A week before Easter the guests of the Rutland Hotel in the Broad Walk, Buxton, being assembled for afternoon tea in the "lounge" of that establishment, witnessed the arrival of two aged2" target="_blank">middle-aged1 ladies and two dogs. Critically to examine newcomers was one of the amusements of the occupants of the lounge. This apartment, furnished "in the oriental style," made a pretty show among the photographs in the illustrated4 brochure of the hotel, and, though draughty, it was of all the public rooms the favourite. It was draughty because only separated from the street (if the Broad Walk can be called a street) by two pairs of swinging-doors--in charge of two page-boys. Every visitor entering the hotel was obliged to pass through the lounge, and for newcomers the passage was an ordeal5; they were made to feel that they had so much to learn, so much to get accustomed to; like passengers who join a ship at a port of call, they felt that the business lay before them of creating a niche6 for themselves in a hostile and haughty7 society. The two ladies produced a fairly favourable8 impression at the outset by reason of their two dogs. It is not every one who has the courage to bring dogs into an expensive private hotel; to bring one dog indicates that you are not accustomed to deny yourself small pleasures for the sake of a few extra shillings; to bring two indicates that you have no fear of hotel-managers and that you are in the habit of regarding your own whim9 as nature's law. The shorter and stouter10 of the two ladies did not impose herself with much force on the collective vision of the Rutland; she was dressed in black, not fashionably, though with a certain unpretending richness; her gestures were timid and nervous; evidently she relied upon her tall companion to shield her in the first trying contacts of hotel life. The tall lady was of a different stamp. Handsome, stately, deliberate, and handsomely dressed in colours, she had the assured hard gaze of a person who is thoroughly11 habituated to the inspection12 of strangers. She curtly13 asked one of the page-boys for the manager, and the manager's wife tripped rapidly down the stairs in response, and was noticeably deferential--Her voice was quiet and commanding, the voice of one who gives orders that are obeyed. The opinion of the lounge was divided as to whether or not they were sisters.
They vanished quietly upstairs in convoy14 of the manager's wife, and they did not re-appear for the lounge tea, which in any case would have been undrinkably stewed15. It then became known, by the agency of one of those guests, to be found in every hotel, who acquire all the secrets of the hotel by the exercise of unabashed curiosity on the personnel, that the two ladies had engaged two bedrooms, Nos. 17 and 18, and the sumptuous16 private parlour with a balcony on the first floor, styled "C" in the nomenclature of rooms. This fact definitely established the position of the new arrivals in the moral fabric17 of the hotel. They were wealthy. They had money to throw away. For even in a select hotel like the Rutland it is not everybody who indulges in a private sitting- room; there were only four such apartments in the hotel, as against fifty bedrooms.
At dinner they had a small table to themselves in a corner. The short lady wore a white shawl over her shoulders. Her almost apologetic manner during the meal confirmed the view that she must be a very simple person, unused to the world and its ways. The other continued to be imperial. She ordered half-a-bottle of wine and drank two glasses. She stared about her quite self- unconsciously, whereas the little woman divided her glances between her companion and her plate. They did not talk much. Immediately after dinner they retired18. "Widows in easy circumstances" was the verdict; but the contrast between the pair held puzzles that piqued19 the inquisitive20.
Sophia had conquered again. Once more Sophia had resolved to accomplish a thing and she had accomplished21 it. Events had fallen out thus. The advertisement for a general servant in the Signal had been a disheartening failure. A few answers were received, but of an entirely22 unsatisfactory character. Constance, a great deal more than Sophia, had been astounded23 by the bearing and the demands of modern servants. Constance was in despair. If Constance had not had an immense pride she would have been ready to suggest to Sophia that Amy should be asked to 'stay on.' But Constance would have accepted a modern impudent24 wench first. It was Maria Critchlow who got Constance out of her difficulty by giving her particulars of a reliable servant who was about to leave a situation in which she had stayed for eight years. Constance did not imagine that a servant recommended by Maria Critchlow would suit her, but, being in a quandary25, she arranged to see the servant, and both she and Sophia were very pleased with the girl-- Rose Bennion by name. The mischief26 was that Rose would not be free until about a month after Amy had left. Rose would have left her old situation, but she had a fancy to go and spend a fortnight with a married sister at Manchester before settling into new quarters. Constance and Sophia felt that this caprice of Rose's was really very tiresome27 and unnecessary. Of course Amy might have been asked to 'stay on' just for a month. Amy would probably have volunteered to do so had she been aware of the circumstances. She was not, however, aware of the circumstances. And Constance was determined28 not to be beholden to Amy for anything. What could the sisters do? Sophia, who conducted all the interviews with Rose and other candidates, said that it would be a grave error to let Rose slip. Besides, they had no one to take her place, no one who could come at once.
The dilemma29 was appalling30. At least, it seemed appalling to Constance, who really believed that no mistress had ever been so 'awkwardly fixed31.' And yet, when Sophia first proposed her solution, Constance considered it to be a quite impossible solution. Sophia's idea was that they should lock up the house and leave it on the same day as Amy left it, to spend a few weeks in some holiday resort. To begin with, the idea of leaving the house empty seemed to Constance a mad idea. The house had never been left empty. And then--going for a holiday in April! Constance had never been for a holiday except in the month of August. No! The project was beset32 with difficulties and dangers which could not be overcome nor provided against. For example, "We can't come back to a dirty house," said Constance. "And we can't have a strange servant coming here before us." To which Sophia had replied: "Then what SHALL you do?" And Constance, after prodigious33 reflection on the frightful34 pass to which destiny had brought her, had said that she supposed she would have to manage with a charwoman until Rose's advent35. She asked Sophia if she remembered old Maggie. Sophia, of course, perfectly36 remembered. Old Maggie was dead, as well as the drunken, amiable37 Hollins, but there was a young Maggie (wife of a bricklayer) who went out charing38 in the spare time left from looking after seven children. The more Constance meditated39 upon young Maggie, the more was she convinced that young Maggie would meet the case. Constance felt she could trust young Maggie.
This expression of trust in Maggie was Constance's undoing40. Why should they not go away, and arrange with Maggie to come to the house a few days before their return, to clean and ventilate? The weight of reason overbore Constance. She yielded unwillingly41, but she yielded. It was the mention of Buxton that finally moved her. She knew Buxton. Her old landlady42 at Buxton was dead, and Constance had not visited the place since before Samuel's death; nevertheless its name had a reassuring43 sound to her ears, and for sciatica its waters and climate were admitted to be the best in England. Gradually Constance permitted herself to be embarked44 on this perilous45 enterprise of shutting up the house for twenty-five days. She imparted the information to Amy, who was astounded. Then she commenced upon her domestic preparations. She wrapped Samuel's Family Bible in brown paper; she put Cyril's straw-framed copy of Sir Edwin Landseer away in a drawer, and she took ten thousand other precautions. It was grotesque46; it was farcical; it was what you please. And when, with the cab at the door and the luggage on the cab, and the dogs chained together, and Maria Critchlow waiting on the pavement to receive the key, Constance put the key into the door on the outside, and locked up the empty house, Constance's face was tragic47 with innumerable apprehensions48. And Sophia felt that she had performed a miracle. She had.
On the whole the sisters were well received in the hotel, though they were not at an age which commands popularity. In the criticism which was passed upon them--the free, realistic and relentless49 criticism of private hotels--Sophia was at first set down as overbearing. But in a few days this view was modified, and Sophia rose in esteem50. The fact was that Sophia's behaviour changed after forty-eight hours. The Rutland Hotel was very good. It was so good as to disturb Sophia's profound beliefs that there was in the world only one truly high-class pension, and that nobody could teach the creator of that unique pension anything about the art of management. The food was excellent; the attendance in the bedrooms was excellent (and Sophia knew how difficult of attainment51 was excellent bedroom attendance); and to the eye the interior of the Rutland presented a spectacle far richer than the Pension Frensham could show. The standard of comfort was higher. The guests had a more distinguished52 appearance. It is true that the prices were much higher. Sophia was humbled53. She had enough sense to adjust her perspective. Further, she found herself ignorant of many matters which by the other guests were taken for granted and used as a basis for conversation. Prolonged residence in Paris would not justify54 this ignorance; it seemed rather to intensify55 its strangeness. Thus, when someone of cosmopolitan56 experience, having learnt that she had lived in Paris for many years, asked what had been going on lately at the Comedie Francaise, she had to admit that she had not been in a French theatre for nearly thirty years. And when, on a Sunday, the same person questioned her about the English chaplain in Paris, lo! she knew nothing but his name, had never even seen him. Sophia's life, in its way, had been as narrow as Constance's. Though her experience of human nature was wide, she had been in a groove57 as deep as Constance's. She had been utterly58 absorbed in doing one single thing.
By tacit agreement she had charge of the expedition. She paid all the bills. Constance protested against the expensiveness of the affair several times, but Sophia quietened her by sheer force of individuality. Constance had one advantage over Sophia. She knew Buxton and its neighbourhood intimately, and she was therefore in a position to show off the sights and to deal with local peculiarities60. In all other respects Sophia led.
They very soon became acclimatized to the hotel. They moved easily between Turkey carpets and sculptured ceilings; their eyes grew used to the eternal vision of themselves and other slow-moving dignities in gilt61 mirrors, to the heaviness of great oil-paintings of picturesque62 scenery, to the indications of surreptitious dirt behind massive furniture, to the grey-brown of the shirt-fronts of the waiters, to the litter of trays, boots and pails in long corridors; their ears were always awake to the sounds of gongs and bells. They consulted the barometer63 and ordered the daily carriage with the perfunctoriness of habit. They discovered what can be learnt of other people's needlework in a hotel on a wet day. They performed co-operative outings with fellow-guests. They invited fellow-guests into their sitting-room64. When there was an entertainment they did not avoid it. Sophia was determined to do everything that could with propriety65 be done, partly as an outlet66 for her own energy (which since she left Paris had been accumulating), but more on Constance's account. She remembered all that Dr. Stirling had. said, and the heartiness67 of her own agreement with his opinions. It was a great day when, under tuition of an aged lady and in the privacy of their parlour, they both began to study the elements of Patience. Neither had ever played at cards. Constance was almost afraid to touch cards, as though in the very cardboard there had been something unrighteous and perilous. But the respectability of a luxurious68 private hotel makes proper every act that passes within its walls. And Constance plausibly69 argued that no harm could come from a game which you played by yourself. She acquired with some aptitude70 several varieties of Patience. She said: "I think I could enjoy that, if I kept at it. But it does make my head whirl."
Nevertheless Constance was not happy in the hotel. She worried the whole time about her empty house. She anticipated difficulties and even disasters. She wondered again and again whether she could trust the second Maggie in her house alone, whether it would not be better to return home earlier and participate personally in the cleaning. She would have decided71 to do so had it not been that she hesitated to subject Sophia to the inconvenience of a house upside down. The matter was on her mind, always. Always she was restlessly anticipating the day when they would leave. She had carelessly left her heart behind in St. Luke's Square. She had never stayed in a hotel before, and she did not like it. Sciatica occasionally harassed72 her. Yet when it came to the point she would not drink the waters. She said she never had drunk them, and seemed to regard that as a reason why she never should. Sophia had achieved a miracle in getting her to Buxton for nearly a month, but the ultimate grand effect lacked brilliance73.
Then came the fatal letter, the desolating74 letter, which vindicated75 Constance's dark apprehensions. Rose Bennion calmly wrote to say that she had decided not to come to St. Luke's Square. She expressed regret for any inconvenience which might possibly be caused; she was polite. But the monstrousness76 of it! Constance felt that this actually and truly was the deepest depth of her calamities78. There she was, far from a dirty home, with no servant and no prospect79 of a servant! She bore herself bravely, nobly; but she was stricken. She wanted to return to the dirty home at once.
Sophia felt that the situation created by this letter would demand her highest powers of dealing80 with situations, and she determined to deal with it adequately. Great measures were needed, for Constance's health and happiness were at stake. She alone could act. She knew that she could not rely upon Cyril. She still had an immense partiality for Cyril; she thought him the most charming young man she had ever known; she knew him to be industrious81 and clever; but in his relations with his mother there was a hardness, a touch of callousness82. She explained it vaguely83 by saying that 'they did not get on well together'; which was strange, considering Constance's sweet affectionateness. Still, Constance could be a little trying--at times. Anyhow, it was soon clear to Sophia that the idea of mother and son living together in London was entirely impracticable. No! If Constance was to be saved from herself, there was no one but Sophia to save her.
After half a morning spent chiefly in listening to Constance's hopeless comments on the monstrous77 letter, Sophia said suddenly that she must take the dogs for an airing. Constance did not feel equal to walking out, and she would not drive. She did not want Sophia to 'venture,' because the sky threatened. However, Sophia did venture, and she returned a few minutes late for lunch, full of vigour84, with two happy dogs. Constance was moodily85 awaiting her in the dining-room. Constance could not eat. But Sophia ate, and she poured out cheerfulness and energy as from a source inexhaustible. After lunch it began to rain. Constance said she thought she should retire directly to the sitting-room. "I'm coming too," said Sophia, who was still wearing her hat and coat and carried her gloves in her hand. In the pretentious86 and banal87 sitting-room they sat down on either side the fire. Constance put a little shawl round her shoulders, pushed her spectacles into her grey hair, folded her hands, and sighed an enormous sigh: "Oh, dear!" She was the tragic muse3, aged, and in black silk.
"I tell you what I've been thinking," said Sophia, folding up her gloves.
"What?" asked Constance, expecting some wonderful solution to come out of Sophia's active brain.
"There's no earthly reason why you should go back to Bursley. The house won't run away, and it's costing nothing but the rent. Why not take things easy for a bit?"
"And stay here?" said Constance, with an inflection that enlightened Sophia as to the intensity88 of her dislike of the existence at the Rutland.
"No, not here," Sophia answered with quick deprecation. "There are plenty of other places we could go to."
"I don't think I should be easy in my mind," said Constance. "What with nothing being settled, the house----"
"What does it matter about the house?"
"It matters a great deal," said Constance, seriously, and slightly hurt. "I didn't leave things as if we were going to be away for a long time. It wouldn't do."
"I don't see that anything could come to any harm, I really don't!" said Sophia, persuasively89. "Dirt can always be cleaned, after all. I think you ought to go about more. It would do you good--all the good in the world. And there is no reason why you shouldn't go about. You are perfectly free. Why shouldn't we go abroad together, for instance, you and I? I'm sure you would enjoy it very much."
"Abroad?" murmured Constance, aghast, recoiling90 from the proposition as from a grave danger.
"Yes," said Sophia, brightly and eagerly. She was determined to take Constance abroad. "There are lots of places we could go to, and live very comfortably among nice English people." She thought of the resorts she had visited with Gerald in the sixties. They seemed to her like cities of a dream. They came back to her as a dream recurs91.
"I don't think going abroad would suit me," said Constance.
"But why not? You don't know. You've never tried, my dear." She smiled encouragingly. But Constance did not smile. Constance was inclined to be grim.
"I don't think it would," said she, obstinately92. "I'm one of your stay-at-homes. I'm not like you. We can't all be alike," she added, with her 'tart93' accent.
Sophia suppressed a feeling of irritation94. She knew that she had a stronger individuality than Constance's.
"Well, then," she said, with undiminished persuasiveness95, "in England or Scotland. There are several places I should like to visit--Torquay, Tunbridge Wells. I've always under-stood that Tunbridge Wells is a very nice town indeed, with very superior people, and a beautiful climate."
"I think I shall have to be getting back to St. Luke's Square," said Constance, ignoring all that Sophia had said. "There's so much to be done."
Then Sophia looked at Constance with a more serious and resolute96 air; but still kindly97, as though looking thus at Constance for Constance's own good.
"You are making a mistake, Constance," she said, "if you will allow me to say so."
"A mistake!" exclaimed Constance, startled.
"A very great mistake," Sophia insisted, observing that she was creating an effect.
"I don't see how I can be making a mistake," Constance said, gaining confidence in herself, as she thought the matter over.
"No," said Sophia, "I'm sure you don't see it. But you are. You know, you are just a little apt to let yourself be a slave to that house of yours. Instead of the house existing for you, you exist for the house."
"Oh! Sophia!" Constance muttered awkwardly. "What ideas you do have, to be sure!" In her nervousness she rose and picked up some embroidery98, adjusting her spectacles and coughing. When she sat down she said: "No one could take things easier than I do as regards housekeeping. I can assure you I let dozens of little matters go, rather than bother myself."
"Then why do you bother now?" Sophia posed her.
"I can't leave the place like that." Constance was hurt.
"There's one thing I can't understand," said Sophia, raising her head and gazing at Constance again, "and that is, why you live in St. Luke's Square at all."
"I must live somewhere. And I'm sure it's very pleasant."
"In all that smoke! And with that dirt! And the house is very old."
"It's a great deal better built than a lot of those new houses by the Park," Constance sharply retorted. In spite of herself she resented any criticism of her house. She even resented the obvious truth that it was old.
"You'll never get a servant to stay in that cellar-kitchen, for one thing," said Sophia, keeping calm.
"Oh! I don't know about that! I don't know about that! That Bennion woman didn't object to it, anyway. It's all very well for you, Sophia, to talk like that. But I know Bursley perhaps better than you do." She was tart again. "And I can assure you that my house is looked upon as a very good house indeed."
"Oh! I don't say it isn't; I don't say it isn't. But you would be better away from it. Every one says that."
"Every one?" Constance looked up, dropping her work. "Who? Who's been talking about me?"
"Well," said Sophia, "the doctor, for instance."
"Dr. Stirling? I like that! He's always saying that Bursley is one of the healthiest climates in England. He's always sticking up for Bursley."
"Dr. Stirling thinks you ought to go away more--not stay always in that dark house." If Sophia had sufficiently99 reflected she would not have used the adjective 'dark.' It did not help her cause.
"Oh, does he!" Constance fairly snorted. "Well, if it's of any interest to Dr. Stirling, I like my dark house."
"Hasn't he ever told you you ought to go away more?" Sophia persisted.
"He may have mentioned it," Constance reluctantly admitted.
"When he was talking to me he did a good deal more than mention it. And I've a good mind to tell you what he said."
"Do!" said Constance, politely.
"You don't realize how serious it is, I'm afraid," said Sophia. "You can't see yourself." She hesitated a moment. Her blood being stirred by Constance's peculiar59 inflection of the phrase 'my dark house,' her judgment100 was slightly obscured. She decided to give Constance a fairly full version of the conversation between herself and the doctor.
"It's a question of your health," she finished. "I think it's my duty to talk to you seriously, and I have done. I hope you'll take it as it's meant."
"Oh, of course!" Constance hastened to say. And she thought: "It isn't yet three months that we've been together, and she's trying already to get me under her thumb."
A pause ensued. Sophia at length said: "There's no doubt that both your sciatica and your palpitations are due to nerves. And you let your nerves get into a state because you worry over trifles. A change would do you a tremendous amount of good. It's just what you need. Really, you must admit, Constance, that the idea of living always in a place like St. Luke's Square, when you are perfectly free to do what you like and go where you like--you must admit it's rather too much."
Constance put her lips together and bent101 over her embroidery.
"Now, what do you say?" Sophia gently entreated102.
"There's some of us like Bursley, black as it is!" said Constance. And Sophia was surprised to detect tears in her sister's voice.
"Now, my dear Constance," she remonstrated103.
"It's no use!" cried Constance, flinging away her work, and letting her tears flow suddenly. Her face was distorted. She was behaving just like a child. "It's no use! I've got to go back home and look after things. It's no use. Here we are pitching money about in this place. It's perfectly sinful. Drives, carriages, extras! A shilling a day extra for each dog. I never heard of such goings-on. And I'd sooner be at home. That's it. I'd sooner be at home." This was the first reference that Constance had made for a long time to the question of expense, and incomparably the most violent. It angered Sophia.
"We will count it that you are here as my guest," said Sophia, loftily, "if that is how you look at it."
"Oh no!" said Constance. "It isn't the money I grudge104. Oh no, we won't." And her tears were falling thick.
"Yes, we will," said Sophia, coldly. "I've only been talking to you for your own good. I--"
"Well," Constance interrupted her despairingly, "I wish you wouldn't try to domineer over me!"
"Domineer!" exclaimed Sophia, aghast. "Well, Constance, I do think--"
She got up and went to her bedroom, where the dogs were imprisoned105. They escaped to the stairs. She was shaking with emotion. This was what came of trying to help other people! Imagine Constance ...! Truly Constance was most unjust, and quite unlike her usual self! And Sophia encouraged in her breast the feeling of injustice106 suffered. But a voice kept saying to her: "You've made a mess of this. You've not conquered this time. You're beaten. And the situation is unworthy of you, of both of you. Two women of fifty quarreling like this! It's undignified. You've made a mess of things." And to strangle the voice, she did her best to encourage the feeling of injustice suffered.
'Domineer!'
And Constance was absolutely in the wrong. She had not argued at all. She had merely stuck to her idea like a mule107! How difficult and painful would be the next meeting with Constance, after this grievous miscarriage108!
As she was reflecting thus the door burst open, and Constance stumbled, as it were blindly, into the bedroom. She was still weeping.
"Sophia!" she sobbed109, supplicatingly, and all her fat body was trembling. "You mustn't kill me ... I'm like that--you can't alter me. I'm like that. I know I'm silly. But it's no use!" She made a piteous figure.
Sophia was aware of a lump in her throat.
"It's all right, Constance; it's all right. I quite understand. Don't bother any more."
Constance, catching110 her breath at intervals111, raised her wet, worn face and kissed her.
Sophia remembered the very words, 'You can't alter her,' which she had used in remonstrating112 with Cyril. And now she had been guilty of precisely113 the same unreason as that with which she had reproached Cyril! She was ashamed, both for herself and for Constance. Assuredly it had not been such a scene as women of their age would want to go through often. It was humiliating. She wished that it could have been blotted114 out as though it had never happened. Neither of them ever forgot it. They had had a lesson. And particularly Sophia had had a lesson. Having learnt, they left the Rutland, amid due ceremonies, and returned to St. Luke's Square.
1 middle-aged | |
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2 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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3 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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4 illustrated | |
adj. 有插图的,列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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5 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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6 niche | |
n.壁龛;合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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7 haughty | |
adj.傲慢的,高傲的 | |
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8 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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n.一时的兴致,突然的念头;奇想,幻想 | |
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10 stouter | |
粗壮的( stout的比较级 ); 结实的; 坚固的; 坚定的 | |
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11 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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13 curtly | |
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14 convoy | |
vt.护送,护卫,护航;n.护送;护送队 | |
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15 stewed | |
adj.焦虑不安的,烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 );煨;思考;担忧 | |
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16 sumptuous | |
adj.豪华的,奢侈的,华丽的 | |
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17 fabric | |
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18 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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19 piqued | |
v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 );激起(好奇心) | |
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20 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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21 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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22 entirely | |
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23 astounded | |
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24 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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25 quandary | |
n.困惑,进迟两难之境 | |
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26 mischief | |
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27 tiresome | |
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28 determined | |
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29 dilemma | |
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30 appalling | |
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31 fixed | |
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32 beset | |
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33 prodigious | |
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34 frightful | |
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35 advent | |
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36 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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37 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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38 charing | |
n.炭化v.把…烧成炭,把…烧焦( char的现在分词 );烧成炭,烧焦;做杂役女佣 | |
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39 meditated | |
深思,沉思,冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 ); 内心策划,考虑 | |
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40 undoing | |
n.毁灭的原因,祸根;破坏,毁灭 | |
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41 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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42 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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43 reassuring | |
a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的,使人放心的 | |
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44 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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45 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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46 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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47 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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48 apprehensions | |
疑惧 | |
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49 relentless | |
adj.残酷的,不留情的,无怜悯心的 | |
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50 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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51 attainment | |
n.达到,到达;[常pl.]成就,造诣 | |
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52 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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53 humbled | |
adj. 卑下的,谦逊的,粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下,贬低 | |
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54 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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55 intensify | |
vt.加强;变强;加剧 | |
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56 cosmopolitan | |
adj.世界性的,全世界的,四海为家的,全球的 | |
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57 groove | |
n.沟,槽;凹线,(刻出的)线条,习惯 | |
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58 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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59 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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60 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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61 gilt | |
adj.镀金的;n.金边证券 | |
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62 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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63 barometer | |
n.气压表,睛雨表,反应指标 | |
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64 sitting-room | |
n.(BrE)客厅,起居室 | |
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65 propriety | |
n.正当行为;正当;适当 | |
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66 outlet | |
n.出口/路;销路;批发商店;通风口;发泄 | |
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67 heartiness | |
诚实,热心 | |
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68 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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69 plausibly | |
似真地 | |
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70 aptitude | |
n.(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资 | |
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71 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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72 harassed | |
adj. 疲倦的,厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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74 desolating | |
毁坏( desolate的现在分词 ); 极大地破坏; 使沮丧; 使痛苦 | |
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75 vindicated | |
v.澄清(某人/某事物)受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 );表明或证明(所争辩的事物)属实、正当、有效等;维护 | |
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76 monstrousness | |
怪异 | |
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77 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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78 calamities | |
n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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79 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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80 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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81 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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82 callousness | |
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83 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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84 vigour | |
(=vigor)n.智力,体力,精力 | |
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85 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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86 pretentious | |
adj.自命不凡的,自负的,炫耀的 | |
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87 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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88 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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89 persuasively | |
adv.口才好地;令人信服地 | |
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90 recoiling | |
v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 );退缩;报应;返回 | |
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91 recurs | |
再发生,复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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93 tart | |
adj.酸的;尖酸的,刻薄的;n.果馅饼;淫妇 | |
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94 irritation | |
n.激怒,恼怒,生气 | |
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95 persuasiveness | |
说服力 | |
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96 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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97 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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98 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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99 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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100 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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101 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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102 entreated | |
恳求,乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103 remonstrated | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 );告诫 | |
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104 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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105 imprisoned | |
下狱,监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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107 mule | |
n.骡子,杂种,执拗的人 | |
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108 miscarriage | |
n.失败,未达到预期的结果;流产 | |
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109 sobbed | |
哭泣,啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 ); 哭诉,呜咽地说 | |
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110 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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111 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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112 remonstrating | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 );告诫 | |
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113 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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114 blotted | |
涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 ); (用吸墨纸)吸干 | |
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