The extraordinary violence of the turn in affairs was what chiefly struck Constance, though it did not overwhelm her. Less than twelve hours before--nay, scarcely six hours before--she and Sophia had been living their placid1 and monotonous2 existence, undisturbed by anything worse than the indisposition or death of dogs, or the perversity4 of a servant. And now, the menacing Gerald Scales having reappeared, Sophia's form lay mysterious and affrightening on the sofa; and she and Lily Holl, a girl whom she had not met till that day, were staring at Sophia side by side, intimately sharing the same alarm. Constance rose to the crisis. She no longer had Sophia's energy and decisive peremptoriness5 to depend on, and the Baines in her was awakened6. All her daily troubles sank away to their proper scale of unimportance. Neither the young woman nor the old one knew what to do. They could loosen clothes, vainly offer restoratives to the smitten7 mouth: that was all. Sophia was not unconscious, as could be judged from her eyes; but she could not speak, nor make signs; her body was frequently convulsed. So the two women waited, and the servant waited in the background. The sight of Sophia had effected an astonishing transformation8 in Maud. Maud was a changed girl. Constance could not recognize, in her eager deferential9 anxiety to be of use, the pert naughtiness of the minx. She was altered as a wanton of the middle ages would have been altered by some miraculous11 visitation. It might have been the turning-point in Maud's career!
Doctor Stirling arrived in less than ten minutes. Dick Povey had had the wit to look for him at the Federation12 meeting in the Town Hall. And the advent13 of the doctor and Dick, noisily, at breakneck speed in the car, provided a second sensation. The doctor inquired quickly what had occurred. Nobody could tell him anything. Constance had already confided14 to Lily Holl the reason of the visit to Manchester; but that was the extent of her knowledge. Not a single person in Bursley, except Sophia, knew what had happened in Manchester. But Constance conjectured15 that Gerald Scales was dead--or Sophia would never have returned so soon. Then the doctor suggested that on the contrary Gerald Scales might be out of danger. And all then pictured to themselves this troubling Gerald Scales, this dark and sinister16 husband that had caused such a violent upheaval17.
Meanwhile the doctor was at work. He sent Dick Povey to knock up Critchlow's, if the shop should be closed, and obtain a drug. Then, after a time, he lifted Sophia, just as she was, like a bundle on his shoulder, and carried her single-handed upstairs to the second floor. He had recently been giving a course of instruction to enthusiasts18 of the St. John's Ambulance Association in Bursley. The feat19 had an air of the superhuman. Above all else it remained printed on Constance's mind: the burly doctor treading delicately and carefully on the crooked21, creaking stairs, his precautions against damaging Sophia by brusque contacts, his stumble at the two steps in the middle of the corridor; Sophia's horribly limp head and loosened hair; and then the tender placing of her on the bed, and the doctor's long breath and flourish of his large handkerchief, all that under the crude lights and shadows of gas jets! The doctor was nonplussed23. Constance gave him a second-hand24 account of Sophia's original attack in Paris, roughly as she had heard it from Sophia. He at once said that it could not have been what the French doctor had said it was. Constance shrugged25 her shoulders. She was not surprised. For her there was necessarily something of the charlatan26 about a French doctor. She said she only knew what Sophia had told her. After a time Dr. Stirling determined27 to try electricity, and Dick Povey drove him up to the surgery to fetch his apparatus28. The women were left alone again. Constance was very deeply impressed by Lily Holl's sensible, sympathetic attitude. "Whatever I should have done without Miss Lily I don't know!" she used to exclaim afterwards. Even Maud was beyond praise. It seemed to be the middle of the night when Dr. Stirling came back, but it was barely eleven o'clock, and people were only just returning from Hanbridge Theatre and Hanbridge Music Hall. The use of the electrical apparatus was a dead spectacle. Sophia's inertness29 under it was agonizing30. They waited, as it were, breathless for the result. And there was no result. Both injections and electricity had entirely31 failed to influence the paralysis32 of Sophia's mouth and throat. Everything had failed. "Nothing to do but wait a bit!" said the doctor quietly. They waited in the chamber33. Sophia seemed to be in a kind of coma34. The distortion of her handsome face was more marked as time passed. The doctor spoke35 now and then in a low voice. He said that the attack had ultimately been determined by cold produced by rapid motion in the automobile36. Dick Povey whispered that he must run over to Hanbridge and let Lily's parents know that there was no cause for alarm on her account, and that he would return at once. He was very devoted37. On the landing out-side the bedroom, the doctor murmured to him: "U.P." And Dick nodded. They were great friends.
At intervals38 the doctor, who never knew when he was beaten, essayed new methods of dealing39 with Sophia's case. New symptoms followed. It was half-past twelve when, after gazing with prolonged intensity40 at the patient, and after having tested her mouth and heart, he rose slowly and looked at Constance.
"It's over?" said Constance.
And he very slightly moved his head. "Come downstairs, please," he enjoined41 her, in a pause that ensued. Constance was amazingly courageous42. The doctor was very solemn and very kind; Constance had never before seen him to such heroic advantage. He led her with infinite gentleness out of the room. There was nothing to stay for; Sophia had gone. Constance wanted to stay by Sophia's body; but it was the rule that the stricken should be led away, the doctor observed this classic rule, and Constance felt that he was right and that she must obey. Lily Holl followed. The servant, learning the truth by the intuition accorded to primitive43 natures, burst into loud sobs44, yelling that Sophia had been the most excellent mistress that servant ever had. The doctor angrily told her not to stand blubbering there, but to go into her kitchen and shut the door if she couldn't control herself. All his accumulated nervous agitation45 was discharged on Maud like a thunderclap. Constance continued to behave wonderfully. She was the admiration46 of the doctor and Lily Holl. Then Dick Povey came back. It was settled that Lily should pass the night with Constance. At last the doctor and Dick departed together, the doctor undertaking47 the mortuary arrangements. Maud was hunted to bed.
Early in the morning Constance rose up from her own bed. It was five o'clock, and there had been daylight for two hours already. She moved noiselessly and peeped over the foot of the bed at the sofa. Lily was quietly asleep there, breathing with the softness of a child. Lily would have deemed that she was a very mature woman, who had seen life and much of it. Yet to Constance her face and attitude had the exquisite48 quality of a child's. She was not precisely49 a pretty girl, but her features, the candid50 expression of her disposition3, produced an impression that was akin22 to that of beauty. Her abandonment was complete. She had gone through the night unscathed, and was now renewing herself in calm, oblivious51 sleep. Her ingenuous52 girlishness was apparent then. It seemed as if all her wise and sweet behaviour of the evening could have been nothing but so many imitative gestures. It seemed impossible that a being so young and fresh could have really experienced the mood of which her gestures had been the expression. Her strong virginal simplicity53 made Constance vaguely54 sad for her.
Creeping out of the room, Constance climbed to the second floor in her dressing-gown, and entered the other chamber. She was obliged to look again upon Sophia's body. Incredible swiftness of calamity55! Who could have foreseen it? Constance was less desolated56 than numbed57. She was as yet only touching58 the fringe of her bereavement59. She had not begun to think of herself. She was drenched60, as she gazed at Sophia's body, not by pity for herself, but by compassion61 for the immense disaster of her sister's life. She perceived fully20 now for the first time the greatness of that disaster. Sophia's charm and Sophia's beauty--what profit had they been to their owner? She saw pictures of Sophia's career, distorted and grotesque62 images formed in her untravelled mind from Sophia's own rare and compressed recitals63. What a career! A brief passion, and then nearly thirty years in a boarding-house! And Sophia had never had a child; had never known either the joy or the pain of maternity64. She had never even had a true home till, in all her sterile65 splendour, she came to Bursley. And she had ended- -thus! This was the piteous, ignominious66 end of Sophia's wondrous67 gifts of body and soul. Hers had not been a life at all. And the reason? It is strange how fate persists in justifying68 the harsh generalizations69 of Puritan morals, of the morals in which Constance had been brought up by her stern parents! Sophia had sinned. It was therefore inevitable70 that she should suffer. An adventure such as she had in wicked and capricious pride undertaken with Gerald Scales, could not conclude otherwise than it had concluded. It could have brought nothing but evil. There was no getting away from these verities71, thought Constance. And she was to be excused for thinking that all modern progress and cleverness was as naught10, and that the world would be forced to return upon its steps and start again in the path which it had left.
Up to within a few days of her death people had been wont72 to remark that Mrs. Scales looked as young as ever, and that she was as bright and as energetic as ever. And truly, regarding Sophia from a little distance--that handsome oval, that erect73 carriage of a slim body, that challenging eye!--no one would have said that she was in her sixtieth year. But look at her now, with her twisted face, her sightless orbs74, her worn skin--she did not seem sixty, but seventy! She was like something used, exhausted75, and thrown aside! Yes, Constance's heart melted in an anguished76 pity for that stormy creature. And mingled77 with the pity was a stern recognition of the handiwork of divine justice. To Constance's lips came the same phrase as had come to the lips of Samuel Povey on a different occasion: God is not mocked! The ideas of her parents and her grandparents had survived intact in Constance. It is true that Constance's father would have shuddered78 in Heaven could he have seen Constance solitarily79 playing cards of a night. But in spite of cards, and of a son who never went to chapel80, Constance, under the various influences of destiny, had remained essentially81 what her father had been. Not in her was the force of evolution manifest. There are thousands such.
Lily, awake, and reclothed with that unreal mien82 of a grown and comprehending woman, stepped quietly into the room, searching for the poor old thing, Constance. The layer-out had come.
By the first post was delivered a letter addressed to Sophia by Mr. Till Boldero. From its contents the death of Gerald Scales was clear. There seemed then to be nothing else for Constance to do. What had to be done was done for her. And stronger wills than hers put her to bed. Cyril was telegraphed for. Mr. Critchlow called, Mrs. Critchlow following--a fussy83 infliction84, but useful in certain matters. Mr. Critchlow was not allowed to see Constance. She could hear his high grating voice in the corridor. She had to lie calm, and the sudden tranquillity85 seemed strange after the feverish86 violence of the night. Only twenty-four hours since, and she had been worrying about the death of a dog! With a body crying for sleep, she dozed87 off, thoughts of the mystery of life merging88 into the incoherence of dreams.
The news was abroad in the Square before nine o'clock. There were persons who had witnessed the arrival of the motorcar, and the transfer of Sophia to the house. Untruthful rumours89 had spread as to the manner of Gerald Scales's death. Some said that he had dramatically committed suicide. But the town, though titillated90, was not moved as it would have been moved by a similar event twenty years, or even ten years earlier. Times had changed in Bursley. Bursley was more sophisticated than in the old days.
Constance was afraid lest Cyril, despite the seriousness of the occasion, might exhibit his customary tardiness91 in coming. She had long since learnt not to rely upon him. But he came the same evening. His behaviour was in every way perfect. He showed quiet but genuine grief for the death of his aunt, and he was a model of consideration for his mother. Further, he at once assumed charge of all the arrangements, in regard both to Sophia and to her husband. Constance was surprised at the ease which he displayed in the conduct of practical affairs, and the assurance with which he gave orders. She had never seen him direct anything before. He said, indeed, that he had never directed anything before, but that there appeared to him to be no difficulties. Whereas Constance had figured a tiresome92 series of varied93 complications. As to the burial of Sophia, Cyril was vigorously in favour of an absolutely private funeral; that is to say, a funeral at which none but himself should be present. He seemed to have a passionate94 objection to any sort of parade. Constance agreed with him. But she said that it would be impossible not to invite Mr. Critchlow, Sophia's trustee, and that if Mr. Critchlow were invited certain others must be invited. Cyril asked: "Why impossible?" Constance said: "Because it mould be impossible. Because Mr. Critchlow would be hurt." Cyril asked: "What does it matter if he is hurt?" and suggested that Mr. Critchlow would get over his damage. Constance grew more serious. The discussion threatened to be warm. Suddenly Cyril yielded. "All right, Mrs. Plover95, all right! It shall be exactly as you choose," he said, in a gentle, humouring tone. He had not called her 'Mrs. Plover' for years. She thought the hour badly chosen for verbal pleasantry, but he was so kind that she made no complaint. Thus there were six people at Sophia's funeral, including Mr. Critchlow. No refreshments96 were offered. The mourners separated at the church. When both funerals were accomplished97 Cyril sat down and played the harmonium softly, and said that it had kept well in tune98. He was extraordinarily99 soothing100.
He had now reached the age of thirty-three. His habits were as industrious101 as ever, his preoccupation with his art as keen. But he had achieved no fame, no success. He earned nothing, living in comfort on an allowance from his mother. He seldom spoke of his plans and never of his hopes. He had in fact settled down into a dilletante, having learnt gently to scorn the triumphs which he lacked the force to win. He imagined that industry and a regular existence were sufficient justification102 in themselves for any man's life. Constance had dropped the habit of expecting him to astound103 the world. He was rather grave and precise in manner, courteous104 and tepid105, with a touch of condescension106 towards his environment; as though he were continually permitting the perspicacious107 to discern that he had nothing to learn--if the truth were known! His humour had assumed a modified form. He often smiled to himself. He was unexceptionable.
On the day after Sophia's funeral he set to work to design a simple stone for his aunt's tomb. He said he could not tolerate the ordinary gravestone, which always looked, to him, as if the wind might blow it over, thus negativing the idea of solidity. His mother did not in the least understand him. She thought the lettering of his tombstone affected108 and finicking. But she let it pass without comment, being secretly very flattered that he should have deigned109 to design a stone at all.
Sophia had left all her money to Cyril, and had made him the sole executor of her will. This arrangement had been agreed with Constance. The sisters thought it was the best plan. Cyril ignored Mr. Critchlow entirely, and went to a young lawyer at Hanbridge, a friend of his and of Matthew Peel-Swynnerton's. Mr. Critchlow, aged110 and unaccustomed to interference, had to render accounts of his trusteeship to this young man, and was incensed111. The estate was proved at over thirty-five thousand pounds. In the main, Sophia had been careful, and had even been parsimonious112. She had often told Constance that they ought to spend money much more freely, and she had had a few brief fits of extravagance. But the habit of stern thrift113, begun in 1870 and practised without any intermission till she came to England in 1897, had been too strong for her theories. The squandering114 of money pained her. And she could not, in her age, devise expensive tastes.
Cyril showed no emotion whatever on learning himself the inheritor of thirty-five thousand pounds. He did not seem to care. He spoke of the sum as a millionaire might have spoken of it. In justice to him it is to be said that he cared nothing for wealth, except in so far as wealth could gratify his eye and ear trained to artistic115 voluptuousness116. But, for his mother's sake, and for the sake of Bursley, he might have affected a little satisfaction. His mother was somewhat hurt. His behaviour caused her to revert117 in meditation118 again and again to the futility119 of Sophia's career, and the waste of her attributes. She had grown old and hard in joyless years in order to amass120 this money which Cyril would spend coldly and ungratefully, never thinking of the immense effort and endless sacrifice which had gone to its collection. He would spend it as carelessly as though he had picked it up in the street. As the days went by and Constance realized her own grief, she also realized more and more the completeness of the tragedy of Sophia's life. Headstrong Sophia had deceived her mother, and for the deception121 had paid with thirty years of melancholy122 and the entire frustration123 of her proper destiny.
After haunting Bursley for a fortnight in elegant black, Cyril said, without any warning, one night: "I must go the day after to- morrow, mater." And he told her of a journey to Hungary which he had long since definitely planned with Matthew Peel-Swynnerton, and which could not be postponed124, as it comprised 'business.' He had hitherto breathed no word of this. He was as secretive as ever. As to her holiday, he suggested that she should arrange to go away with the Holls and Dick Povey. He approved of Lily Holl and of Dick Povey. Of Dick Povey he said: "He's one of the most remarkable125 chaps in the Five Towns." And he had the air of having made Dick's reputation. Constance, knowing there was no appeal, accepted the sentence of loneliness. Her health was singularly good.
When he was gone she said to herself: "Scarcely a fortnight and Sophia was here at this table!" She would remember every now and then, with a faint shock, that poor, proud, masterful Sophia was dead.
1 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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2 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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3 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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4 perversity | |
n.任性;刚愎自用 | |
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5 peremptoriness | |
n.专横,强制,武断 | |
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6 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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7 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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8 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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9 deferential | |
adj. 敬意的,恭敬的 | |
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10 naught | |
n.无,零 [=nought] | |
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11 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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12 federation | |
n.同盟,联邦,联合,联盟,联合会 | |
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13 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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14 confided | |
v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的过去式和过去分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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15 conjectured | |
推测,猜测,猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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17 upheaval | |
n.胀起,(地壳)的隆起;剧变,动乱 | |
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18 enthusiasts | |
n.热心人,热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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19 feat | |
n.功绩;武艺,技艺;adj.灵巧的,漂亮的,合适的 | |
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20 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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21 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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22 akin | |
adj.同族的,类似的 | |
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23 nonplussed | |
adj.不知所措的,陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24 second-hand | |
adj.用过的,旧的,二手的 | |
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25 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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26 charlatan | |
n.骗子;江湖医生;假内行 | |
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27 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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28 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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29 inertness | |
n.不活泼,没有生气;惰性;惯量 | |
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30 agonizing | |
adj.痛苦难忍的;使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦;折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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31 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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32 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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33 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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34 coma | |
n.昏迷,昏迷状态 | |
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35 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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36 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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37 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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38 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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39 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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40 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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41 enjoined | |
v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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43 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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44 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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45 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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46 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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47 undertaking | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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48 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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49 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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50 candid | |
adj.公正的,正直的;坦率的 | |
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51 oblivious | |
adj.易忘的,遗忘的,忘却的,健忘的 | |
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52 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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53 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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54 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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55 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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56 desolated | |
adj.荒凉的,荒废的 | |
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57 numbed | |
v.使麻木,使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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59 bereavement | |
n.亲人丧亡,丧失亲人,丧亲之痛 | |
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60 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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61 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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62 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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63 recitals | |
n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 );独奏会;小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等;一系列事件等的详述 | |
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64 maternity | |
n.母性,母道,妇产科病房;adj.孕妇的,母性的 | |
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65 sterile | |
adj.不毛的,不孕的,无菌的,枯燥的,贫瘠的 | |
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66 ignominious | |
adj.可鄙的,不光彩的,耻辱的 | |
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67 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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68 justifying | |
证明…有理( justify的现在分词 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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69 generalizations | |
一般化( generalization的名词复数 ); 普通化; 归纳; 概论 | |
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70 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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71 verities | |
n.真实( verity的名词复数 );事实;真理;真实的陈述 | |
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72 wont | |
adj.习惯于;v.习惯;n.习惯 | |
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73 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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74 orbs | |
abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球,天体,圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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75 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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76 anguished | |
adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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77 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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78 shuddered | |
v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 );发抖;(机器、车辆等)突然震动;颤动 | |
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79 solitarily | |
adv.独自一人地,寂寞地 | |
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80 chapel | |
n.小教堂,殡仪馆 | |
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81 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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82 mien | |
n.风采;态度 | |
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83 fussy | |
adj.为琐事担忧的,过分装饰的,爱挑剔的 | |
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84 infliction | |
n.(强加于人身的)痛苦,刑罚 | |
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85 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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86 feverish | |
adj.发烧的,狂热的,兴奋的 | |
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87 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88 merging | |
合并(分类) | |
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89 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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90 titillated | |
v.使觉得痒( titillate的过去式和过去分词 );逗引;激发;使高兴 | |
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91 tardiness | |
n.缓慢;迟延;拖拉 | |
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92 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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93 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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94 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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95 plover | |
n.珩,珩科鸟,千鸟 | |
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96 refreshments | |
n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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97 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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98 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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99 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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100 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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101 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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102 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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103 astound | |
v.使震惊,使大吃一惊 | |
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104 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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105 tepid | |
adj.微温的,温热的,不太热心的 | |
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106 condescension | |
n.自以为高人一等,贬低(别人) | |
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107 perspicacious | |
adj.聪颖的,敏锐的 | |
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108 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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109 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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111 incensed | |
盛怒的 | |
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112 parsimonious | |
adj.吝啬的,质量低劣的 | |
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113 thrift | |
adj.节约,节俭;n.节俭,节约 | |
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114 squandering | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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115 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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116 voluptuousness | |
n.风骚,体态丰满 | |
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117 revert | |
v.恢复,复归,回到 | |
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118 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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119 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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120 amass | |
vt.积累,积聚 | |
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121 deception | |
n.欺骗,欺诈;骗局,诡计 | |
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122 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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123 frustration | |
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空 | |
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124 postponed | |
vt.& vi.延期,缓办,(使)延迟vt.把…放在次要地位;[语]把…放在后面(或句尾)vi.(疟疾等)延缓发作(或复发) | |
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125 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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