress Sophia and to gossip at large. "That is my friend. I knew him at the hospital. It was to please him that I left the hospital. After that we quarrelled for two years; but at the end he gave me right. I did not budge121. Two years! It is long. And I had left the hospital. I could have gone back. But I would not. That is not a life, to be nurse in a Paris hospital! No, I drew myself out as well as I could ... He is the most charming boy you can imagine! And rich now; that is to say, relatively122. He has a cousin infinitely123 more rich than he. I dined with them both to-night at the Maison Doree. For a luxurious124 boy, he is a luxurious boy--the cousin I mean. It appears that he has made a fortune in Canada."
"Truly!" said Sophia, with politeness. Laurence's hand was playing on the edge of the bed, and Sophia observed for the first time that it bore a wedding-ring.
"You remark my ring?" Laurence laughed. "That is he--the cousin. 'What!' he said, 'you do not wear an alliance? An alliance is more proper. We are going to arrange that after dinner.' I said that all the jewellers' shops would be closed. 'That is all the same to me,' he said. 'We will open one.' And in effect ... it passed like that. He succeeded! Is it not beautiful?" She held forth125 her hand.
"Yes," said Sophia. "It is very beautiful."
"Yours also is beautiful," said Laurence, with an extremely puzzling intonation126.
"It is just the ordinary English wedding-ring," said Sophia. In spite of herself she blushed.
"Now I have married you. It is I, the cure, said he--the cousin-- when he put the ring on my finger. Oh, he is excessively amusing! He pleases me much. And he is all alone. He asked me whether I knew among my friends a sympathetic, pretty girl, to make four with us three for a picnic. I said I was not sure, but I thought not. Whom do I know? Nobody. I'm not a woman like the rest. I am always discreet127. I do not like casual relations. ... But he is very well, the cousin. Brown eyes. ... It is an idea--will you come, one day? He speaks English. He loves the English. He is all that is most correct, the perfect gentleman. He would arrange a dazzling fete. I am sure he would be enchanted128 to make your acquaintance. Enchanted! ... As for my Charles, happily he is completely mad about me--otherwise I should have fear."
She smiled, and in her smile was a genuine respect for Sophia's face.
"I fear I cannot come," said Sophia. She honestly endeavoured to keep out of her reply any accent of moral superiority, but she did not quite succeed. She was not at all horrified129 by Laurence's suggestion. She meant simply to refuse it; but she could not do so in a natural voice.
"It is true you are not yet strong enough," said the imperturbable Laurence, quickly, and with a perfect imitation of naturalness. "But soon you must make a little promenade130." She stared at her ring. "After all, it is more proper," she observed judicially131. "With a wedding-ring one is less likely to be annoyed. What is curious is that the idea never before came to me. Yet ..."
"You like jewellery?" said Sophia.
"If I like jewellery!" with a gesture of the hands.
"Will you pass me that bracelet?"
Laurence obeyed, and Sophia clasped it round the girl's wrist.
"Keep it," Sophia said.
"For me?" Laurence exclaimed, ravished. "It is too much."
"It is not enough," said Sophia. "And when you look at it, you must remember how kind you were to me, and how grateful I am."
"How nicely you say that!" Laurence said ecstatically.
And Sophia felt that she had indeed said it rather nicely. This giving of the bracelet, souvenir of one of the few capricious follies that Gerald had committed for her and not for himself, pleased Sophia very much.
"I am afraid your nursing of me forced you to neglect Monsieur Cerf," she added.
"Yes, a little!" said Laurence, impartially132, with a small pout133 of haughtiness. "It is true that he used to complain. But I soon put him straight. What an idea! He knows there are things upon which I do not joke. It is not he who will quarrel a second time! Believe me!"
Laurence's absolute conviction of her power was what impressed Sophia. To Sophia she seemed to be a vulgar little piece of goods, with dubious134 charm and a glance that was far too brazen135. Her movements were vulgar. And Sophia wondered how she had established her empire and upon what it rested.
"I shall not show this to Aimee," whispered Laurence, indicating the bracelet.
"As you wish," said Sophia.
"By the way, have I told you that war is declared?" Laurence casually136 remarked.
"No," said Sophia. "What war?"
"The scene with Aimee made me forget it ... With Germany. The city is quite excited. An immense crowd in front of the new Opera. They say we shall be at Berlin in a month--or at most two months."
"Oh!" Sophia muttered. "Why is there a war?"
"Ah! It is I who asked that. Nobody knows. It is those Prussians."
"Don't you think we ought to begin again with the disinfecting?" Sophia asked anxiously. "I must speak to Madame Foucault."
Laurence told her not to worry, and went off to show the bracelet to Madame Foucault. She had privately137 decided138 that this was a pleasure which, after all, she could not deny herself.
1 acrimonious | |
adj.严厉的,辛辣的,刻毒的 | |
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2 virulent | |
adj.有毒的,有恶意的,充满敌意的 | |
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3 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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4 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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5 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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6 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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7 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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8 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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9 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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10 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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11 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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12 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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13 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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14 sensational | |
adj.使人感动的,非常好的,轰动的,耸人听闻的 | |
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15 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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16 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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17 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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18 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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19 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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20 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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21 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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22 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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23 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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24 calves | |
n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子,腓;腿肚子( calf的名词复数 );牛犊;腓;小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 );(冰川)崩解;生(小牛等),产(犊);使(冰川)崩解 | |
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25 bulged | |
凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 ); 充满; 塞满(某物) | |
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26 obese | |
adj.过度肥胖的,肥大的 | |
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27 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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28 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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29 picturesquely | |
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30 panoply | |
n.全副甲胄,礼服 | |
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31 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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32 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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33 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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34 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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36 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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37 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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38 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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39 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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40 illuminated | |
adj.被照明的;受启迪的 | |
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41 speciously | |
adv.似是而非地;外观好看地,像是真实地 | |
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42 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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43 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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44 actively | |
adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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45 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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46 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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47 obedience | |
n.服从,顺从 | |
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48 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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49 pretentious | |
adj.自命不凡的,自负的,炫耀的 | |
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50 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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51 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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52 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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53 tingled | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54 mar | |
vt.破坏,毁坏,弄糟 | |
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55 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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56 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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57 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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58 imperturbable | |
adj.镇静的 | |
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59 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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60 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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61 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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62 effulgent | |
adj.光辉的;灿烂的 | |
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63 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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64 commonsense | |
adj.有常识的;明白事理的;注重实际的 | |
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65 haughtiness | |
n.傲慢;傲气 | |
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66 fatuous | |
adj.愚昧的;昏庸的 | |
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67 stuffy | |
adj.不透气的,闷热的 | |
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68 writhing | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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69 loathing | |
n.厌恶,憎恨v.憎恨,厌恶( loathe的现在分词);极不喜欢 | |
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70 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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71 reprehension | |
n.非难,指责 | |
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72 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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73 precocious | |
adj.早熟的;较早显出的 | |
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74 amass | |
vt.积累,积聚 | |
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75 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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76 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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77 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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78 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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79 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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80 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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81 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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82 lodger | |
n.寄宿人,房客 | |
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83 lavish | |
adj.无节制的;浪费的;vt.慷慨地给予,挥霍 | |
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84 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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85 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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86 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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87 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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88 gluttonously | |
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89 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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90 perseverance | |
n.坚持不懈,不屈不挠 | |
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91 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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92 derive | |
v.取得;导出;引申;来自;源自;出自 | |
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93 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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94 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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95 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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96 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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97 embroider | |
v.刺绣于(布)上;给…添枝加叶,润饰 | |
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98 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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99 recurrence | |
n.复发,反复,重现 | |
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100 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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101 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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102 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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103 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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104 modish | |
adj.流行的,时髦的 | |
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105 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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106 eyebrows | |
眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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107 authoritatively | |
命令式地,有权威地,可信地 | |
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108 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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109 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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110 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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111 bracelet | |
n.手镯,臂镯 | |
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112 piquant | |
adj.辛辣的,开胃的,令人兴奋的 | |
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113 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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114 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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115 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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116 shrug | |
v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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117 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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118 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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119 remunerative | |
adj.有报酬的 | |
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120 impelled | |
v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121 budge | |
v.移动一点儿;改变立场 | |
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122 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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123 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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124 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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125 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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126 intonation | |
n.语调,声调;发声 | |
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127 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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128 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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129 horrified | |
a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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130 promenade | |
n./v.散步 | |
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131 judicially | |
依法判决地,公平地 | |
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132 impartially | |
adv.公平地,无私地 | |
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133 pout | |
v.撅嘴;绷脸;n.撅嘴;生气,不高兴 | |
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134 dubious | |
adj.怀疑的,无把握的;有问题的,靠不住的 | |
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135 brazen | |
adj.厚脸皮的,无耻的,坚硬的 | |
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136 casually | |
adv.漠不关心地,无动于衷地,不负责任地 | |
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137 privately | |
adv.以私人的身份,悄悄地,私下地 | |
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138 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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